We Closed The Door Behind Us
The day after Valentine's Day (Or was it the day after the day after?) a friend who had been a Doctors Without Borders physician asked me if I'd heard very much about the new strain of SARS that was leveling a swath of the population in China. At the time, the only information I had was that it was very bad (per CNN) and a friend of Kevin's returned from an academic exchange in China and immediately asked for advice and assistance from the CDC. Their response was a form letter telling him to cover his mouth when the coughed.
Nigel sighed.
"We have this handled," I said. "We've always had things like this handled." The more I talked, the less I believed what I was saying.
Nigel, who is rarely at a loss for words, was still quiet and I was getting unnerved.
"How bad is it? Really, I'm not being specious. What are we in for?"
Nigel cleared his throat. "It's bad. And I don't think your government -or any government for that matter- has a handle on this. I think... I am not overstating this. I think you and your mother would both be at an appreciably higher level of risk, her because of her age and you because of your medical history. You need to prepare to get in and stay in."
"Shelter in place" had not gained currency as a descriptor for people staying home. The grocery stores were still well-stocked. For the most part, people in my part of the country seemed to be pretty calm about it. There were grim accounts of a nursing home outbreak in Seattle and things were starting to get a little wobbly in New York. In landlocked, culturally vacuum-packed Nashville, it was business as usual.
Nigel has never been given to hyperbolic expression. He'd never been known to be overly dramatic. I sat in the back yard and watched as the squirrels and crows jockeyed for dominance over the pan of burnt popcorn I set under one of the feeders. How do I broach this with my mother? For the past three years, she'd read the news with an increasing level of horror. How do I tell her it might be dangerous to go to Trader Joe's for tofu? How do I tell her book shopping junkets might be a thing of the past? How do I tell her we might be hermits for a while?
Wait a minute. She might like that last bit. Mom is not the most social creature on the planet. Her favorite Mutts character is Crabby and if you want to make her ragey, suggest a pot luck. So we talked and she was upset by the reasons, but ultimately fine with hunkering down while pestilence rode roughshod through the world. We made a list of places to go while we still could. I visited people. We went to Tractor Supply, the bookshops, and one last trip to the grocer's before everything had to be ordered in. Other things slipped into limbo: My search for a church, my plans to get my art out, road trips... all of it was put on indefinite hold.
Nigel sighed.
"We have this handled," I said. "We've always had things like this handled." The more I talked, the less I believed what I was saying.
Nigel, who is rarely at a loss for words, was still quiet and I was getting unnerved.
"How bad is it? Really, I'm not being specious. What are we in for?"
Nigel cleared his throat. "It's bad. And I don't think your government -or any government for that matter- has a handle on this. I think... I am not overstating this. I think you and your mother would both be at an appreciably higher level of risk, her because of her age and you because of your medical history. You need to prepare to get in and stay in."
"Shelter in place" had not gained currency as a descriptor for people staying home. The grocery stores were still well-stocked. For the most part, people in my part of the country seemed to be pretty calm about it. There were grim accounts of a nursing home outbreak in Seattle and things were starting to get a little wobbly in New York. In landlocked, culturally vacuum-packed Nashville, it was business as usual.
Nigel has never been given to hyperbolic expression. He'd never been known to be overly dramatic. I sat in the back yard and watched as the squirrels and crows jockeyed for dominance over the pan of burnt popcorn I set under one of the feeders. How do I broach this with my mother? For the past three years, she'd read the news with an increasing level of horror. How do I tell her it might be dangerous to go to Trader Joe's for tofu? How do I tell her book shopping junkets might be a thing of the past? How do I tell her we might be hermits for a while?
Wait a minute. She might like that last bit. Mom is not the most social creature on the planet. Her favorite Mutts character is Crabby and if you want to make her ragey, suggest a pot luck. So we talked and she was upset by the reasons, but ultimately fine with hunkering down while pestilence rode roughshod through the world. We made a list of places to go while we still could. I visited people. We went to Tractor Supply, the bookshops, and one last trip to the grocer's before everything had to be ordered in. Other things slipped into limbo: My search for a church, my plans to get my art out, road trips... all of it was put on indefinite hold.