A day in life...

My eyes open and there’s a knot in my throat. It’s the same knot that was there the night prior and continues to feel as though it’s choking me to death. My chest feels tight. I immediately wonder if I’m infected and just don’t know it. I clear my throat, cough once or maybe it was twice, hyper aware that coughing is a no-no right now. Even with no one around, I catch myself and try to contain it. I cough a lot on a regular basis. Having exercise-induced asthma as well as a variety of allergies, pretty much any time of year I can be found sniffing, wiping drips from my nose and/or coughing. It’s challenging to not cough at any point in the day.

I dread getting up because I can hear the news on the television at the far side of the house, even though the volume is low. Sam has been awake for hours, already having run who knows how many miles in the dark and is now absorbing every ounce of information as though there’s something earth-shattering that’s changed over night. I don’t want to hear anymore about this thing, this virus that has taken over every aspect of life. It’s giving me anxiety, it’s adding to my already questionable state. I stop my mental conversation immediately and try to spin things in a different direction. Really, life isn’t that different for me today than any other day. Others have it far worse. Sure, I can’t go to the gym, but beyond that, I spend a good portion of my days in solitary activity anyway, so things will be okay. I can still go outside, walk the dogs, move my legs and get about my day.

I feel the tickle in my throat again. Dammit. I’m going to cough.

I turn on my phone, listening to the familiar start up buzzes and bells. I’ve made it a habit for many years to turn off my phone at night. I still have an old school alarm clock that wakes me just fine and I don’t like the noises or light from the phone disrupting my easily-disturbed sleep. I put my smart watch across my wrist and turn it on. It has its own familiar buzz. Soon, the phone and watch have reconnected and both are telling me all that I “need” to start my day. I have an appointment, the virus is still spreading, numbers increasing, the government is still trying to pass legisla… I stop reading. I can’t. It’s overwhelming me and it’s not even 6am.

I stumble out into the kitchen to feed the dogs. They both come scampering at the sound of their dishes clanking together, the older, blind dog runs into the kitchen table before making it to the spot where I’m standing. I give the older dog her thyroid medication in a small piece of turkey. The younger pouts at me, so I give her a piece of turkey too. “We have to watch your weight,” I tell her, as though she understands. “You’ve put on more than 5 pounds in the past couple of months. Mom needs to stop giving you so many snacks.” I place their now-filled dog bowls on the floor, each in their preferred spot to eat.

Entering the laundry room, I see the pile of clothing that seems to be a permanent fixture. I grab a pair of winter tights and a wool baselayer and put them both on. Where the hell are my socks, I wonder. I scrounge through the pile and find what I need. The dogs have finished eating and are waiting outside the laundry room. Even without seeing them, I know they’re there.

I clear my throat, twice. I refuse to cough.

“You taking the dogs?” Sam asks, barely prying his focus from the news.

“Yes, in a minute. Have a good day, okay? Don’t touch anything, or anyone… stay away from… well, everyone,” I reply as he comes closer for a hug before he heads in to work.

They’ve been alternating days in the office to help minimize exposure. His employer could allow many of the staff to work from home exclusively but has elected instead to have every department switch staff in the office each day and work from home on the alternate days. I’m frustrated that he has to go in, but I haven’t been working since the schools shut down, so we know he has to do what is required.

I throw my jacket on and open the front door. Brisk, cold air hits my face and I feel the cough coming. “Here we go,” I say to the older of our dogs. “Step.”

Since she’s lost her vision, I try to tell her when there are steps or bumps in the path so she doesn’t trip or fall. She has the front door down pretty well, but it’s become such a habit that I continue to tell her to step, even though she doesn’t need the verbal cue in this case. We are off on our usual route.

The girls get walked separately because there’s about an 8 year gap between them in age, they walk horribly together – fighting to be in front of the other, and because guiding a blind dog takes a bit of focus to make sure she doesn’t fall.

It’s still dark outside, but I figure the dog is blind so she isn’t missing out on anything and it’s always a bit more peaceful before everyone gets going.

The tickle in my throat is there again and I know I’m going to cough. I try to suppress it, but I can’t. Three consecutive coughs and then I have to clear my throat. I’m so sick of coughing – even before all of this started.

The dog stops to sniff an area of the neighbors lawn.

I wonder how long it will take for life to go back to something normal.

I wonder how long Sam will have his job before they shut down, like so many others.

We continue on our all-too-familiar path, passing the same houses and winding through a neighborhood park. I hear a couple of the ducks in the small pond starting to quack at our approach and one of the geese honking a warning to the others. They’re never as alarmed with this dog as they are the other. Maybe they sense that she can’t see and aren’t threatened by her? Maybe it’s simply that it’s still dark outside. We reach a small incline and I feel the dog slow her pace. She just doesn’t take the hills as quickly as she used to. She stops, sniffing a particular spot for a few minutes. I cough.

We meander our way back home at an old-dog’s pace and I switch out the dogs. Some days, I run with this one, but today is not one of those days. My back has been killing me and my knees have been quite uncooperative the last few days, so we walk – a different, faster-pace, and a longer path than the first dog – but something to mix things up.

The sun is starting to bring a bit of light and I think to myself that it will be great when there’s sunlight earlier.

My mind can wander more on this walk because I don’t have to focus on keeping the blind dog on the sidewalk — both a blessing and a curse. I wonder if I’m a carrier of the virus, who’s not showing signs. I wonder when the schools will reopen and I can go back to my job. I actually miss the kids – even though I have no regular classroom. I think about the work I do have and wonder if there will be any art events this spring/summer — will I even have an opportunity to show or sell my work this year? I keep making things, believing that this won’t last too long, but maybe this will change things for longer than I think. So many people out of work – who can afford to spend money on art right now? I run through a mental list of things I’d like to make — at least I have the time to focus on it right now. I hope I don’t run out of supplies because I doubt I will be able to get what I need. I should probably pick up…

I have a coughing fit in the middle of my thought. I work to calm it by trying to clear my throat, but it just makes the coughing worse. A woman running on the other side of the street stares at me as though I have the plague. I want to explain that this is typical for me, but I know it doesn’t matter in the current environment.

We approach an intersection and I consciously use my elbow to hit the cross button rather than my gloved finger. I wonder how long the virus can live on clothing.

Four miles later we arrive back home and I know I have to visit the grocery store.

I sigh.

I cough.

More anxiety.

Not knowing what the grocery store will have in stock makes a list useless. I’ve decided it’s better to go and adapt as needed for the given day’s circumstances. I arrive at about 8:15am to a packed parking lot in front of the store.

The vegetables are pretty well picked over. I grab the solitary zucchini squash and two quite pitted-looking bell peppers, the lone bag of potatoes and a small package of spinach. I’m grateful that there are some sort of vegetables to pick up and I haven’t seen potatoes for awhile. They aren’t normally something I buy, but right now, I take what I can find. I miraculously pick up 4, 2-packs of chicken, a package of cheddar cheese, some oil for cooking and a few other random items.

On the baking aisle I encounter an older woman, likely in her 80s, donning rubber gloves and a medical mask who asks if I ever make bread.

“Occasionally,” I respond.

“Do you know if this is where yeast is in the store?” she asks.

“It’s around here somewhere,” I say, “if it hasn’t sold out.” I search the shelves, looking for the yeast and finally spot it on an upper shelf. “It’s over here,” I tell her, as I stand on my tip-toes to reach one of the packets. Then, thinking better of it I say, “Do you want to get it yourself so I don’t touch it?”

In mid-sentence, another woman approaches from the other end of the aisle, grabs the remaining packages of yeast and takes off. I just shake my head. “Do you want this one in my hand?” I ask the older woman. She is grateful to have it and thanks me for getting it for her.

The line to check out is wrapped half way around the interior of the store, so I head to the back of the line and wait my turn. A man and his wife cut through the crowd and park their cart in front of me in line. I silently shake my head, but let it go. A few moments later he asks if he cut in front of me, to which I respond that he had, but not to worry as the line is so long anyway that it doesn’t matter. We chat at an appropriate distance about the craziness that is life right now.

The woman behind me is so close I can literally feel her breath on my neck. I think about saying something to her and then decide not to. Tensions are already high and I don’t need to get into a fight with someone at the grocery store. Now would be a great time for a cough, but somehow I don’t seem to be able to muster one. Figures.

After what feels like an eternity, I make it to the checkout area. As the cashier scans my items, I notice that something changes on his face. He stutters as he begins to speak, “Ma’am, I-I’m sorry, but I can only sell you three of the four packages of chicken you have here.”

I can see the discomfort on his face at having to deliver this news. I respond, “No worries. I completely understand. It’s just normally what I’d buy and I didn’t even think about not being able to buy four packages right now.”

There’s a look of relief that spreads across his countenance. “You could’ve picked up a couple of beef or pork, but we just can’t sell 4 packages of any single meat in one purchase.”

I reassure him that we will be fine without the fourth package and that I will know for future visits during all of this madness. The bagger takes the chicken back and I finish loading up the groceries. Maneuvering out of the store is a challenge in itself. Some people are extremely aware of distance, others are not.

Being in the outside air feels good. I know it’s just a part of the current situation, but it is as though the interior air has germs and sickness in it. Outside, the wind blows and it feels invigorating. I feel myself for a brief moment, and then clear my throat to avoid a coughing fit as I return swiftly back to current reality.

It’s 9:45am.

At home, I put the groceries away and decide to ride the bike on the trainer because I can’t go to the gym. Trainer riding is nothing like outside riding. Trainer riding is a workout; outside riding, even if it is a workout, doesn’t feel like it’s a workout. But, I want to get some actual work done today, so I give myself no more than an hour to spend on the trainer.

The trainer bike is filthy. It’s been on the trainer for over two years now and it was dirty when it was first set up. I know I need to take it off and clean it, but decide that it is a task for another time. I hop on the bike and bump up the pace as quickly as possible. The chain makes dirty, dry-chain noise, as it revolves around the crank. I know I’m wearing it out faster by not cleaning and lubing it. I do two-minute intervals, alternating between this-feels-like-I’m-going-to-die speed and I’m-definitely-going-to-die speed. I miss the gym. I think about how ludicrous it is to be pushing so hard on something that isn’t moving anywhere and that has no actual purpose. My knee twinges with pain. I push harder.

The windows are fogging quickly and I’m sweating profusely after only 20 minutes. I push as hard as I possibly can, but I don’t really know why. There’s no race to win. I’d get just as good of a workout at a slightly-less-intense pace, but still I push. I start coughing uncontrollably and have to slow down a bit so I can breathe somewhat normally again. Then, back to pushing.

I start to cry. I don’t really know why and I know I can’t afford to sob because I won’t be able to breathe at all.

I’m angry at the rotten, evil world.

I’m grateful that there are good people in the world – so many trying to make a difference.

I hate that no matter what I do, my body doesn’t change.

I’m thankful that my body is willing and able to endure whatever I throw at it.

I need to call my mom… but, oh, she makes me crazy.

I don’t want anyone to die during this mess.

I know people are dying, and there’s nothing I can do about it.

I don’t want to die or make anyone else sick.

At 45 minutes, I call it. I don’t have an hour of this in me today. I change without showering and get to work. I’m using so much water washing my hands these days, I suppose missing one shower will make up for some of it.

I check my email from my phone. Sam’s sent various messages about the pandemic, numbers, and so on. I know he wants me to stay informed, but I don’t want to read it anymore. My chest tightens. I can’t take the anxiety.

The local radio is streaming via the Google device in my studio. More numbers, more information. I can’t seem to escape it even when songs should be playing. The county is shutting down, shelter in place, stay at home, wash your hands, don’t touch your face, stay away from everyone, toilet paper jokes.

Just play some Michael Jackson and let me work in peace, I think.

The dogs are with me in the studio — one on the dog bed, the other stretched out on the cold floor, one snoring, but both sleeping soundly. I am unfocused.

I have to make something. Anything.

A friend sends a message, asking if I’d like to walk the dogs together. I initially respond with a yes, but then rethink it. No reason for either of us to expose ourselves needlessly. Even with appropriate social distancing… it’s just a challenge. We’ll do it another time, another day, somewhere in the unforeseen future. This isn’t forever, right? Aren’t we already a couple of months in? Oh. No, maybe a week… or is it two now? When did this start? It will end though — someday.

At around 4pm, Sam comes in through the back door. I’ve managed to make something, though not what I’d hoped. I’m regaled with all of the stats of the day that he’s read about all day long. I half listen, half wander off into other thoughts. An evening meal for the dogs. An evening meal for the humans. Twitter. Instagram. Occasional email. Plans for tomorrow. Sam works from home tomorrow, at least for now. Rumor has it that they’ll shut down by end of week until further notice. Panic. Anxiety. Coughing. A 1990s Will and Grace episode.

A poem running through my head… parts of it anyway. T.S. Eliot’s, The Hollow Men. I can’t seem to remember the beginning and parts are fading in and out.

Something about being the hollow men… Something about being devoid of shape and form, but I just can’t remember. I need to do more reading of this sort and less obsessing about current details.

Eyes I dare not meet in dreams

In death’s dream kingdom

These do not appear:

There, the eyes are

Sunlight on a broken column

There, is a tree swinging

And voices are

In the wind’s singing

More distant and more solemn

Than a fading star

… I’m losing it and can’t remember how it goes.

This is the dead land

This is cactus land

Here the stone images

Are raised, here they receive

The supplication of a dead man’s hand

Under the twinkle of a fading star.

Is it like this

In death’s other kingdom

Waking alone

At the hour when we are

Trembling with tenderness

…More missing pieces of this… they never stick with me.

The eyes are not here

There are no eyes here

In this valley of dying stars

In this hollow valley

This broken jaw of our lost kingdoms

In this last of meeting places 

We grope together

And avoid speech

Gathered on this beach of this tumid river

…. I know there’s more, but all I can remember is that –

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

This is the way the world ends

Not with a bang but with a whimper.

I head to bed, knowing that there’s nothing else I can do today. I cough a few times and Sam feels my forehead.

“You don’t feel like you have a temperature,” he says.

“For the love of Pete,” I seem to almost yell, “I’m not sick! This is just my usual coughing.”

“I know,” he says with a sly smile, “I just have to check, to make sure.”

Maybe tomorrow will be more important-activity-focused and less virus-focused. Maybe I’ll accomplish something that matters. Or maybe I’ll ride my bike outside and let it all go for a brief amount of time. We always new riding a bike is freedom, but it really is right now.

My mind wanders into the possibility of actually being sick and my chest tightens. I start to drift to sleep.

Cough.