Living the story

Writing in a time of COVID-19. What do you fear most?

Until this morning, life in the time of covid-19 was close-to normal for me.

I work from home in a house I love on a 2-acre block surrounded by good folks. I have no kids to take care of and entertain. Mostly, I shop, exercise and socialise locally. The main change for me is that Husband Tim is working from home, which we have room for and both relish…

Until this morning, covid-19 felt like a story to me. Because my day-to-day life has changed so little, several times a week I’d find myself vaguely wondering what this virus chaos was… I’d have to sift through my awareness to search for its relationship to me. Was it part of a gripping book I was reading? Was it a compelling movie I’d just watched? What about a dream I’d had the night before?

Until this morning, covid-19 felt like a story to me.

But no, it’s life. It’s here. The stuff of speculative fiction since Albert Camus and well before is right here. I have The Plague on my bookshelf, but have never read it. Is now the time?

This morning I woke up badly, having nightmared my way through the eight hours before. I was très gripey. This is my term for the depression that hits hard from time to time. Last night I consumed too much sugar, which is a sure recipe for instant bellyache, nightmares and a très gripey mood the next day.

Later this morning I received word that a client died yesterday. Hilde was 93. Her just body stopped working; she did not die from covid-19. We were in the middle of writing her memoir. I won’t be able to attend her funeral. But perhaps some of our conversation will be used?

 The last time we met she told me, ‘I like ya’, which was high praise indeed. I’d been warned by her daughter and her caseworker that she tested people out. I passed.

Until this morning my two main fears around this virus hadn’t been challenged. Yet in the space of three hours, both dropped in uninvited.

Fear number 1 is that there will be a shortage of medication such that I can’t get what I need and am unable to function.

Fear number 2 is that Mum will fall ill and/or die alone.

Thanks to the toilet-paper hoarders of the world, pharmacists in Australia seem to be on to it. They saw the toilet-paper fiasco and thought, ‘Shit, we can’t let that happen with something that really matters!’ and seem to be dishing out medication pretty fairly. So, although I’m still worried about my mental health deteriorating at a time when I really need it, I’m pretty confident that I’m in safe hands.

But fear number 2 is for my mum. The one who raised me, took care of me, is still taking care of me. Who lives independently and alone across a body of water whose borders are almost closed. Whose life partner died twenty years ago. Whose nearby relatives are not her only child.

The authorities aren’t going to stop me from being with her if she needs me! No!

Actually, apparently the authorities can and will stop me from being with her if she’s sick and dying in a hospital bed, because they don’t want the spread. Authorities are mainly concerned about the whole, while I’m mainly concerned about my mum.

 I’m the sort of person who takes one step at a time. I tend not to overthink. I’m a pretty steady cat. I’m good humoured and resilient. And yet today I let tears fall on the grass as I lay cuddling my dog in the autumn sun.

There will be more.

Tears. Cuddles with my dog. Autumn sun.

Now I know I am living this story. It’s not a movie or a book or a bad dream. We’re all living it. This story. And if you’re feeling the pressure to ‘get it all down’ or ‘learn a language one day, go for a run the other day and meditate the next’, stop!

Take your time. Ride the wobbliness. We’ve been gifted a physical shift in how we live our lives. Now we need to shift our goddam hectic minds so that we can use this awful thing to live better, participate in the story. Yours. Ours.