The numbers have come down, in the northeastern United States at least. Numbers are going up in the south, out west, in Texas. Coronavirus and COVID-19 aren’t going away anytime soon, but life in New York is almost normal again.
This was not the case three months ago. By mid-March, our local political leaders were starting to try to do something, anything, often contradicting each other and postponing vital decisions. We were told to stay home except for essential tasks, and in short order, various employers started work-from-home plans where possible.
I’m not going to look up the details of what decisions occurred when, or what the body count was week-on-week, day-on-day. I started keeping a diary, partly to keep myself sane. When every day is in the same 500 square-foot apartment, and more and more people are dying daily, it’s good to have a hobby.
In late March I seem to have been playing it by ear. Would I go out? Would I need to? What was my normal routine? Yet by early April I was writing “Stayed Inside” a lot.
There were some challenges early on. David and I talked about whether to visit one another and we decided not to, partly because he’s old enough to be (in the knowledge of that time at least) in a vulnerable group, and I was safer staying at home while he was out in the open for work. I also started a new job and got to witness the company figuring out how to do all the normal hiring things, like paperwork and delivering a new laptop – when I couldn’t go in to the office.
On April 5 I took my car for a drive around Manhattan. I don’t believe cars should sit idle too long, and it had been a couple of weeks since I drove.
On April 11 my paddling club had a virtual meeting using Zoom. After that, David stopped by, and we went for a walk. We both wore masks, I wore gloves, and we met in the garage, where he dropped off his bike.
On April 20, he dropped off some toilet paper for me, having bought a large quantity, on his way to work. I didn’t leave the building; I met him at the entrance.
By late April, I’d adjusted to a new routine. I would stay inside for a week at a time, and save my outdoor requirements for a single day. There are a lot of “Stayed Inside the Apartment” entries.
By mid-May, however, I was starting to venture outside more. On May 9 I drove to David’s and spent the better part of the weekend there. Later in the week, he had some downtime at work and was able to sneak in a dinner visit to my place.
By that point, the numbers were beginning to decline.
In early May I went kayaking a couple of times. My club had worked out some rules for keeping the total number of people at the boathouse low, as well as cleaning equipment. All the same I was very paranoid. Once, I walked home in my drysuit, wearing nitrile gloves, even though it was nearly eighty degrees and sunny.
Besides paddling, I ventured out more and more in general. My neighbors had a get-together in the courtyard. I met up with a friend for a walk. I was more willing to go to the store.
I still stayed inside a lot.
For the past six weeks, life has gotten progressively more “normal”, with frequent reminders of how not-normal things are. I’ve gone up to David’s house a few weekends, and in the suburbs, we can walk around in the yard without a mask. We went out for walks in parks, we even got to a point where, as you can see, I lost track of time – what did I do which day? Did I stay inside? Did I go to the store? The new normal set in. Whatever I did, it was “normal”.
I know I went to a suburban grocery store for the first time. Mask on, basket, sanitizer, do my shopping, stand in a well-spaced line after negotiating the one-way aisles. I’ve taken a first aid course in a state park – a small class, masks on, distancing as much as possible. I’ve developed a fatalistic streak even. I advocate masks and distancing and minimizing time away from home, but when things need to be done, they be done.
With takeout, and grocery orders, and occasional walks to get coffee or bodega runs . . . this is the new normal. We watch and wait to see if the numbers go up, or down, locally, nationally, globally. We silently judge people for wearing masks, or not wearing masks; for opening too soon or overreacting. That’s new normal too.
Wearing a mask is the simplest thing one can do. It’s a kindness to others; it protects oneself too.It’s frustrating, it’s silly, it muffles out voices, but makes a difference. Places where people wear masks have lowered their infection rates.
We can argue about whose fault it is, or how we should spend money to address the problem, but most importantly we have to address the problem. Official guidelines in the US are being treated as optional; speed limits where there is no enforcement. There is not enough testing, and therefore data, to make the kind of fine-tuned decisions that everyone wants. Too many politicians want to be the cool parent who lets their kids run free, only to find the have to be the responsible parent when they come back from spring break with a highly contagious respiratory illness.
The numbers are going up. Various states are rolling back their opening plans. I don’t plan to start another COVID journal. I hope I don’t have to. Nonetheless, July 4 or thereabouts marked a different sort of Independence Day.