A day in limbo

 

Sophie waiting for company on the patio.
We had our first patio gathering tonight.

This morning before I was even out of bed, the vet called with not-so-good news. Sophie’s kidneys were failing. He didn’t sound hopeful, but he said we would give her the morning and see how she did. He’d call back mid-day. So I piddled—read emails, read Facebook, answered a bit of correspondence, but all thoughts of creative work fled. I was watching the clock and wondering what his idea of mid-day was. I think I was a case study in suspended animation.

My kids rallied around, as they always do when I need them. Colin, skiing with his family in Wolf Creek, Colorado, has called three times and been very supportive. I guess the best thing he said to me was, “You’re always tough about the big things.” And this, I agreed, was a big thing. Megan, packing up her family in Tahoe to head home, called, and Jamie called from Denver and tried to cheer me with made-up Biblical quotes. I love them for trying, but talking to them made me teary. I was better off when I didn’t talk about Sophie.

Dr. Burney called around two o’clock. No change. She was still lethargic, not interested in food, not interested in peeing, kind of mentally sluggish as well as physically. But he didn’t sound ready to give up. When I said, “She was my miracle baby,” he said, “Oh, I know. Mine two.” So we decided to give her the afternoon. He called about five-thirty, and we agreed to give her until morning. Are we postponing the inevitable? Maybe. One thought I had was that whether or not Soph took advantage of the day, it had been a help to me, allowed me a chance to collect myself and face what lies ahead. I sent her a telepathic message this morning, told her it was up to her—she either had to turn it around or shut it down, but she had to save me from making the decision. Dr. Burney said he was sure she got the message, but he would repeat it to her. I love that man.

So we are still in limbo. I think tomorrow morning, no matter which way it goes, Jordan and I will go to the veterinary clinic and see her. When she was so sick a year ago, Dr. Burney warned me that she would be mad at me, because she thought whatever happened to her was my doing. And boy, was he right. She wouldn’t come near me. So that worries me a bit about going to see her. Jordan thinks seeing us will give her a boost. I am not sure.

And to pile complication on complication: Jacob has tested positive for Covid. He’s just home from a three-day fishing/swimming/hanging out trip to Oklahoma with three buddies. Called his mom at lunch and said he couldn’t taste his Chick Filet. (In my opinion that’s a good thing—I boycott Chick Filet, but he loves it and I can’t appeal to his teenage hunger on moral grounds). So when he got home, he tested positive. So now he’s bummed, because he can’t hang out with his buddies during his senior year spring break, and he can’t work to earn money.

But there is family good news. My brother, who is pretty much bedridden, has been in the hospital for two or three weeks, but it looks like he can go home tomorrow. I’m so grateful for small slivers of hope.

Tonight Subie and Phil came for a drink. She said she watched all day for a message telling them not to come, but I would have wanted them here no matter which way things went with Sophie. They are longtime friends, the kind who are a comfort, and they were tonight. It was the first time Subie drove over our new, nicely flat driveway, and she was full of raves about it.

I am deeply grateful to all of you who have sent hugs and prayers and good wishes. You help me as I wait in limbo, and I’m sure. If she knew, Sophie would be grateful too. She always did love to be the center of attention.

Monday trivia, some of it political

 

My favorite student of the week, a child I wish I knew, is the one who asked his teacher if a certain word needed a “flying comma.” He meant an apostrophe, of course, but I thought it a great description. And it leads me to one of my pet peeves: you don’t need a flying comma when you refer to a decade by numerals: its 1950s, not 1950’s.

My favorite meme of the week: Don’t give the nuclear codes to a guy who isn’t allowed to own a hot dog stand in New York City. Another similar one says Don’t give the reins of government to that same guy. And that brings me to the tackiest thing any of us have seen all week: a man who wants to head one of the most powerful countries in the world hawking glitzy, cheap-looking gold hightops with his logo at a political rally. Do you suppose he comes up with these ideas himself or has help?

I realized this week there is a new wrinkle in the manners we customarily observe with friends and neighbors: it used to be if you had the sniffles, you could still go to the party. Now it’s de rigueur to cancel because you might have covid, My neighbors missed a weekend party because of this and my happy hour guest tonight cancelled because he woke with the sniffles. I thanked him.

Something that seems odd to me: the Catholic Church is on a full-blown campaign to defeat Biden because he, a good Catholic, has not come out against abortion. (He does have a few other pressing matters on his mind.) So I guess the powers that be think it’s better to urge followers to vote for a proven rapist and fraudster who still faces felony charges? And they think they are following in Jesus’ footsteps?

Kitchen fail: I saw two recipes making creative adaptive use of Hidden Valley Ranch Dip. First called for putting a packet in the juice of a 24 oz. jar of dill pickle spears. I tried it, and it’s sitting in the fridge for the required 24 hours, so I can tell you if it is a keeper or not. The second called for mixing olive oil, dill weed, garlic powder and the dry dip mix, coating two boxes of Cheezits, and baking them. Now, I loved Cheezits as a child ….in fact I used to hide them under my bed until one night I heard a strange noise that scared me half to death: a mouse had found my stash.

Back to today, I thought this sounded great and I could make it first thing, easy and quick, and get to my desk. In fact, I dreamed about it too much of the night. But the logistics were off especially for my toaster oven. It called for a single layer, which I think would require a professional oven and half sheet pan. I only used one box, but they were two and three deep. I followed the recommended temperature—375 for 30 minutes, which is high heat and a long time. You can hear this one coming: burned you-know-what out of them. (It’s fortuitous that my happy hour guest cancelled, because that’s what I was going to serve). So tomorrow night, Mary D’s regular night, she’s getting plain, unseasoned Cheezits right out of the box.

And a dog crisis averted: at five this morning, I realized I did not have a can of dog food for Sophie’s breakfast. Sophie has her routine down pat, and if you deviate from it, she lets you know with indignant barking. In the evening, she gets two tiny milk bones for treats—and she counts. If you only give her one, she demands the second. So she would definitely know she was getting kibble instead of the canned meat she adores. It’s a holiday—President’s Day—no school, no work for Christian—so I assumed they would all sleep late, and I didn’t want to wake them for a can of dog food. (I didn’t know Jordan was up at four to see Jacob off to a golf tournament). I lay there, stewing about this until I finally got up, broke my cardinal rule about never waking a sleeping dog, and fed her dry food, more of it than usual. She did give me a funny look, but she ate it and went outside. Just after she came back in, I saw Christian letting their dog out, so he brought me the case of wet food, and the day was saved.

Except between the Cheezit project and the wrong kind of food, I couldn’t go back to sleep. As I write this, the day is half over, and I’m wondering what else will happen.

The day ended peacefully, with a chicken and wild rice casserole Christian made and me getting to write my daily thousand words. Life is good, and I am grateful.

A sudden burst of winter

 

Megan's pot of chili

I am not a happy camper now that the temperature is in the low forties. I have been shivering in my boots all day, despite extra layers of clothing and a fleece jacket I refuse to be parted from. Sophie on the other hand is delighted by the weather and begs—uh, demands!—to go outside every minute.

In the proper spirit of Halloween and the arrival of cold weather, Christian made a large pot of chili tonight—does indeed warm the bones. My day was also brightened by talking by phone with my two sons and by text with Megan, who was also making a big pot of chili. In her house, Brandon is the king of chili, but he was out of town, and Megan explained they would need chili tomorrow when the high in Austin is to be in the low forties. Brandon will no doubt have something to say about her usurping his role.

Jamie gave me a Facetime tour of his new apartment in Denver—all glass and modern, in downtown Denver with the South Platte River right outside his window—well, a few stories down. Today it had the added beauty of brand new snow covering everything. I honestly think sometimes that kind of cold feels better than what we are having. Jame says he enjoyed running in it yesterday. Today he too cooked for the weather—not chili but a big pot of soup.

Busy weekend around here. Yesterday Christian went to a watch party for the Baylor game—oops, I haven’t even asked who won. Jordan went to a John Mayer concert in Dallas last night. When I asked Christian this morning if she enjoyed it, he said “Jordan could listen to John Mayer burp for two hours and be happy.” I replied she is one of thousands of women in their forties and fifties. Jordan and Megan have been known to go as far as Chicago for one of his concerts—or was that an excuse to go to Chicago?

I first heard of Mayer several years ago when I was editing a novel by the late Holly Gilliatt. I think the title was ‘Til St. Patrick’s Day, and it was built around a Mayer song by that title. The gist of it was that you don’t want to break up with your significant other in October or November because the holiday season is right ahead and nobody wants to be alone for Thanksgiving or Christmas. And then of course there’s New Year’s Eve, for which it’s essential to have a sweetie, and nobody wants a lonely Valentine’s Day. But St. Patrick’s Day? It’s okay. Nothing special. That’s the time to reassess. Holly tried hard to get permission to quote the lyrics but learned a stiff lesson in the ways of music copyright. I think Mayer agreed but his producers did not. Holly must have been in the early wave of John Mayer fans. I’ve heard a song or two and he’s okay, nice, soft music, but I wouldn’t go to Dallas on a cold night for one of his concerts, let alone Chicago.

Covid has me in its grip still—or the aftereffects do. I cough and sneeze and blow my nose a lot, and I still don’t have much ambition. I did absolutely nothing worthwhile yesterday but did manage to go to church virtually and do some editing today. I am hoping to get back to a real schedule and routine tomorrow. The trick, I keep telling myself, is to stop thinking I’m sick. Today I began to wonder if it might not be better to admit I don’t feel a hundred percent and just take to my bed. But then, of course, I’d be itchy about the things I’m not getting down.

Stay warm and safe everyone. I’m about to go try to convince Soph it’s time to come in for the evening.

Ginger ale and other memories—a brief update

 

Sophie and her empty bowl

Yesterday I was talking to Megan, my Austin daughter, and mentioned that I wished I had some ginger ale because that’s what my mom always gave me when I was sick. In a slightly amused tone, Megan said, “That’s why my mom gave me too!” Couldn’t believe I’d forgotten that. She went on to remember that I gave them Lipton’s chicken noodle soup from a packet. I don’t have the soup, but either Christian or Jacob got me some ginger ale, and I’ve been guzzling it.

Sophie still rules the roost and doesn’t understand that I’m not following my routine. I usually go to bed about 11:30 and give her a snack of kibble then because it’s a long time for a girl from dinner at five to breakfast at seven. The other night I fell into bed at nine-thirty, completely forgetting the snack. At 11:30 promptly, she woke me up. I opened the door for her to go out, but she wasn’t interested. So I fed her two little treats. That didn’t satisfy her either, and she went to the kitchen corner where she usually eats. It dawned on me she wanted her kibble. Gave it to her, and she trotted happily off to bed. Sophie has a most accurate internal clock.

She has always disliked my being in bed—will sometimes wake me, just to get me up. So she’s doubly unhappy these days when I go back to bed several times a day. I don’t let her have access to the back yard when I’m not up and keeping an eye on her, so that adds to her frustration.

I’m glad to report I have apparently (knock on wood) had a mild case of Covid, like a really annoying head cold. But now I’m on the mend—ate a little bit today (not quite up to the tuna salad in the fridge but had cottage cheese and later a buttered potato), slept soundly, coughed less, and generally felt better. Jordan is not feeling as much better but has no fever (I never did have). Two more days of quarantine! Not that I expect to rush out into the world.

Have a good week, everyone.

Taking the night off

Sophie, my companion in isolation

No blog tonight. This morning, Jordan and I tested positive for covid. We’re both okay, just lethargic and not at all hungry. I think I live such a reclusive life back here in my cottage, but it was amazing this morning how many people I had to notify, appointments to cancel. I think I got everyone, and now I’m getting you, my blog friends.

One thing I learned today and am passing along in case it will help someone else. We’ve all heard that if you get covid, you should start Paxlovid right away—it keeps the disease from turning severe. So I was ready to send someone to the drugstore, but Jordan wisely said, “Let’s call the doctor first.” I see a physician and she sees a PA in the same clinic (which is where we think we were exposed, through no fault of theirs). We saw the PA virtually, and she said I cannot take Paxlovid because I am on a blood thinner.

So my warning is twofold—if you get covid, be sure to check with your physician before you rush off to self-medicate, and if you are on a blood thinner, do not take Paxlovid.

We are to isolate for five days—as Jordan said, it’s good we can hang out together—and then mask in public for five days. So if I don’t blog, you’ll understand, I hope.

Oh, to be young again!

 

Jacob and his date

Kegan and his date

It’s Homecoming weekend across Texas, and two of my grandsons—one in Tomball and one in Fort Worth—got all gussied up for the dance. I did have a moment of laughter—Jordan sent me a picture of Jacob and his date, he in a sport coat and she is one of those skimpy dresses that all the girls wear now. But the first picture Colin sent me of Kegan and his date showed them in shorts and T-shirts, she holding a basketball (I think) and he holding a bunch of cut flowers. I laughed and told Colin the homecoming dances must have been very different in nature. Pretty soon he sent pictures of them wearing their traditional mums and then dressed for the dance, she in a skimpy dress and he in a suit.

Of course I did an immediate grandmother thing and, in my mind, went back to the days when they were littles together. At one point, about fifteen years ago, I had a bunch of littles around me. Now I have all these teenagers and young adults. Kegan is the youngest (and the tallest) of my seven grandchildren, and Jacob is the third from youngest. I think I don’t mind growing old myself as much as I mind them aging out of childhood. Of course, they’re neat teens and young adults, and I love them dearly. But there’s a lot of nostalgia there.

Otherwise a quiet, pleasant day. We didn’t go to church today—Christian had projects on his mind, and it turned out I was relieved because I hear there’s a lot of Covid going around. I know that last week, half the choir was out, and we learned later it was because of Covid. They even cancelled an upcoming choir concert. I went to church virtually and did see a few people, both in the choir and in the congregation, wearing masks. I’m afraid we may be headed back to a lot of us wearing masks.

Covid still seems to loom over us, even though many have sort of brushed it off. Maybe it’s my age, but having never had it, I am still quite afraid of it. When I had that whatever stomach thing one night last week, I briefly convinced myself that it was Covid. An easy thing to do alone in the dark at three o’clock in the morning. Three o’clock seems to be the witching hour. I hate to confess how many times I am awake at the time, with a wide variety of scary thoughts. I have had to learn to tell myself, “That’s a three o’clock thought. It will be better in the morning.”

Late this afternoon, thunder teased us, rolling around the sky. We even had one good, strong clap right overhead which sent Miss Sophie to barking angrily. Despite all that, we got perhaps five scattered drops of rain. Jordan and Christian were on their way to deliver a sympathy meal to a sick friend in Arlington, and she says they were caught in such driving rain that they couldn’t see the road, and she urged Christian to pull over. I don’t need driving rain, but a bit more than five drops would be helpful.

Tonight Jordan made the iconic dish that is our family signature—and certainly my signature. Doris’ casserole has been in cookbooks, articles, and blogs; it was served once by food service at TCU and is routinely served on special occasions at our home. The Burtons made a double batch today—one to deliver and one for us. And we all agreed, we hadn’t had it in a while, and it was so good.

I first ate Doris’ at a small dinner party in the late sixties, when my then-husband was a resident in surgery. The wife of the anesthesiology resident fixed it for us. It was called Mrs. America Beef Casserole or some such, but for us, because Doris served it that night, it has always been Doris’ casserole. One friend calls it American lasagna—it has a meat layer, the noodle layer, and a grated cheese topping. I know I’ve posted it before, but it may soon be time again.

And last night I had the first of what will be many “home-alone” dinners this fall. Splurged and bought myself scallops—three nice, fat ones. Cooked a small batch of baby spinach, and then sauteed the scallops in butter—didn’t get the crust I wanted, but they were a bit browned and still soft. Squeezed a half lemon over them, plated them on the bed of spinach, and poured the lemon butter over. Felt like royalty.

May the coming week bring you health, good food, and blessed gentle rain.

Everything really did change

 

Pre-pandemic dinner with good friends
L. to R., me, Betty, Jean, and Jeannie
at Trinity Terrace

A dear friend came for happy hour tonight, and it got me to thinking how Covid really did change our worlds. Before Covid, for twenty-five years or more, Betty and I went to dinner once a week. In recent years, our dinners had become a Wednesday evening ritual. We had some grand adventures trying new and unknown restaurants. I remember once taking her to explore a part of town, not far away, that she never knew existed, and if memory serves, I once took her cemetery exploring. She was Aunt Betty to Jacob and his parents. We laughed a lot, and we drank a sufficient amount of wine.

With Covid that came to a crashing halt. Betty and her husband had owned a steak and hamburger restaurant in the Stockyards for years. In fact, for a few years I used to help on Saturday nights—running the cash register, rolling silverware, hostessing when Betty was busy. When Covid came, they still went to the restaurant every night on weekends—no one was vaccinated or masked, and I wasn’t willing to risk it. Betty came once or twice for wine on the patio at a great distance, but we never ever thought of going to dinner.

And somehow we never picked it up again. Tonight it was like falling into an old relationship—except it wasn’t. Her husband is now elderly (aren’t we all?) and she mostly spends her days taking care of him. She’s been to the cottage a couple of times, but after an hour she’s always anxious to get back to him. I stopped trying to serve her dinner and started saying happy hour. But since the world shut down in March 2020, I’ve probably only seen her a handful of times.

In the meantime I became sort of a recluse. Christian wondered how I could be content in the cottage after I’d had an active social life, but content I was. In fact, when I first began to get out, it was a big deal that I had to gear myself up for. I told myself—and I think it’s true—because of the walker and not driving, it’s easier for me to stay home and invite people to visit.

But other changes. I love to grocery shop, browsing the aisles for things that inspire me to cook. I even love driving those motorized carts they have. I had been using Central Market’s curbside shopping service for some time, but with Covid it became my primary grocery source—that and sending Jordan to Albertson’s. Both are wonderful, neither are perfect, and I’ve ended up with some weird items, a lifetime supply of some things, and not enough of others. Since quarantine lifted and I was well boosted, I’ve been to Albertson’s a couple of times. Whole Foods once, Central Market once, and Trader Joe’s a couple of times. Thanks to Mary Dulle for several of those trips.

During quarantine, I fell into a routine for my days that persists until this day. Work in the morning, an afternoon nap, followed by checking email and cooking dinner. Lately I’ve been reading and writing late into the night and sleeping late in the mornings. Sophie also has her routine—breakfast at five-thirty, back outside at seven-fifteen, and then inside until I get up to stay, which is usually eight-thirty.

Along the way, the nature of my friendships has changed. Some people that I used to see have dropped away and my few overtures toward them have met with politeness but nothing more. I’ve decided they didn’t really enjoy my company, certainly not enough to come to happy hour. But other friendships have strengthened. Jean and I were always good friends, but we see much more of each other these days, a habit developed during quarantine. She was one of the few people I knew who was as careful about exposure as I was. Recently widowed, she was alone in her house and, I suspected, lonely. So she came often for wine and supper and now it’s grown to be a once-a-week thing most weeks. There are others I see more of these days, whether it’s a result of pandemic or not, I don’t know—I suppose it’s the nature of friendship to ebb and flow like tides. But I am most grateful for my friends.

During quarantine, Jacob and Jordan were home all the time. Jordan and I planned menus and cooked dinners together—and the family ate in the cottage. I loved it—the cooking and the companionship. Now they’re back to their busy schedules, and it’s been an adjustment for me. But we still eat together three or four nights a week. And I cook often enough to keep me happy.

Maybe quarantine simply accelerated part of the aging process for me, slowing my extracurricular life which would have happened sooner or later. But I have only a few regrets. My new life is without a lot of the stresses of the old. Life is good, and I’m relaxed and happy.

Covid, eggs for supper, and a new word

 

Alter eggs elegante
(tastes better than it looks)

Three longtime friends and I have a custom of celebrating birthdays with a restaurant dinner—a custom we sorely missed during quarantine. The birthday girl gets to choose the restaurant, and we treat her to dinner and bring small gifts. Tonight we were to have belatedly celebrated one (only almost a month late—they have busier schedules than I do), but one of them came home from a trip with covid and is not quite over it. So we rescheduled—another whole month. At this rate the celebrant will be another year older before she gets that dinner.

The Burtons are at a birthday party at a distillery—Jordan was vague about the location, but I am anxious to hear details. At any rate, I was on my own for dinner. Frequently, when I’m alone I just scramble a couple of eggs. Tonight I went all out and fixed what I decided to call Alter Eggs Elegante. If you go to Carshon’s deli in Fort Worth for breakfast your choices will include eggs and salami or eggs and lox. When I took daughter-in-law Lisa once, she ordered eggs with salami, expecting sliced salami as a side, and was astounded when the salami was chopped and scrambled into the eggs. And that’s how their eggs with lox are served—sometimes with onion.

Several years ago I decided to fancy them up. I added chopped green onion and chopped tomatoes. Taking a cue from my mom, I added a dollop of cottage cheese, which gives the eggs a lot of body (it does leave a liquid residue which you just have to pour off). So that’s what I ate tonight, with a green salad and a blue cheese/buttermilk dressing. Good eating!

But my friend’s covid plus a visit with my doctor spurred me to investigate getting the new booster. My doctor told us this week that since we have had all Moderna vaccines, we should stick with that. His office only had Pfizer. As I explored today, I found lots of places with Pfizer, not many with the new Moderna booster. The best bet seemed to be a Walgreen’s not too far from the house. But when I tried to pull up the website, I got the dreaded access denied message. This continued all day.

So this evening, I called the pharmacist directly. He told me to call Walgreen’s 1-800 number which I did—and got an automated woman who insisted on scheduling me for a Pfizer shot. No! Tried the website and behold! It was back up. I have an appointment for Tuesday morning.

The run-around with Walgreen’s—honest, it probably ate an hour and a half of my day—reminded me that I want to caution friends against Cigna dental insurance. I paid for insurance for six months, and each month they returned my check to the bank. Each month I called and was given a variety of suggested fixes, including that I had the wrong code and, finally, ridiculously, that I hadn’t put P.O. before the word Box on the envelope. In desperation, week before last, I asked my bank to call. They got the same run-around (all this from representatives who did not seem to have English at their first language). It occurred to me to ask my dentist’s office to check my insurance since I had an appointment the next week. They reported my insurance had been cancelled. And a few days later I received a letter—late September remember—telling me my insurance was cancelled July 31 for non-payment. I am left wondering if they ever looked at the record of my phone calls. It seems inexcusable to me that I was left two months without insurance but ignorant of that fact.

My resolve: business with small agencies and mom-and-pop businesses as much as possible. It’s hard, though. There’s a small, privately owned pharmacy down the street from my house where I send prescriptions as much as possible. Today they told me it would be at least a month before they got boosters, and I gathered they couldn’t assure me it would be Moderna.

My new word for the day: stoush. It means to fight with someone. So I have had a stoush with corporate America.

Thoughts on mortality

 

A notice on Facebook this evening informed me that an acquaintance died suddenly, apparently yesterday, of a heart attack. She was a woman I didn’t know well enough to call a friend, but we had crossed paths enough that I knew she was vibrant and lovely, much loved by many people including close friends of mine. What do you say when you write the surviving husband in the instance of such sudden, unexpected death? I am always tempted to steal words from Katie Sherrod and say, “May she rest in peace, and rise in glory.”

Death is on my mind more than a little bit these days. I think it’s a combination of age—at 83, I have outlived many friends and contemporaries—and covid, which has made us all more away of our mortality. Some people will say they want to die in their sleep—a peaceful way to go, suddenly, without the agonizing knowledge that death is approaching. When a dear friend died, having moved out of my life several years earlier, her husband wrote that she was afraid of two things: falling out of bed and dying. So the night she died he sat by her bed holding her hand—he could keep her from falling but not from dying. I guess I too fear the fear of dying.

But I have also thought recently that if I died in my sleep, there would be so much left undone. My oldest son is my executor, and he and I work hard together to keep him up to speed on my career, my finances, my life. But what about that novel I have half finished? And the project I still want to write about Helen Corbitt, doyenne of food service at Neiman Marcus for the crucial years in the 1950s and 1960s. My blogs, and the letters of a Mntana author I want to edit. I have a lot of work yet to do.

I like to think I am a devout Christian, accepting the teachings of Jesus. Indeed, much of my political activism comes because I cannot separate Christianity’s preaching of love each other from politics as I see it today. Remember those bracelets people wore that said WWJD—what would Jesus do? In my book, most conservatives have entirely missed the point, and none so much as most born-again, evangelical Christians. Franklin Graham kind of Christians.

On the other hand, I’m not at all willing to commit myself on belief in the afterlife. I simply don’t know. I know a woman my age who truly believes she will ascend to streets of gold, and everything will be wonderful. I can’t quite buy that vision for myself, but what I do believe is that the soul lives on after it leaves the body. A big question for me: do we reunite with those we’ve loved? Could be ticklish sometimes—like ex-spouses, etc.—but there are many I long to see again. Can we as spirits embrace? I have no idea.

My thoughts on the afterlife are meant as a way of saying that I do not fear death. But I simply do not want to go. At least not now, not yet. I am too happy, enjoying this life too much. I don’t want to leave my children and my dog and my friends and those half-written manuscripts. I know I am among the fortunate, but life as I know it is too good. Which somehow makes me think though that even people in desperate situations cling to life—and that brings Ukraine to mind and the desperate people whose fate hangs in the hands of the superpowers. But that is another subject for another day.

A friend told me that once his father died, his mother soon tired of life. She felt she needed to follow her husband and be sure that he was all right. And maybe that’s the ideal state—to be ready to leave this life. Not with anger or sadness, just ready to move on. And knowing it.

Sudden death doesn’t offer you that opportunity. So I think tonight of that old nursery prayer which must have scared children to death:

Now I lay myself down to sleep

I pray the Lord my soul to keep

And if I should die before I wake

I pray the Lord my soul to take.

 

Where is your camel, or lessons from the pandemic

 

My physical therapist and I were discussing how much we are each willing to break quarantine, now that we, like many others, are fully vaccinated. He, more willing to get out and about than I, had been to in-person church at Easter, while I stuck with virtual. His parting words were, “You got to get out more. God’s got you.” A few days later a friend wrote that she agreed with me and ended her message with what I presume is an old Arabic proverb: “Trust God, but tie your camel to a tree.” To me, that says it all. I’ve spent a lot of time tying my camel to trees.

In truth, I tie that camel (okay, I’ll quit with that image) because I’m confused. We are inundated with news of how wonderfully well President Biden’s vaccine roll-out is going—way ahead of the schedule he predicted for his first hundred days. And I am among the first to clap loudest and longest. But that statistic that now one out of five is fully vaccinated? Try putting the word “Only” in front of it: it means that four out of five people are walking around without full protection. Apparently one-third of our population has had one shot—I wonder how many never get that second one.

And I’m assuming we still can’t hug, unless the huggee is also vaccinated. Which calls into question all those newly vaccinated grandparents who are finally hugging grandchildren after a year (call me guilty—I hugged one because she had covid a month earlier and, as she said to me, was “full of antibodies”). Aside from the rare case where a vaccinated person gets sick, if we hug unvaccinated grands, are we putting them in danger? They are almost all, at least in my family, too young to have been vaccinated. I haven’t heard a definitive answer about the vaccinated as carriers of the virus. And how long is the vaccine good? Six months? A year? So much still to be determined.

We get advice from several sources, and I’m never sure what the CDC is saying. Apparently, it’s all right to gather indoors with a small group of vaccinated people but we should avoid large groups in enclosed spaces. Yet domestic travel is safe—but they just ruled out planes, trains, and cars. And we should avoid bars and restaurants that are open to full capacity (hello, Texas!).

The most sensible restaurant advice I’ve heard came from local journalist Bud Kennedy who recommends eating on a patio or in a well-ventilated indoor restaurant where they only seat every other table, staff is masked, and customers are masked except when eating. Of course, that means you either check it out as you walk in the door or call ahead and ask their mask and social distancing policy. And in Fort Worth, and I imagine other cities, patios are a problem because many of them are enclosed with ugly plastic to ward off the winter chill. The result is no moving air and a space without ambiance. I suppose in summer they’ll be enclosed for coolness. I’m on a search for open-air patios with distanced seating. Suggestions welcome.

This morning our minister talked about how emotional many people felt when they worshipped in the sanctuary once again, the first time in 54 Sundays. And I have read posts from many people who cried in relief when they got their second vaccination. It’s like the vaccination wipes away all the tension and frustration of the past year. But as Dr. Fauci cautions, we must not get complacent too soon. There is hope on the horizon, but we have to hold on.

Here comes that camel again. Now where’s the nearest tree?

Living on Covid Time

For nineteen years, Story Circle Network, an international online organization that encourages women to write about their experiences, has published an anthology, Real Women Write, choosing a different theme each year. For the 2020 anthology, the choice of theme was clear; the book is subtitled Living on Covid Time. It contains 80 pieces of poetry and prose, written by 52 women. I got my copy in the mail yesterday.

In her foreword, Brooke Warner, publisher of She Writes Press, suggests that for writers the time of isolation imposed by the virus may be a rich and focused period or one so filled with anxiety that writing proves impossible. Whereas authors usually write in retrospect, this past year has required many of us to write as we live through a worldwide, terrifying experience with no sure idea of the final outcome. Writers are capturing the present moment, recording history. As an aside, let me add that for novelists, this has meant a choice: do you allude to the pandemic in a novel or assume people are too tired of hearing about it and set the action just pre-pandemic (I chose the latter for my current work-in-progress). For memoirists and many nonfiction writers, there is no choice: you come to grips with the disease.

The stories and poetry in this collection “showcase a range of reaction,” including “grappling with illness, fear and death, with heartbreak and isolation, with the coexistence of ugliness and beauty.” Reading, Warner points out, is one way we listen, and writing is one way we start a conversation with vulnerability. She believes, and I do too, that we have an opportunity to come out of this more courageous, more honest, more productive.

In the final brief essay in the book, Susan Wittig Albert uses a hardy antique rose to make just that point. The leaves of the rose, on her side deck, turned brown, something that had never happened in 25 years. She realized she had taken it for granted and neglected it during a blistering hot and dry summer. But then came Hurricane Beta, with cooler temperatures, even if only a smidgen of rain for the Hill Country. Susan saw that as a lesson from nature, teaching us that the world is resilient but also vulnerable. She concludes that we will go forward. The world will never go back to what it was before the Pandemic, but we can move it forward with hard work and deep breaths, taking more responsibility, paying more attention.

Reading these selections is like listening to a chorus: Lynn Goodwin describes a physically painful episode during which she is convinced she has the virus (it was not); Jeanne Guy offers a prayer to be free of fear and not to have to go to the grocery store—apples and oranges, you think? Not on Covid time. Linda Hoye uses a trip to the grocery store to illustrate just how different life has become in lockdown—and how small things can grate on our nerves. Linda Wisniewski describes sewing masks while watching, for 111 consecutive days, Governor Andrew Cuomo’s daily briefings and the reassurance she found in his constancy.

Yes, I have a short piece in the collection, a piece that made me face honestly some of my lifelong anxiety. It’s called “The Temptation of Quarantine.” At different times in my adult life, but more as I aged, some ordinary activities raised my anxiety to an almost paralytic level. Things other women did without thinking could cause me great agony. Suddenly one day, in quarantine, I realized that I was perfectly content. I didn’t have to step down that curb and fear losing my balance, drive on the highway, take self-service elevators, or a thousand other little things. I could stay home to write, read, and cook. While others gnashed their teeth over boredom and freedom and the like, I was a happy camper, more relaxed than ever.

The other day my oldest daughter said when I have had both shots, she wants to come to Fort Worth so that she, Jordan, and I can go to Neiman Marcus for lunch. I hesitated—I haven’t been to a restaurant since March 12 last year, and now, vaccinated or not, I’m not sure I want to go. But I will. As the saying goes, I’ll put on my big girl panties and go with my daughters—and enjoy it. But getting back into life beyond my cottage and yard is going to take some doing.

Real Women Write is a good book. You’ll see yourself, and you may come to understand others. It’s available through Amazon.