Waiting For Superman: CV Stories, 19 March 2020
Everyone's story matters, and there is no wrong way to feel.
Throughout what is going to be an extended period of isolation for Americans, this newsletter will be a daily look at what it is like to actually live through this moment, until this moment is over. It will feature brief opening remarks from me every day, but will mostly be stories from you about how this is affecting you, your family, your friends … your daily life. (The regular weekly newsletter will continue uninterrupted.) Email me your story at williamfleitch@yahoo.com.
I’m going to stay out of the way today: There are too many stories to tell. This will be the last of the CV Stories newsletters for the week; your regular weekly newsletter will be back on Saturday, and then we’ll do more of these stories on Monday … wherever we all are on Monday.
Thank you, every single one of you, for reading, writing and sharing these stories. I know that it is helping me immensely, probably more than I even realize, and I hope they are helping you as well. Send me yours throughout the weekend. I’ll have my regular newsletter Saturday, and we’ll have more stories on Monday and throughout next week.
Here are today’s stories. Send me yours at williamfleitch@yahoo.com.
From James H. in Pennsylvania:
So my family and I are ready for this, thanks to my brain tumor.
On New Year's Eve, I drove my two sons, 8 and 6, to their cousin's house for his birthday party. As the kids played video games in the next room, I was telling some ridiculous, meandering story to a few relatives, when suddenly my face froze and my hands locked up. I knew what I wanted to say, but I couldn't. All I could do was watch as my father-in-law and sister-in-law approached me, asking what was wrong, what they could do to help.
I had had a seizure, and after ten hours in the ER, an ambulance trip that started literally at the stroke of midnight, and nine more seizures within the first three days of 2020, I was released from the hospital. A few more weeks and MRIs later, my wife and I learned the cause of these seizures: a benign tumor near the middle of my brain. My neurologist told me, categorically, no driving for the foreseeable future, and I am far too scared of hurting someone else or myself to even remotely consider disobeying that order.
We are incredibly lucky. My job allows me to work from home, and so for the past few years, maybe two or three days a week, I had been doing that. But with this news, the ground shifted. My wife, who already does so much, has been asked to do even more. My kids quickly figured out not to ask me to drive them anywhere, and I gradually came to terms with my inability to say yes if they did. I'm used to being home all day, all week, in ways a lot of my friends and coworkers are not. Calling in to meetings, having groceries delivered, effectively self-quarantining-- I had a six-week head start. All because of a one-inch knot of blood vessels in my head. So, uh... thanks, tumor?
I know we've only just scratched the surface of this thing, personally and nationwide and globally. I have no idea how the rest of the school year is going to play out, but we'll do our best. I live every day with the knowledge that if my meds fail and I have another seizure, it will mean brain surgery, but I am also constantly aware and saddened that so many families right now have it so much worse.
From Jeffrey from Seattle:
In this moment in history, it feels like my partner and I have been swept up in a perfect storm. We moved into a new apartment on Feb. 1, our first as a couple after living with my parents for a couple years. It's pricey (Seattle), but safe, and well within our budget -- that is, when we're both working.
I am currently on a contract working internal communications for a large company. An expected contract extension never came, so I am just a couple weeks away from losing a major source of income. Meanwhile, my fiancee started a job in dental hygiene and loves it. I'm sure you see where it's going from here.
COVID-19 has closed their office and it's unknown when they will open again. In six weeks, we've gone from two well-paying jobs and a brand new apartment to no income and staring rent in the face. My job prospects have mostly dried up as interviews I had set up have been canceled or postponed for the foreseeable future. I also pay through the nose for health insurance so I can see my therapist on a regular basis. My plan plus copays is more than $600 a month. It's insane to think of essential mental health services as a luxury, but it's one I probably won't be able to afford.
I do want to note my immense privilege here. I still have a roof over my head and food on the table. My parents are retired and did very well for themselves -- there is a safety net and eviction isn't really on the table. But we are scared. This wasn't part of the plan. And asking your parents for a bailout, even if it's necessary, is still a damaging blow to your pride.
But I am hopeful. I am hopeful that my partner's office reopens soon. I am hopeful I will find work again soon. I am hopeful the U.S. will flatten the curve and come out on the other side. In times like these, hope is all I can ask for.
From Kevin Clark from Houston:
It feels like we move from crisis to crisis. In my kids' lifetimes we've been through Ike and Harvey, both of which made the national news. But they've also been through Imelda, the Tax Day Flood and the Memorial Day Flood, which probably didn't. We had a drought in 2008 (in 100% humidity Houston!) that killed every thing in my yard other than a 100 year old oak tree. It killed most of the trees in Houston's biggest parks. I've lived in my house for two weeks with no electricity. Twice in the last three years I've had to wonder if I had enough food to feed my family (and the extra family who showed up when their house flooded). Not because we didn't have money, but because of disasters.
My kids missed two weeks of school for Harvey, got pulled out early for Imelda due to flooding and ended up at friends' houses nearby because we couldn't get to them (talk about scary), missed a day two weeks ago because a 96" water main broke in Houston (1/2 the city's supply!), and now this. I grew up near Denver, Colorado. I think I missed a total of one week of school over 12 years due to snow. We made tunnels and hills to sled on. My kids have watched diesel slicks float past our house, and I had to warn them not to go down the steps to the garage because I was worried they'd drown or the fumes would overcome them. My friends have carried their kids over their heads through chest deep water to safety multiple times. This is what the greatest country in history (allegedly) is providing for its privileged youth.
In the midst of all of these natural (but made worse by man) crises, we've also had the non-stop simmering crisis of governance for the last three years. There's no place to go to escape. That's what I keep thinking. The zone of safety, the area where stress dissipates, is getting smaller and smaller. This week it feels like it vanished completely. There used to be time between crises. There used to be spaces where we could retreat. All of that is gone. And this coming from someone with no economic concerns at all (for now). I cannot fathom how bad it is for people whose jobs just vanished, whose bars or restaurants will cease to exist. It feels like it's all going to break.
On the bright(?) side: I am (was?) an Astros fan. So at least I don't have to decide whether I should boo my own team at games this year.
From Aaron:
I'm a molecular biologist, and I work for my state's Newborn Screening Department: If you opted your kids into their birthplace's program (hopefully you did), you may remember a blood sample being collected from their heels shortly after birth. Anyway, that blood sample arrived at a lab similar to mine and was analyzed for several different disorders (each state has a different number of tests on their respective panels). On Monday we were informed that our state now has two priorities; COVID-19, and Newborn Screening. I know how lucky I am to be able to continue working. So far things at work have been eerily normal, but we expect to see a decrease in the number of follow-up specimens we receive in the near future: My state tests each baby twice; once in the first 48 hours of life, and again from 7-14 days of life (because so much can change between those two windows), and I'm certain that most parents would keep their healthy newborns far away from any healthcare facility right now. The virology lab upstairs recently hired a bunch of temps, and I've already heard the murmurs that we might be called upstairs to their lab to help out however we can. As other state labs see decreases in their usual workflows, they will be transitioned into helping with the COVID-19 testing efforts. I'm willing to help wherever I would be the most effective; I've been working in public health for ten years now, and I also live alone, in an apartment located one block away from the lab. My supervisor has been pulled in several different directions all week, but if I happen to see her today, I'll bring this up to her. I want to help get things restored back to normal, or as close to normal as possible, as soon as possible.
From a Pittsburgh Lyft driver:
So my job for the last two years has been to haul folks around the Pittsburgh, PA area for money. Not a bad gig for sure, but has now become fraught with peril (maybe - maybe not) for both driver and passenger.
The "maybe/maybe not" is the biggest part of the equation. Those passengers who choose to continue using rideshare - and those who choose to avoid it - are usually separated by a lot of money and viable options. As a driver who makes this my primary source of income, well...maybe less in the way of choice for me. I wipe down the vehicle at least four times a day with Clorox, but who know if that makes any real difference?
This past week I took a young lady to her job as a gas station cashier. I've carried her many times before. She told me there is absolutely no protection between her and her customers, who she complained are always leaning across the counter to point at what they want, or to whisper some local gossip in her ear. Many times they want to extend a hand or grab her arm to convey something important. This accessibility has helped her become a very popular employee. Now she feels totally threatened, but not able to tell long time customers to please back off.
Think about that a moment. Your on the job safety and well-being is in the control of those you interact with on a daily basis. You've spent a long time developing a rapport with these very same folks, and suddenly you have to be the one pushing back to get them away from your zone. It's a helpless feeling. She feels forced to abandon who she's become to become (somewhat) safe.
And we close with Mike D. in North Carolina:
I found out two weeks ago that I have to have bypass surgery. It was scheduled for Monday. But they discovered something, getting me ready, that gave them pause. So I'm waiting to find out what's happening. It has actually been helpful, the past two weeks, to have this upcoming life changing event to focus on. That, and the chaos outside, have forced me to really live in the moment.
I've made a practice today of greeting the myriad of health care workers who have attended me by name, and thanking them for being here. I try to do that anyway. I work at a grocery store and am always pleased, and a little shocked, when they greet me. It makes a difference to people, and is a small thing which can be practiced all the time. It’s funny: I was lying on the table in the OR, already under the influence of something. People were bustling around, as they do. So I said, "I'm sure this is unlikely, but in the unlikely event this goes south and I don't make it, I want my last words to be “Fuck Donald Trump.”
Things are still up in the air. What's happening is, during some of the prep work before they opened me up, they discovered a mass behind my heart. Could be something, could be nothing; so I had an MRI today. Won't know the results until tomorrow. I live in Chapel Hill, and have an 87 year old mom who lives here too. And of course, she can't visit, as much as she wants to.
Your daily missives are helping. Gives me a little taste of what's passing for normal life these strange days. It's strange, being in here, and knowing whenever I get out, I'll be walking into a significantly different world. I'll keep you posted.
(Editor’s Note: Mike D. emailed this morning to say that the MRI revealed a fatty mass behind his heart and that the bypass is green light go. He is in surgery as I send this.)
Send me your stories at williamfleitch@yahoo.com. And please: Be safe, everyone.
Best,
Will