Throughout this difficult period, 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.
There’s a little public park trail I’ve been running since all this started, rather than my usual trips down the much-more trafficked Milledge Avenue here in Athens. The weather has been gorgeous, it’s an excuse to get out of the house, I voted for the tax increase that gave us the trail so I might as well use it, it’s the perfect time. There’s rarely anyone on it ordinarily, and it’s downright abandoned now, which is typically my ideal running environment. But it feels lonelier now. There’s something uniquely lonely about having a rare moment outside and still not seeing anyone.
But Saturday, I saw in the distance, coming toward me, a family. Their children looked about the same age as mine, and the parents just a little bit younger than me. Part of having kids that are eight and five is constantly seeing parents that you vaguely recognize but otherwise have no idea who they are or what they do and then, when you have a moment with them, scrambling the best you can to act like you’ve known them forever and cannot wait to hear about how they’re doing. It is the part of parenting I am the absolute worst at; I spend most of my time at kid birthday parties dreading running into someone that I should know but don’t.
But seeing this family coming toward me—William’s friends! Or maybe Wynn’s!—had me jumping up and down and waving like a lunatic as we approached each other. Other people! Friends! Associates from the Before Time! Which parents were they? How are they holding up? Are they healthy? Have they heard any stories? I couldn’t wait. I had a massive smile on my face.
We finally reached each other and I realized that I had no idea who these people were.
I don’t mean in a “I cannot remember their names” sort of way. I mean in a “I have never seen any of these four people in my life” way. I had no connection with them whatsoever. I was just a crazy person jumping up and down at them during a pandemic.
I would have felt strange about it, but then I realized they were doing the same thing. They were just happy to see someone, anyone, just grateful to see a smiling face. We even all stopped and talked to each other, a nice, normal conversation, about the kids, about restaurants we knew that were open, about teaching at home, about the feckless governor, regular stuff, like we do this all the time, like we’ve been doing this for years. We all had big goony smiles on our faces the whole time. Then I waved goodbye, and they waved goodbye, and we went about our day. I didn’t get their names, and they didn’t get mine. But for a few minutes, we were the best friends any of us had on the planet.
I went back to the park for a run this morning. Overnight, Athens-Clarke County closed all leisure services, facilities and trails.
I ended up going back on Milledge for my run. I saw more people than I do on the trail. But no one waved or stopped. It’s hard to get people to wave or stop anymore. We’ve all got enough to carry on our own.
Here are today’s stories. Send me yours at williamfleitch@yahoo.com.
From Stephen G:
My wife is an intensive care nurse. In her current role, she's a floater for a hospital group with four or five different locations. On her workdays, she calls at 5:30 a.m. to find out what hospital she needs to report to at 7 a.m. for her 12-hour shift. We knew early on that she'd inevitably need to directly treat Covid patients at some point, but up until Saturday, she had only been asked to work at hospitals in the group that were not treating Covid cases.
Saturday night, that changed. She received an email to let her know that on all of her scheduled days, she was now required to report to the Covid unit. From what I know, their nurses are well-equipped with personal protective equipment, so that does a little bit to ease the worry that she'll get sick. However, it's impossible to avoid the stories of nurses and doctors getting sick despite taking every precaution. I'm pretty good at telling myself that even if she gets it, and I get it, and our four-year-old gets it, we'll probably all be okay.
What worries me more is what this will be like for her emotionally. She's used to treating dying patients, so that part is not new, but this is a different scale. I don't think she's ever had to watch patients die who could have lived just because there wasn't enough medical equipment to go around. No matter what, it figures to be at least somewhat traumatic. She's a seasoned nurse, and brave as hell, but she's human.
In a weird way, I think she's kind of relieved to know that she'll be working on this unit moving forward. She'll no longer has the anxiety of wondering when she'd need to jump in. Now instead of feeling undeserving of the thanks that people have been giving her for being a front-line worker, she can just say "you're welcome."
From Nikki in Ohio:
One way I've been dealing with my anxiety in this is to try to find the unintended positives. They certainly don't outweigh the negatives, but with drastic changes in behavior there has to be some good, right?
Here's one that hit me yesterday: I can now walk and run with less fear than ever before. Like most women, it's second nature to be vigilant when exercising outdoors alone—avoiding trails near dusk or dawn, letting friends or family know my planned route in case I don't return, being constantly aware of my surroundings, including any people nearby. Subconsciously, I evaluate every person as to whether they might be a threat or not, and adjust my behavior accordingly.
I went for a run through my downtown yesterday, and it was the most joyful run I've had in years. I was three-quarters of the way through before I realized why. With so few people around, I wasn't constantly on guard for potential threats. When there were people about, my normal precautions of standing out of arms reach at a crosswalk and moving to the other side of the street were now socially acceptable. I wasn't showing fear or giving offense (and risking the yelling or anger than comes with said offense). I was just practicing the new societal norms. It was so freeing that when I arrived home I sobbed, both from the joy of the experience and the recognition of what I've been missing most of my life.
I'm going to run outside as much as I can for now. When this is over, I'll be glad for all of us, but be just a little sad about the inevitable return of that precautionary fear.
From Boswell Hutson:
I am really, really worried about the effect this pandemic will have on rural America. More terrified than I've ever been about anything ever, maybe.
Ideally, rural communities would have practiced an abundance of caution when they saw this pandemic coming. Their health systems are weak and spread out. Their populations are unhealthy and old.
But they did the opposite of that.
Instead, even this past week, we have had numerous respected public figures and officials in rural communities say what is tantamount to "well, I just don't know that the economic impact of shutting things down is worth it." We've had newspapers, which are a vital source of factual information for these communities, actively promote the flu narrative that has been proven categorically untrue by every global public health entity for weeks.
What's clear is that these communities think it can't happen to them. Whether it be due to political disposition, normalcy bias, optimism bias, or whatever, they seem to remain rooted in denial. But they can't afford to be. It's starting to hit them.
Just as an example: Douglas County (Illinois) confirmed its first case Friday. Tuscola is 35 minutes away from any hospital. Let's say it spreads as we know it does, and 10 people in Tuscola are in need of an EMT to take them to Urbana or Mattoon. How many EMTs does Tuscola have? How many hour-and-a-half round trips can they take in a row when things get tough? How long until those EMTs get sick? How will their majority-elderly population fare? How about Hardin County, in southern Illinois, whose hospital serves two counties and has one (1!) ventilator on site? Once that gets filled up, it's a 45-minute drive to Paducah or Harrisburg to find a ventilator.
Watching this pandemic reach rural areas is like watching a car crash happen in slow motion, and you're pleading with someone to get out of the way, but instead, they double down and keep arguing with you as the car gets closer and closer. No amount of legitimate fact-based risk-assessment seems to be enough. It's all so disheartening. Please keep our rural communities in your thoughts. They need it now more than ever.
Send me your stories at williamfleitch@yahoo.com. And please: Be safe, everyone.
Best,
Will