Gimme Shelter

Gimme Shelter

Ooh, a storm is threatening
My very life today
If I don’t get some shelter
Ooh yeah, I’m gonna fade away

The Rolling Stones

Shelter. It’s a safe sounding word, a comforting word, a good ending to the story word. We have all needed shelter at one time or another in life, if just to lay our head on a pillow for the night and sleep to be able to face another day. What is shelter, exactly? Well, Merriam-Webster tells us that a shelter is something that covers or affords protection, or an establishment providing food and shelter. There are shelters like lean-tos in the open forest, homeless shelters in inner city neighborhoods and animal shelters that care for strays until they might be adopted. Remember Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs? Shelter fits right into those bottom two sections of the pyramid that talk about basic needs like food, water, rest, security and safety. If you do not have these basic needs, safe shelter being one of them, then it is very difficult to focus on the more complex, higher needs like relationships and self-actualization. 

I have worked in and around shelters run by the Red Cross and other organizations in times of need, and maybe you have too. The traditional shelter layout that most of us envision is a very large, somewhat open space like a church parish hall or a gym, with room for the cots and belongings of hundreds of people who for some reason need to be there. These people are very close to each other, sleeping just a few feet apart. There is usually some kind of communal eating, with shared tables full of foodstuffs and community coffee pots. There are often common bathrooms, albeit cleaned and monitored to the extent possible. Helpers and volunteers often work in very close proximity to those in need. There were some days during my deployment for Hurricane Katrina in Mississippi and Louisiana that I would talk to literally hundreds of people a day, some for one minute, some for fifteen or thirty, depending on need. We worked, ate, comforted and rested in very close quarters. There has been the need for this type of sheltering and aid during Hurricane Laura and now during the catastrophic wildfires in California, some of the worst ever. 

Shelter has recently become a concept and an operationalized idea that is fraught with challenges. The age of the COVID-19 pandemic has turned on its head the idea of getting many dozens or even hundreds of people in the same large room, living and eating and breathing in the same vicinity, for days if not weeks at a time. This is virtually impossible. Or is that the key word? Virtual?

We have all been asked to shelter in place for varying lengths of time since the start of this pandemic. We have found ourselves staying in our homes for days, weeks, or even months at a time, with little contact with the outside world or even with others in our own extended families. We have made makeshift home offices, set up school environments for our children, ordered our groceries and meals from companies who will deliver to our door, and driven by for curbside pickup of everything from internet purchases to communion. We have found that parking by school busses that are reconfigured to be WiFi hotspots might be the most reasonable way to stay connected while still sheltering in place, that place being the family vehicle. Our concepts of normal work, education, and providing for our families have been significantly challenged, altered and modified, some perhaps for the foreseeable future. 

What is the new meaning of seeking or providing or benefitting from shelter? There are several aspects to this new pandemic-inspired concept. 

First, there will always be the physical component. The facts as we know them now mandate that we continue to exercise caution in the form of physical distancing at least six feet from others any time we are outside our safe zones, which for most of us is our own home. This physical distancing, combined with wearing face coverings, gives us the ability to essentially “shelter in place” no matter where we are, so that we can roam a little more freely to get groceries, fill up the car with gas, or make short trips as needed. 

Emotional support is going to be an ongoing need. This is hard. No question. I talk to people every day who are tired of being cooped up, tired of not seeing their loved one and friends and tired of basically being on house arrest. We are human animals, and we crave social and emotional togetherness, closeness and community. That is never going away, but it must be tempered until this pandemic goes away for good. Connectivity that leads to communication is key. As discussed before by many others, use FaceTime, Skype, messaging apps, email, phone calls and even good old fashion letter writing to keep in touch with those you care about. The need for connection does not go away just because physical distancing is necessary. 

School has been a huge issue for many families over these last many weeks. How do we go back to school? When do we go back? For how many days each week? Virtual versus hybrid versus online versus paper versus-you get the idea. Kids must be sheltered and protected even as they learn. This may be in the classroom with plexiglass and masks, or it may be at home with Chromebooks and headphones, or a combination of both. Education is paramount, but safety is on the hearts and minds of everyone who has ever taken on the wellbeing of a child as a primary responsibility. 

Daycare and the ability of parents to work is another major component of this new sheltering in place idea. Are parents able to supervise kids while still doing their own jobs at home? Must in home childcare and supervision be obtained in order for parents to go back to the office? Are kids sent back to school rooms that have been modified based on current knowledge in the hope that teachers and kids will all remain healthy? 

Almost by definition over the last six months or more, we have been physically and socially distanced, but we are still very much emotionally connected. That connection and common purpose are the only way that we will survive the stresses of the pandemic, social upheaval, climate change, and an economic downturn that has impacted so many in our country. Educate yourself. Challenge suppositions that seem spurious or nonsensical to you. Protect yourself and your family in the ways that you feel are scientifically based, logically thought out and that are in the best interest of all. 

COVIDISMS: There’s Got to Be a Morning After

Well, it’s been six months since this hell began for most of us. Life changed about mid-March. The pressures of pandemic life and racial unrest and climate change and monster storms and COVID-19 and political upheaval and all the rest of the plagues that currently beset us are almost too much to bear. Almost. But bear them we do, baring our souls when we need to, our teeth when we must and our hearts, always. As Master Yoda wisely taught us, in times like these, “No! Try not. DO or DO NOT. There is no try.”

Yesterday was the nineteenth anniversary of the brutal terrorist attacks on our country on September 11, 2001. Like many of you, I can remember the exact spot I was sitting in, the exact thing I was doing, the exact sameness of that morning, until someone told us to step into the next room. A group of caregivers, patients, doctors, counselors and family members were glued to the small television on top of the rolling cart, watching in disbelief as a plane hit the World Trade Center. A tragedy. A fluke. An accident. Until it wasn’t. Until another plane took that elegant, sweeping, graceful arc of death into the second tower in a ball of fire and melted glass and metal and a second plane full of people lost their lives in an instant. I listened to some of the phone calls from the planes and the towers last night, against my better judgment, and was absolutely devastated by the sadness, the finality and loss of it all. Lives and families shattered, a city reeling, responders who had been trained to handle anything that could ever happen, except this one thing. No one had ever used planeloads of people as weapons of war. I know that it is not good for me to watch and listen to histories of tragedies such as 9-11 after long weeks of work and stress, especially when I am home alone, but how can I not? How can we not hearken back to that time, that era, that innocence lost for us and for our children? NEVER FORGET.

Today is September 12th, and the thirty sixth birthday of a woman who I admire greatly. (Happy birthday, Greer. I love you!) My oldest daughter, who bears the Scotch feminine form of my first name as her own, has become a force to be reckoned with. (From Houseofnames.com: The old Scottish-Dalriadan name Greer is derived from the given name Gregor. The personal name Gregor, which is the Scottish form of Gregory, is derived from the Latin name “Gregorius” and from the Late Greek name “Gregorios,” which mean alert, watchful, or vigilant.) She is a daughter, a wife, a mother, a friend, a political activist, a party planner extraordinaire, a home schooler, a sister, and aunt and so many other things large and small. As I have written about before, she was performing in a production of Oklahoma! in Augusta, Georgia when 9-11 happened, and was about to celebrate her birthday with friends and family that year. I am quite sure that she has vivid memories of that year as we all do. There was a morning after for Greer, a birthday morning after, and there have been September 12ths every day since that fateful attack. Birthdays must be celebrated, even as losses must be mourned.

My wife has worked for Delta Airlines for forty years. She is very good at her job. She is a people person, remembers details that are lost on most mortals, and can anticipate things that others need before they know they need them. I know, because she does this for me at home all the time. Every time that I see she has left the coffee pot ready to brew the morning coffee for me the day after she leaves for a flight, or manages to fit one more container of that German shower gel I like into her bag on the way home from Frankfurt or fills up the fridge with just the soft drink that I have been craving this week or any number of things, I feel the love that she shows through her actions every day. She has gone back to flying after a voluntary two month furlough. Delta’s business plummeted ninety percent when this pandemic started, and some of her flights have less then three dozen people on them even now. The airline industry will survive, Delta will go on serving the transportation needs of many, but it’s going to be slow going. Some estimates say that the industry as a whole will not be anywhere near back to prepandemic levels of business for four to five years. In this time of COVID-19, political unrest, and commemorations of 9-11, do I worry about her as she flies from Atlanta to Amsterdam to Frankfurt to London to Dublin to Seoul and back again. I would obviously be a liar if I said I didn’t. We don’t dwell on it. It’s her job, it’s been her job for forty years, and she’ll keep doing it for another half dozen or so years and then retire. That is the plan. I believe in the plan. We simply cannot live our lives in fear of terrorists, viruses and world political unrest. We cannot, and we will not.

One cannot be a writer of any kind without reading.

(“Can I be blunt on this subject? If you don’t have time to read, you don’t have the time (or the tools) to write. Simple as that.”
― Stephen King, On Writing: A Memoir of the Craft)

To write, you must get out in the world and experience things that compel you to write and you must read. A lot. Widely. As I age, I find that for some reason my mind takes in the written word better in an audio format than it does by holding physical books or magazines or papers in my hands. Now, I still have stacks of books and reports and papers in every single physical space that I occupy in this life, from the living room to the bedroom to my home office upstairs to my office at the clinic. I pare these down excruciatingly slowly most of the time, and I severely chastise myself regularly for not being more diligent in doing so. Be that as it may, I have loved audiobooks since a physician colleague of mine turned me on to those long cardboard boxes of cassettes that got shipped to me regularly and that I would play in the car on my daily commutes starting back in the eighties. Now, of course, having passed through the cassette and CD phases, the industry is almost purely digital and portable and held conveniently in your phone, computer or tablet. I love this, in that I always have a book or essay or article at hand and there is little excuse for lack of time to read. What do I read? I love political books lately, given our collective angst in that sphere, as well as biographies, novels, and histories. Some of the titles I have enjoyed this year include Me, by Elton John; Leonardo da Vinci, by Walter Isaacson; A Very Stable Genius, by Philip Rucker and Carol Leonnig; You Never Forget Your First: A Biography of George Washington, by Alexis Coe; The Hardest Job in the World, by John Dickerson; Blindness, by Jose Saramago; and Front Row at the Trump Show, by Jonathan Karl. I am currently listening to The Second Mountain, by David Brooks. I also listen to podcasts, mostly on politics, but sometimes on other topics, on a daily basis. The pandemic has caused me to really sit down and evaluate how I use my time, every day, and the results have been eye opening. We waste a lot of time on things that, to use a football metaphor since it is finally fall, do not move the ball down the field. I am trying to rectify that in my own life.

It is Saturday morning as I write this, and football is starting back. I love football, but somehow this year I’m just not feeling it the same way, you know? Life is moving on, and time with it, and traditions and markers too, but things are different. Time will tell if we get back to normal, pre-pandemic normal, ever. One thing I am sure of is that life will go on. We will continue to live and love and work in some fashion, there will be babies born and some of us will die. As my wife and I have been learning by listening to The Great Influenza, by John M. Barry, things are bad now, but they could be orders of magnitude worse. All pandemics end, and the world will continue to turn.

A last thought. There were some good things about the seventies. This song was one of them that pertains to us now, more than ever.

Enjoy your weekend, and thanks as always for reading my Musings.

D Day + 1+ 51

My father died on D Day +1 + 51 years.

It was only fifty three days until he would have celebrated his sixty third birthday.

As many of you know, I have been thinking and writing about his death on and off for years, here and elsewhere. The thought that I might one day outlive my father has never been far from the front of my mind.

Well, tomorrow is the day. Today, September 2nd, is fifty three days from my sixty third birthday.

If I wake up tomorrow, as I certainly plan to do, I will have seen one more sunrise in my life than my father. I will have one more day to live, to love, to work, to play and to think about what is and what might have been, than he had.

What if today had been the last day of my life? I worked at home today seeing patients, as I have been doing for the last half year. I chatted with people by cell phone and on video calls, listening to them and trying to be helpful in the midst of the worst public heath crisis in a hundred years. I electronically prescribed medications that I sincerely hope will help alleviate suffering. I asked after one of my new employees to see how she was doing. At lunchtime I listened to a book about politics, as one does during a presidential election year. After work I took an intense forty five minute bike ride in my neighborhood and along the river with the heat index 106 degrees. I was hot, winded, and soaked at the end of it. It felt good. I felt alive. I missed my wife today, as I always do when she is away on work flights. She sent me a beautiful picture of Germany today, where the temperature and the pandemic are cooler than here in the US. I took delivery of a wonderful set of pastels that she wanted to order for her birthday, which is this Friday. (No, it is not a surprise. One of the pleasures of getting older and having most everything you need is that you can special order your gifts with no shame at all!) I smiled when I saw the box, anticipating the pure joy that these little sticks of color will give her when she holds them in her hand and applies the pigment to the special papers she will use in her art room upstairs.

Did I do enough today? Did I care enough today? Did I get outside my own head, lay aside my own anxieties and worries and needs enough to give of myself to others in a way that would have made my father proud today? Did I learn something new? Did I grow emotionally, spiritually? Did I question my own motives today, vowing to have purer ones if I am given one more tomorrow? Did I care for my physical health? Did I take care of myself in the same way that I am always asking my patients to take care of themselves?  Did I have a good day today, a day that could have been, that could be,  my last?

My wife is convinced and has ordained that I will live until I am  ninety six years old. The odds, not to mention my family genetics, do not support that wish I’m afraid, but I do love to hear her say it. I would love to live ten, twenty, even thirty more years if God grants me that special privilege. There is a lot I want to do. There is a lot I want to experience. There is a lot I want to learn.

Tomorrow, I will have lived one day longer than my father. An accomplishment? No, not at all. A gift. A true gift. A pleasure. A reminder that we are not promised one more day, but that we are allowed over and over again to take possession of that most precious of commodities and choose to use it in any way we wish. We are given the gift of time.

I will wake up tomorrow morning and rejoice in every small muscle twinge, every sleepy yawn, every hunger pang, every emotional surge, every cognitive challenge and every warm sunbeam that graces my aging face. I will rejoice in another day and the simple fact that it has been gifted to me.

Besides, what is my other option? If I die tonight and make it to heaven by morning, I would be greeted by my father, a man who preceded me in death by decades but who would be exactly my age. Somehow, I don’t think even God would find that amusing.

 

Death is nothing at all,
I have only slipped into the next room
I am I and you are you
Whatever we were to each other, that we are still.
Call me by my old familiar name,
Speak to me in the easy way which you always used
Put no difference in your tone,
Wear no forced air of solemnity or sorrow
Laugh as we always laughed at the little jokes we enjoyed together.
Play, smile, think of me, pray for me.
Let my name be ever the household world that it always was,
Let it be spoken without effect, without the trace of shadow on it.
Life means all that it ever meant.
It it the same as it ever was, there is unbroken continuity.
Why should I be out of mind because I am out of sight?
I am waiting for you, for an interval, somewhere very near,
Just around the corner.
All is well. ”

Henry Scott Holland

Things Unseen

You might have heard the stories about how and where Steve Jobs got his design sense and his obsessive attention to detail. Steve’s father Paul Jobs was a good  mechanic with (from his son’s perspective) a decent sense of design. He worked with cars, metal and wood and could build most anything his family needed. Jobs said that his father cared about how things looked, but he cared even more about how the things that were hidden from plain sight looked also. He would never put a flimsy section of plywood on the back of a fine piece of furniture. He would build the back of a fence with the same care that went into the front of that same fence. He cared about the things that were unseen.

Jobs carried that aesthetic into his own work at Apple. He would have rough seams on plastic computer cases sanded and polished. He rejected components that were not precisely made. He wanted employees to sign the inside of some of the computers they made, even though the buyers of those machines would never see the signatures. This was to get them to own and be proud of the quality of the work they were doing.

Today, many of us are working from home. We have set up office space with desks, computers, lights, printers and screens by which we can interview, assess, meet with and deliver services to our patients, customers and coworkers. We spend many hours in front of a glowing screen that is anywhere from five inches to three feet or more across. We are highly visible to the people we work for and with, except for one small detail: the part of us that is unseen.

We are working from the waist, or the mid-chest, up.

I have had several people, when finding out that I do telemedicine from home or office for ninety five per cent of my work nowadays say things like, “Cool! You can go to work in shorts or pajama bottoms or sweatpants! You don’t even have to wear shoes. You can work barefoot!” Yes, that would technically be an option I suppose. Like a television anchorman, you would know what kind of shirt I am partial to (cotton Oxford button down), what kind of ties I wear on the job (NONE!), and possibly a little bit about my taste in jewelry and watches (currently wedding band, Medical College of Georgia senior ring class of 1983, and Apple Watch Series 5 WiFi and cellular capable).

Like Steve Jobs, I believe that the things that are unseen are just as important as those that are. The rest of my working clothes get me into the right frame and state of mind to listen carefully, think clearly and act decisively. You may not see them, but I know I am wearing them everyday, and that makes me feel prepared and ready for whatever the day brings. A nice pair of year round wool slacks, a Hugo Boss or Hanks leather belt, a Bellroy wallet, nice socks from Vermont or (if I’m feeling a little more dressy some mornings) a little mill on the banks of a river in England, and one of my several pairs of Samuel Hubbard shoes. (I am often up and down and on my feet for up to eighteen hours in a day, and I have very unforgiving feet).

So, could I trudge upstairs with a nice fresh Oxford shirt over a pair of khaki shorts and flip flops? Yep, I most certainly could, and no one would ever be the wiser.

Except I don’t. I’m channeling my inner Steve Jobs.

And now, you know.

 

Rhythms

My mother buried her husband this past week, the second man she had to say a tearful goodbye to after her had endured a protracted illness. The first was my father, who passed away suddenly, almost violently, from a brain hemorrhage twenty five years ago. It got me thinking about a lot of things, as these events and times do. I began to think about them in the context of the rhythms that they settle into.

We are born into this world, we hope, the objects of joyful celebration, welcomed to the world with open arms and warm fuzzy blankets and the kootchie-cooing of adoring parents and grandparents. If we are lucky, we are loved. Undeservedly, unequivocally, unabashedly, unconditionally loved. We are cared for and nurtured. We grow and learn and succeed. One day, we head out into the world, adults who know nothing ready to control everything, only to finally realize that our true education has just begun. If we are smart and savvy, we learn even more about how things work, how to live and love in a harsh world that owes us nothing, nothing at all. We create, we procreate, we work, we amass, we collect, we build, we inhabit, we settle in for that delicious part of life which is the “we made it” part. We expect that “we made it” leads to “we earned it” leads to “we deserve it” which gradually morphs into “it will always be this way” and “no one can ever take this away from us”.  The train is heading down the track at a dizzying speed, wheels singing on rails and billows of black smoke trailing behind to darken the other fellow’s sunny skies, not ours. Not ours.

Then, a once in a century, a once in a lifetime event happens for the second, third and fourth time. The hurricane leaves nothing but concrete slab and green slime-infested pool at the edge of a sunny shore that once heard the laughter of children and now hears the wails of retirees who find that their physical address, what is left of it,  has moved over three streets. The lingering siren that warned of the monster heralds a dawn in which the rubble is piled three stories high, the muddied teddy bear and the family album strewn across a neighborhood that no longer has landmarks of any kind after the wrath of the mighty winds visited. A casket is lowered into the ground, a tiny one, and is covered with earth, covering hopes and dreams and sleepovers and play dates and senior proms and trophies that will never be displayed, all because of a stray bullet that was stopped by the innocence of a child.

We are born. We grow. We dream. We work. We love. We die.

The virus creeps in on Sandburg’s little cat feet. Yes, I can’t get that descriptor out of my mind in the past few months because it seems like everything that hits us, hurts us, kills us comes in that way nowadays, gliding on silver airplane wings to knock down buildings, hissed in a a quiet string of expletives designed to hold us down, or breathed quietly towards us, inhaled death. Quiet. Stealthy. Deadly. The rhythm of death.

I’m home. I work every day. I talk to everyone and yet touch no one, shake no hands, pat no one on the back, proffer no gifts except my words. The rhythms of this daily pandemic grind are cold and mocking. Upstairs to work. Listen to music that used to soothe but now just bores. Hear the rumble of the construction workers’ trucks and trailers heading into the area to work. FedEx truck by for the first of one, two or three routes that day, always before ten. UPS truck (What can Brown do for you?) close on his heels before noon. Construction guys to lunch, sans trailers. USPS truck chugging out and back, albeit later than usual these days. Rhythms. The daily grind of good coffee and hard work and tedium and our inexplicable complacency with mediocrity of leadership and one thousand deaths per day.

And yet, we do it.

And we do it again.

And we do it again,

until,

one day,

we understand

why.

The masks come off,

and we smile.

Covidisms: Does It Pass the Smell Test?

  • I think I have washed my hands more times in the last five months during this pandemic that I did the entire time I was in medical school, including my surgery rotations. I work most of the time in my “new” home office that is in the guest bedroom, seeing as how we have very few guests just wandering through this year looking for a place to lay their weary heads. There is of course a bathroom a few steps from my desk, so I am usually washing my hands in there at least a half dozen times a day. Now, we have various soap dispensers around the house upstairs and down. The one that I have been using most recently has the scent lemon verbena. I have never had the pleasure of washing my hands using lemon verbena scented hand soap, being a lavender/mint/rosemary kind of guy usually, so this was an eye and nose opener for me. The smell is sort of pungent, acerbic and brisk, which is not to say pleasant but not altogether unpleasant either. I just decided after a few days that if I was going to have to make my way through an entire bottle of this stuff, I might as well make the best of it. I taught myself to appreciate hand washing time in the upstairs bath with the lemon verbena, because if I could still smell the stuff, it was highly unlikely that I had caught the COVID. Instant daily testing at home!
  • Another way we take the COVID challenge a couple times a week is to ride our bicycles up what we now have affectionately dubbed “COVID Hill”, an undeveloped street that seems to go almost straight up for a quarter mile and is enough to make you wheeze and gasp for breath on even your best days. This street is so steep that we often have to zig zag all the way up to the top, instead of pulling it in a straight line. Much like lemon verbena scented hand soap, if you make it up this particular hill, ain’t no way you got the COVID.
  • I got my second pandemic haircut the other day, because I just can’t stand it when things get shaggy and unkempt. I wore my mask, sat in the car until my appointed time, went in and was taken back by Carlene, who has cut my hair for years now, and proceeded to get cleaned up. There were two other people in the shop at that time, Kim, the co-owner who had cut my hair all the way back in medical school times , and one other stylist. As I was getting clipped, I heard a loud, drawn out, almost ecstatic moan of pleasure from across the room behind us. “It feels soooooo good to take this thing off at the end of the day!” the employee said as she removed the mask she had undoubtedly been wearing her entire shift. Without missing a beat, Carlene turned towards her and replied, “Yes! Just like taking your bra off at the end of the day. I don’t know which is better!” Now, I am not usually one who is shy about throwing down and adding my own quips or jokes or whatever, but I was so stunned by this that I just sat there and smiled. I think in this day and age, that was probably the right decision and the smartest move.
  • It is close to September, which is close to October, which will be my 63rd birthday. I have almost made it. I was talking to my brother about the latest worldly stresses, and I said that if the COVID didn’t get me, I was going to live to be older than our father was when he died suddenly of a brain aneurysm at age sixty two, just a couple months shy of his 63rd. “I think about that every day”, said my brother soberly. Come to think of it, so do I. I told my wife about this little exchange at the end of a very long, very hard week, and I burst into tears. “It makes me so sad. I can’t help crying.” Being the wonderful woman and loving wife that she is, she softly said, “I love it. It makes you human.”
  • I had one other little episode the other day that was weird. My wife was gone to Europe, flying a work trip, and I was alone at home. I was watching TV, doing the usual stuff, when all of a sudden I was overcome with a brief, fleeting feeling of doom/panic/dread/fear/hopelessness/anger all rolled up into one. It lasted mere seconds, I made a little gasp, took a couple of deep breaths, and it was gone. I was fine. Has this happened to you? COVID angst I guess. It has to find a way to come out sometime, somehow.
  • Lastly, it is almost sunset at 8:15 PM as I write this. Though in some ways this has seemed like the longest summer ever on record, it is already starting to wane, and fall is coming. What will it hold? More COVID? Flu? Both. Working at home? Football or not? Will the holidays be anything like normal? Fall is my favorite season and time of year, but this one will most assuredly be different. I guess all we can do is keep working, riding bikes, having birthdays, getting our haircut, and living life as it comes to us.

Take time to stop and smell the lemon verbena. It may let you know that you don’t have the COVID.

 

 

 

When It’s My Turn to Die

To every thing, turn, turn, turn,

There is a season, turn, turn, turn,

And a time for every purpose under heaven.          The Byrds

When it’s my turn to die, come see me.

For you see, there was a good friend of mine, a teacher, a mentor, who taught me much about people and mental health. He was a hearty type, a man who walked up and down the hill to work for years. He walked and worked and worked and walked and did this summer and winter and year in and year out. He diagnosed and read and learned and treated and taught and did this for many years. We laughed and waxed poetic and drank beer and discussed the meaning of life, as young people are want to do with their mentors, and I learned much at his feet, that man. He was around. I was around. We aged. I became a teacher and healer and mentor in my own right, and he still walked the hill up and down and up and down, until the time he didn’t. He became a case study himself, one with an illness, a terrible, awful, progressive debilitating illness that took away his walking and his standing and sitting and leaning and finally his talking too. Stripped it all away. I heard about him, though he was but a few miles away from me. I wanted to go see him, I really did. Those times that we talked about theory and motivation and symptomatology and drank beer and cracked jokes and laughed came to the surface of my brain like a great whale coming up for a glorious gulp of briny air, way out to sea. I did not go see him. I could not. I was afraid. Of what? His mortality. My mortality. Death in its second most personal form, when it takes someone you know or love. Knowing that when they go and you stay, you become them. You move up the ladder toward your own demise, closer to death than birth, rolling the dice every day. No excuses. There are none that hold water. I am ashamed. But, truth. I was afraid. I will feel guilty for letting my mentor down for the rest of my life.

So, when it’s my turn to die, come see me.

 

When it’s my turn to die, tell stories.

I love stories. You know that if you know me at all. I love to read them, I love to hear them, I love to write them and I love to tell them. Stories are life. If anything is worth anything, there is a story about it that deserves to be heard. Come into the room where I am, even if it is hard for you, come into the room on Sandburg’s little cat feet if you must, find a chair, sit knee to knee with the person there with you and tell stories. I will hear you, and I will be happier as I face death. You may not know that I hear you, I may not be able to physically show you that I hear you, but trust me, I will hear you. Tell stories of naughty things done, things left undone (yes, I am likely to still be an Episcopalian at the time of my demise) triumphs, tragedies, conquests and even failures that taught you a lesson (see paragraph one, above). Let my home-going be the homecoming for your focused thoughts about your own life and times, the things that make your story yours. It would make me so happy to know that the last things I heard, even if I was too far away from this physical world that I was not entirely aware of it, were the stories that were told by my friends and family in the room where they came to see me at the last.

When it’s my turn to die, tell stories.

 

When it’s my turn to die, be pragmatic.

Look, this is it, okay? This is what’s going to take me out of this world and allow me to discover the next. I may have seen it coming, I may not have. Either way, it’s time. I’m good with that and you should be too! I have had a fabulous life. I have had wonderful relationships, I have great children and grandchildren to leave in charge of things here, I have worked at jobs and vocations that I loved, I have traveled the world, I have climbed mountains and I have cheated death. (Just not this time.) Look at me over there, across the room. I am breathing hard, but after all, if I have been lucky, I  have taken more than seven hundred million breaths in my lifetime. What are sixteen more, a hundred more, five hundred more? My poor tired heart has beaten almost three billion times. It has loved fiercely, but it is ready to rest. Mourn for me, yes, please. Shed a few tears. Tell those stories. Reminisce. Celebrate my life and how it intersected with yours. But then, please, please be kind, and let me go. It’s time.

When it’s my turn to die, be pragmatic.

 

A time to be born, a time to die
A time to plant, a time to reap
A time to kill, a time to heal
A time to laugh, a time to weep
To everything (turn, turn, turn)
There is a season (turn, turn, turn)
And a time to every purpose, under heaven.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Plandemic

Remember when you first heard about the coronavirus? Were you watching the news on television, did you read a brief article in the newspaper, or did you have something served up to you via Google News? How did you feel? Perplexed? Anxious? Indifferent? Terrified? I know, trust me, it was probably a little bit of all of that rolled into one long, gaspy, chest-tightening, lump in the throat kind of fog that you found yourself in those first confusing days of what was an epidemic growing into a worldwide pandemic. It’s only in Washington state, we thought way over here on the east coast. It’s only a few people in a nursing home. It will be treated and contained quickly, and then it will “magically disappear”. Not so, I’m afraid.  As I write this, as of nine minutes ago, there have now been almost five million cases of COVID-19 in the United States, and one hundred sixty thousand people have died of the disease.

When you knew, really knew, that this pandemic was real and that it would eventually make it to your state, county, city and neighborhood, what did you do? Not what did you feel, but what did you do? My hunch is that on some level you began to plan. Maybe not even consciously, but on some level your brain started to play out scenarios that might happen, just like moves on a chessboard on the way to checkmate. There was, very quickly, the problem of finding and wearing masks. N95s, even simple surgical masks, were like gold. My wife, just like some of you, sewed a few cloth masks from an old Oxford shirt of mine, elastic at various lengths, some too tight on my ears, others just right. Bulky, blue-striped, sweaty, but effective. This very simple thing lead to other acute decisions that needed to be made: where and how to work, the potential for layoffs, how to help the kids finish up the school year, how to make sure that the bills were going to be paid, how to keep our families and those around us safe and well. We started to plan for a crisis that we thought at first would be like any other crisis. This epidemic soon to be a pandemic would sucker punch us in the gut, we would exhale, recover, and then move past the acute trauma, getting back to our old lives by Easter, Memorial Day at the latest.

When that did not happen, our brains, which had been humming in the background, running all those potential moves, went to the next step of our response. We had to come up with a continuation of our plan A, a more detailed, longer term set of reactions and actions that would get us through what looked to be a more involved medical and social crisis than we had dealt with for a long time. Some of us were laid off. Some of our businesses closed. We could not get a haircut. We could not go to the gym. We could not have a date night at our favorite restaurant. We could not visit. We could not hug. We learned the meaning of the thirty second commute and how to Zoom and work in Teams and find hand sanitizer. We were always planning, but to what end? How long? How so? For what reason, to what end? What next? What if? So many questions.

We have continued to plan. Now, we are facing not just working from home, but the very real prospect of working from home while educating our children. Six hundred dollars may have become two hundred dollars right before our eyes. Rent and mortgage payments are due. School supplies and books and pencils and possible laptops or tablets need to be bought. The internet access in our homes is not quite good enough for this whole distance learning thing. Assess. Analyze. Plan. Act. Repeat.

Are you overwhelmed yet? I know I am some days. What do we do in this, the worst pandemic in a century? Planning is key. A few pointers.

  1. Prioritize your obligations. Some things must be done. We know that. So just like the book Eat That Frog by Brian Tracy teaches, don’t leave the most stressful, most difficult decisions and plans to last. Do them first. For example, tackle how you will get your necessary bills paid first. All else can wait, right?
  2. Take care of those who depend on you. You know how stressed you feel? Your spouse or significant other knows it too. They might even feel worse than you. The kids? They are excellent little barometers of parental stress. They know. Don’t let them get overwhelmed but let them know some of what you are planning and doing and why. Work as a team.
  3. Make time for recreation and relaxation. I know, I know, there IS none. I hear you. We’re in Plandemic mode, right? We must plan, must schedule the time to do the things that are going to get us through this alive and healthy. I have learned one very hard but very important lesson over the years: no one is going to do this for you. You plan the time, you reap the benefits. Period. Do it.
  4. Reach out and connect to others. Call, message, FaceTime, Skype, fire up Teams, write a real letter! (Yeah, it will get there. This pandemic is going to last a while.)
  5. Get the facts about the pandemic. There is a lot of information and misinformation out there. You know that too. Don’t get embroiled in the religious, the political, the factional, the sectional, the cultural spins on this whole process. Learn about the science of this virus and the disease it causes. It is real. It exists. Don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. I have had people that I knew and worked with die from this disease. It’s no joke. That said, plan for how you can best keep you and yours safe and healthy until things start to go back to some semblance of normal. How long will that take? Truly, no one knows right now.

This is not an event that requires you to take a single punch, get up off the floor, and go back to your normal pre-pandemic life. This is a Plandemic. It is going to continue to require lots of rational thought, good decision making, and plain old common sense.

We cannot plan for an endpoint. When it comes, we will have one hell of a party, but for now, we must hunker down, learn all we can, make good decisions and wait it out. Stay safe out there.

Costco-vidisms, and Other Musings

I ventured out this week to get the tires on my car rotated and balanced at our local Costco. Now, I have been working at home most of the time since mid-March, with some time doing telepsychiatry and one clinical day on Fridays at the main mental health center office in Aiken. Other than that that, I have rarely ventured out at all, even to the grocery store, as my wife is the self-proclaimed “Food Lady” and does not require much of me in that department except for the occasional breakfast omelet making or steak grilling. I parked my Mazda 3 at the tire center side of the store, walked toward the entrance, donned my mask and got out my Executive Membership card, flashing it at the store employee as I made me way inside. So far, so good. What I saw shocked me, and at first I did not know why.

I could tell almost immediately that the store was different from the last time I had visited it, months ago. To my left, the wall made of fence-like material that usually held numerous, ads, signs and bolstered the stacking of merchandise, was free of any encumbrances at all. Clear. See-through, Airy, one might say. The height of the stacked merchandise on that side of the entryway was much lower than usual. To my right, the large screen televisions were socially distanced from each other. Granted as wide as these TVs are, they could be side by side and still be six feet apart from each other. Everything looked far apart, like one of those nightmares I used to have as a kid when everything looked over-sized and huge and menacing. I walked around to the auto service area, noticing on the way over that the rows of tables and chairs usually placed between the checkout line and the food court were all gone. Completely gone. I walked up to the auto checkin-checkout station and saw the high Plexiglas barriers that surrounded the desk and cash register area, little cutouts for exchange of paperwork and cards. After dropping off my keys, I made my way further into the store, back towards the seafood and wine and rotisserie chickens.

I was struck by the amount of merchandise that was NOT in the store. Granted, there was enough of just about everything you would come to Costco to buy, but there was not the excessive, pallet-driven environment of twenty four packs of everything, large bottles and over-sized boxes that made one frantic to overbuy while at the same time calculating available storage space back home. Huge fans whirred overhead. The entire upper third to half of the store itself was empty, clear, productive of good, proper airflow and circulation. I found the few items I needed, checked out, and walked towards the food area. My beloved vanilla-acai swirl, a treat reserved for tire rotation time, was no more! I was saddened by this loss in a silly, heartfelt way. Not having a seat to sit on or table to sit at, I stupidly walked towards the cardboard box corral, looked at my watch and figured that I could stand there for the remainder of my thirty minute wait time to get my car back. Which I did.

Why did this visit to Costco unnerve me? I got what I came for. I was not disappointed in the customer service at all. It dawned on me that this was the first time that I had decided to do out and experience the “normal” retail world in some time. At home, things are now routine. I work, eat, sleep, play, rest, relax and do almost everything else there. It is safe. I am healthy there. I do not feel threatened there. My world has not significantly changed there. Out in this new world, this world of distance and less stuff and six foot markers and Plexiglas everywhere, it is decidedly not normal any longer. I came to the realization, more vividly, that it may never be again. I went back to my home, calmer, more relaxed, feeling safe, but knowing that I will have to keep venturing out into this hostile landscape that some folks tell us will potentially get much worse before it gets better.

 

We have been attending church virtually for many weeks now. The Church of the Good Shepherd has learned, as we all have, to pivot with this virus, to use time and technology and virtual everything to stay connected with its parishioners and to try to keep us connected with each other. We have enjoyed “Good Morning Good Shepherd”, followed by a worship service that was at first quite traditional in its presentation, but that is now full of video and music and readings by parishioners and lovely tours around the summertime Summerville campus. We have even started having outside baptisms again, complete with baptismal font in front of the entrance to the church, masks and appropriate distancing and hand sanitizing.

Today’s service was especially poignant. The opening hymn admonished us to fight the good fight, run the straight race, cast care aside, and know that “Christ is all in all to thee”. Wise words of counsel in these very uncertain times, but oh so hard to do without much effort these days. Robert Lowry’s “How Can I Keep From Singing?”, sung in melodious tones by alto Rebecca Brune, was lovely beyond measure. Watch and listen to another wonderful version of this song here

Thro’ all the tumult and the strife, I hear the music ringing; it finds an echo in my soul-how can I keep from singing?

No storm can shake my inmost calm while to that refuge clinging; Since Christ is Lord of heaven and earth, How can I keep from singing?

 

Sometimes we need a little perspective. Watch this video if you feel that you are being put upon, that you are too stressed, or that we are facing more than any people have ever been forced to deal with and bear. It may change your mind, or at least put you into the river of time in the appropriate way and to appropriate degree. 

We rode our bikes on the Greeneway this afternoon in an attempt to get outside and do something physically good for us, as we love to do when we can. We ride this trail at least once a week now as times permits and always enjoy it. There are walkers, dogs, bike riders, in line skaters, singles and families using this wonderful community resource. It was very hot and humid today and we struggled on the uphill/out portion of the path, pedaling hard and getting a good workout. As the turnaround was in full sun, we rode a few dozen yards back up the hill and stopped to the side of the path, thought still on it and as out of the way as we could get, to drink some water and get ready for the trip back down to the start of the ride and the car.

Two other riders, one a middle-aged man and one a young man, rode towards us soon after we had stopped. With plenty of room to pass us on the opposite side, the older man called out in what I thought was a jovial tone, “Don’t stop in the dance floor, now!” They went on their way, down the short hill to the turnaround, then he came back past us, not really acknowledging us at all. The younger man, after turning around further into the neighborhood just beyond the end of the Greeneway, came back up the hill towards us as well. On the opposite side coming towards us, a family of five was walking along the path. As they arrived beside us at almost the same time that the young man was getting ready to pass us, he had to slow and stop to allow them to walk a few more steps past us so that he could safely whizz past us himself. This might have taken ten to fifteen seconds. We turned towards him and quipped that we needed to cool down a bit more before starting back and were sorry that he had to wait a few seconds to let the family pass. In an exasperated and exaggerated gesture, he lifted his head and rolled his eyes several times, sprinting past us on his bike, not saying a word. 

Now, as far as I know, the Greeneway is a community resource that is available to all, kids, families, novices riders, older riders like us and more. There are expected rules of trail etiquette, including allowing users of all skill levels to utilize the trail, and not blocking access or ability to pass for other users. When we stopped for water, we certainly did not mean to cause any impediment in access to anyone using the trail around us this afternoon, and the family that walked past us and engaged in friendly conversation certainly understood that. The young man who so rudely rolled his eyes at us and then sped past without a work of any kind, did not. 

If you are that young man in an Andy Jordan bike shirt who was so inconvenienced this afternoon that we shaved fifteen seconds off your out and back time, I apologize. I would only ask that you remember these things:

  1. We are in a global pandemic. Everyone is stressed. Everyone needs an outlet. Ours today was riding our bikes on the Greeneway with a heat index of 105. We meant no harm to anyone as we enjoyed that activity today. 
  2. My wife and I are in our sixties. We are happy to be able to get out and physically challenge ourselves in this way for exercise. You are not in your sixties. I would ask that even when you are displeased, that you respect your elders when showing that displeasure. 
  3. Lastly, I would hope that in this time of great stress for us all that you would develop a little more patience and show grace to those who are navigating this time with you. 

 

Tomorrow is a new week. I wish for all the peace and good fortune and grace that we are all going to need continuously as we move forward through this global crisis.