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.

Resilience in the Time of COVID-19

I first published these thoughts on 9-11-09. I thought I would share them with you again today in 2020 in a different context that is no less serious, traumatic and important to us and our mental health as Americans. In the first iteration of this column, I reflected on the tragedy of September 11th and how it had affected all of us. In 2001, we suddenly lost our sense of safety on our own soil. We lost two thousand nine hundred seventy seven American lives. My oldest daughter and namesake, now a young woman with five children of her own, rehearsing to perform in a show that did go on in spite of the hate extended to us by our attackers, was to turn seventeen years old the day after the attacks. It was a time of fear, grief, and pain, but also a time that saw Americans rally around and support each other in ways that we are still struggling to regain today.

It was a Tuesday in 2001, late summer/early fall in South Carolina. Bright blue sky, wonderful smells in the air, and just a hint of the changing season. Enough to make you wish for pumpkins and turkey and pan dressing and kicking piles of leaves and smelling smoke. Enough of all this to make you feel safe, free, and wonderful. Enough to make you proud to be an American. This time around, it was early spring of 2020, March, more bright blue skies and warming temperatures and the hope that this season always brings.

I was working in the mental health center that Tuesday morning, doing what I have now done every Tuesday morning for over twenty-nine years. I was talking to people with psychiatric illnesses, some of whom had been hospitalized against their will for reasons of dangerousness or potential for self-harm. In other words, my job that morning involved making sure that the most vulnerable among us were given a fair shake by the mental health system and the court system, and that if they had improved sufficiently, that they would be released from the hospital that day. How American, yes? In 2020, I was working a normal week, using my office in the mental health center to welcome patients, read emails, enjoy my coffee, all the normal things that I had been doing in that very space for years.

After the second interview, if memory still serves, a staffer ran into the room and told us that the patients and hospital staff waiting their turns to see us in the adjoining room were all glued to the television. It seemed that a small plane had just had a terrible accident, crashing into one of the World Trade Center towers in New York City. How terrible and sad, we all thought vaguely, going on about our work for the next few minutes, not thinking more about it at least at that instant. In 2020, we got wind of a viral illness that had originated in China, but that now appeared to be spreading to other countries. We learned that we had a small outbreak of illness caused by this novel coronavirus, way out on the west coast in Washington state, affecting a handful of people. How sad, we thought, not having any idea what was about to happen to us.

Soon, that same staff member came back with astonishing news. It seemed that the plane that had hit one of the twin towers was a much larger plane, maybe even a jet airliner. No, we all thought, at least to ourselves, how could that happen? Huge planes don’t just lose control and crash into skyscrapers. It just doesn’t happen. We soon went from fifteen cases that we were told would go away to dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of cases of the illness that were caused by this new virus, now called COVID-19.

The next few moments, really the next few hours, changed all of our lives forever. When we understood what was happening, as the first tower smoked and burned and helicopters began to buzz as did television commentators, we stood riveted to the floor, all of us standing up, restless and vaguely afraid but not knowing what we were afraid of, not knowing whether we should just go on about our days or wait to see if we were going to get new marching orders. Do we rush out and buy supplies, do we wash our hands, do we wear masks, do we stay at home? The crash of the second plane into the second tower, with the graphic video footage that almost all Americans have seen, was surreal. We were being attacked. The United States was being attacked. The coronavirus began its relentless march across our nation. We were again being attacked by something that we did not fully understand, to an extent that would only become clear later. I have always loved history. I thought to myself, if there had been the real time coverage we have now in 1941, this is what Americans would have felt like as Japanese planes bombed Pearl Harbor. Just like the Gulf War and other incidents in recent years, we were all witnessing history being made, terrible history that would affect everything from how we traveled to how we looked at neighbors who didn’t quite look like “us” any more. This time, we would shelter in place for many weeks, rarely venture out from our safe zones and fear even those who did look exactly like us.

We went through the rest of the morning in a fog. All of us wanted to make sure our families were safe. As crazy as it feels today, I believe that we all thought that attacks could happen anywhere the rest of that day, even in South Carolina. We made plans to attend church services that night, most of which had been cobbled together as prayer services for the victims as well as for the safety of all of us who remained in America that night, shocked, afraid and angry. My family did something else that a lot of other families did. We met for a meal of comfort food, harkening back to that age-old tradition of gathering around a table and breaking bread together, offering solace and strength to each other. In 2020, we gradually began to understand that these ways of comforting and supporting each other were potentially deadly.

One of the most symbolic things we did as the next few days and the real tragedy of it all became so apparent was to display American flags everywhere. We put them on our cars, on our office doors, on our windshields. Today, we wear masks, gloves and protect ourselves and those around us by these outward signs of the current pandemic. We follow arrows on the floor of supermarkets and stand six feet apart in checkout lines.

In 2001, we remembered that tragic day, September 11th, when so many innocent Americans died. We remembered and honored a new crop of American heroes who rose to the occasion in service to their country. We remembered when the American spirit, so often dampened, burned brightly at ground zero in New York City through dark days and even darker nights of digging, searching, rescuing, and recovering. We remembered the fear, the anxiety, the terror, the anger and the relief when we knew that the worst of the initial attacks was over, though the aftermath was just beginning.

In 2020, we remember the day we heard that the virus was coming for us. We honor those men and women who have worked tirelessly on the front lines, caring for the sick and the dying, exposing themselves to the risk of illness and death. We see the American spirit around the country in the nightly banging of pots and pans and ringing of bells that acknowledge healthcare workers. We once again deal with the fear, anxiety, terror, anger, grief and loss that have accompanied the first wave of this pandemic, even as we know that the second wave, the aftermath, may be coming again.

We remembered. We honored. We grieved. We remember. We honor. We grieve.

In 2001, we were not just fighting a war on terror. We were all struggling and fighting to regain a lost sense of humanity and brotherhood and common cause. We were fighting to be a global people who could live together and celebrate our differences as well as our commonalities. We were fighting not to be isolative and separate and exclusive in the global sense, for if we did so, we would all surely die one day, all of us the world over.

Today, we fight not just a war against the invisible enemy that is COVID-19, but against another assault on our humanity, our global brotherhood and our ability to support our survival. We once again see the stark contrast between our differences and our similarities, knowing that attention only to the former will kill us, and nurturing the latter will ensure our continued residence on Earth. We are learning that to live, to defeat this enemy that does not discriminate in its desire to infect and kill us, we must separate from each other. In separating, we bind ourselves tightly together to insure that all get the best chance at life.

I will ask that you take some time to reflect today. Take some time not to grieve just the losses we have endured due to COVID-19, but to consider the loss to humanity as a whole. As I write this, 7.7 million people around the world have been infected with the coronavirus. Four hundred thirty thousand have died. When many of us die, each of us dies just a little right along with them. Be vigilant. Be resilient. Do what you can, where you are, with what you have. Get help for physical symptoms, emotional trauma, sadness and grief. Be strong. Just like September 11th, this is a watershed moment not just for the United States, but for the world. We will survive it, and we will be the stronger for it.

“9-11. What is Your Emergency?”

Image

I first published this blog entry on 9-11-09. I thought I would share it again today, on the twelfth anniversary of the attacks on our soil on September, 11, 2001.

I don’t think it’s appropriate to extend the traditional holiday greeting to you, as in “Happy Patriot Day”, but the day cannot pass without us all thinking very hard about what we lost as a nation that bright blue September day twelve years ago. We lost our sense of safety on our own soil. We lost many, many American lives.

My daughter, rehearsing to perform in a show, one that did go on in spite of the hate extended to us by our attackers, was to turn seventeen years old the day after the attacks. She will be twenty nine years old this Thursday. The world she has grown up in is a different place than it was for us as we became adults. It was a time of fear, grief, and pain, but also a time that saw Americans rally around and support each other in ways that we are still struggling to regain today. I offer this to you to document my memories of that clear day in September and to honor those who died. I never cease to wonder at how much we all suffered that day, how we comforted each other, and how much of ourselves we lost forever. 

 

 

It was a Tuesday, of course, late summer/early fall in South Carolina. Bright blue sky, wonderful smells in the air, and just a hint of the changing season. Enough to make you wish for pumpkins and turkey and pan dressing and kicking piles of leaves and smelling smoke. Enough of all this to make you feel safe, free, and wonderful. Enough to make you proud to be an American.

I was working in the mental health center that Tuesday morning, doing what I had done every Tuesday morning for over ten years. I was talking to people with psychiatric illnesses who had been hospitalized against their will for reasons of dangerousness or potential for self harm. In other words, my job that morning involved making sure that the most vulnerable among us were given a fair shake by the mental health system and the court system, and that if they had improved sufficiently, that they would be released from the hospital that day. How American, yes?

After the second interview or so, if memory serves, a staffer ran into the room and told us that the patients and hospital staff waiting their turns to see us in the adjoining room were all glued to the television. It seemed that a small plane had just had a terrible accident, crashing into one of the World Trade Center towers in New York City. How terrible and sad, we all thought vaguely, going on about our work for the next few minutes, not thinking more about it at least at that instant. Soon, that same staff member came back with astonishing news. It seemed that the plane that had hit one of the twin towers was a much larger plane, maybe even a jet airliner. No, we all thought, at least to ourselves, how could that happen? Huge planes don’t just lose control and crash into skyscrapers. It just doesn’t happen.

The next few moments, really the next few hours, changed all of our lives forever. When we understood what was happening, as the first tower smoked and burned and helicopters began to buzz as did television commentators, we stood riveted to the floor, all of us standing up, restless and vaguely afraid but not knowing what we were afraid of, not knowing whether we should just go on about our days or wait to see if we were going to get new marching orders. The crash of the second plane into the second tower, with the graphic video footage that almost all Americans have seen by now, was surreal.

We were being attacked.

The United States was being attacked.

I have always loved history, and I thought to myself, if there had been the real time coverage we have now in 1941, this is what Americans would have felt like as Japanese planes bombed Pearl Harbor. Just like the Gulf War and other incidents in recent years, we were all witnessing history being made, terrible history that would affect everything from how we traveled to how we looked at neighbors who didn’t quite look like “us” any more.

I think we went through the rest of the morning in a fog. All of us wanted to make sure our families were safe. As crazy as it feels today, I believe that we all thought that attacks could happen anywhere the rest of that day, even in South Carolina. We made plans to attend church services that night, most of which had been cobbled together as prayer services for the victims as well as for the safety of all of us who remained in America that night, shocked, afraid and angry. My family did something else that a lot of other families did. We met for a meal of comfort food, hearkening back to that age-old tradition of gathering around a table and breaking bread together, offering solace and strength to each other.

One of the most symbolic things we did as the next few days and the real tragedy of it all became so apparent was to display American flags everywhere. We put them on our cars, on our office doors, on our windshields. At our family home, we just happened to have a very large American flag that had been flown over the US Capitol at the request of our congressman. We had never displayed it. I found a few of the biggest, strongest nails I could find, attached them to the front of our house, and hung the flag proudly so that it covered most of the front porch and acted as an impromptu curtain and afternoon sun shade for the living room’s French door windows. That huge flag stayed there, proudly displayed, for a very long time. It has long since been replaced by a smaller version that hangs from a more traditional mounting on a porch column, but there was rarely a day that Old Glory did not fly at our house in the months after the attacks.

Today, we remember that tragic day, 9-11-01, when so many innocent Americans died. We remember and honor a new crop of American heroes who rose to the occasion in service to their country. We remember when the American spirit, so often dampened of late, burned brightly at ground zero in New York City through dark days and even darker nights of digging, searching, rescuing, and recovering. We remember the fear, the anxiety, the terror, the anger and the relief when we knew that the worst of the initial attacks was over, though the aftermath was just beginning.

We remember.

We honor.

We grieve.

Oh, how we still grieve.

We are not fighting a war on terror. We are all struggling and fighting to regain a lost sense of humanity and brotherhood and common cause. We are fighting, or we should be, to be a global people who can live together and celebrate our differences as well as our commonalities. We are fighting not to be isolative and separate and exclusive, for if we do so, we shall all surely die one day, all of us the world over.

 

 

The flags outside state offices will be flying at half staff today, as will thousands of others across the country.

No, I will not wish you a Happy Patriot Day.

I will instead ask that you take some time to reflect today.

Take some time not to grieve the loss purposefully inflicted on the United States that clear September day, but to consider the loss to humanity as a whole.

When many of us die, each of us dies just a little right along with them.

It’s time to stop the killing.