Viralry: Diary in the time of Virus

These are getting harder and harder to write. What is there to say?  A friend texted me a meme today that said, "Nothing happened. And then I was tired." That about sums it.  I told my neighbor about my husband’s test results. She said, “Well, that’s bad news, because now you can still get it!” I said, “Wow. Thanks!” Then I got in my car and went to Target, Trader Joes, four liquor stores and a Walgreens. Kidding. My husband was working from home in the bedroom for a while, but now he has moved to the dining room table. It’s been ok. We all have headphones. And if he’s not on a call, I can sit across from him and read or crochet, or bang on my laptop too. It’s kind of nice—this quiet togetherness. We went for a walk today: a one-mile loop around the neighborhood. It was the most steps he’s taken in three weeks. We might start going around twice, if the sun ever comes out.  

The dishwasher stopped working, but I fixed it. That was the extent of today’s excitement. I am great with plumbing. I repair running toilets, leaky faucets, plugged-up drains, dishwashers with error messages. My husband and I have an unspoken agreement: water-related and I fix it; electrical and he fixes it. Plumbing makes sense to me, but electricity is like magic—a helpful ghost that powers my coffee maker. I do not understand its ways. Under the electrical heading falls all technology, too. I have put in way too many frantic calls to “tech support” while my husband is at work.  “Honey! There’s no internet!” or “Lover! The TV! It is not doing what I want it to be doing!” I go through all the reboot steps before I call. When it still doesn’t work, I get pissed. Again, I sound like my father, complete with the cursing, “All I want to fucking do is watch a goddamn tv show! Jesus Christ!” My father believed in a vengeful god, and that god was called the Get Goldman Office. Whe

               My husband has taken free range of the house again. He said, “I’m feeling much better!” as he stifled a cough, and then another. But he looks better. His color is up.               Yesterday, he stripped the sheets off the bed and I ran them through the sanitize cycle. We made the bed. We slept in it, or tried to. He woke me up in the middle of the night, taking a walk-about, with the lights on, to check on the cat. When he came back to bed, he put a wall of pillows between us, defeating the purpose of my being there, I felt. And in the morning, he complained, saying I am loud when I sleep. Loud, like Darth Vader. Perhaps we rejoined each other too soon. Or perhaps we were away from each other for too long.               Last night, before bed, he got himself an ice cream out of the freezer--one of those Drumsticks with nuts. He left the wrapper dripping on the counter, and a trail of nuts on the floor. I swear to god, it was easier when he just stayed upstairs an

Rough morning: Attempted to get groceries. As I walked down my driveway, my neighbor hollered at me from across the street, “Where are you going?!” I said, “To get food. For my family.” She huffed, “You go out a lot!” I said, “I tried to get delivery. I keep trying. What would you like me to do?” She bellowed, “Every time you go out, you’re spreading it!” I said, “What would you like me to do?” We are a family of vegetarians. I have a teenage boy. He will eat an entire pint of blueberries in one sitting. I have a guinea pig who eats a whole head of lettuce by herself. In two days, we’re out of tomatoes. And you already know all about the bananas. We burn through food, even with stocking up and planning. And then there’s that rub: Buy too much and you’re a hoarder; don’t buy enough, you have to go out again. I feel I can do nothing right. My neighbor scowled at me. I am entirely sure she would have been an informant in another time.   She barked, “You go out too much!”

              I hear the mail truck idling outside. I used to send and receive a lot of letters: nearly 500 in and 500 out over the past two and half years. I have pen-pals and participate in mail-art swaps. I have friends who send me postcards and presents out of the blue. Some people I correspond with almost weekly. Seeing Tracy’s decorated envelopes, or Vanessa’s curly script, or Abe’s tiny fine-point print, or Richard’s beautiful fountain pen penmanship, and the creative efforts of countless others always cheers me. The sound of the mail truck used to be a happy sound: what goodies arrived for me today!               But now? Nobody is mailing anything. Via email, I have “full-disclosure-d” the situation here to all of my on-paper friends, and until my husband gets a negative test result, (or until the world gets normal again—whichever comes first,) not many people want to take a chance on a germy letter from me. I totally get it. Two months ago, I received a letter swap from S

                 I think I’m going on a news and Facebook fast. I do this sort of thing all the time: I try 30 days with no gluten; I abandon TV for a season; I’ll turn off my cell phone for a week. I even gave up coffee, for a time. I am a cold-turkey kind of person: once I decide not do something, I won’t do it. I excel at deprivation. I behave. That is, until I feel like I’ve proven the point enough, or get bored and need a new fix. Quitting is my high. I wish I had the other side of that coin, for I am terrible at keeping up streaks, at the doing. Those 100-day challenges to exercise or make something every day? Forget it. Day 3 and I’m out. I can’t even manage to take a daily vitamin. This Viralry is the longest streak I’ve ever had.               So, I think an information fast is in order. Unless it’s “Yay! We’re all cured!” or “Boo! We’re all gonna die!” I don’t need to know. We’re somewhere in the middle at the moment, and will likely stay in the gray for a while. There’s n

              Today my husband came downstairs for the first time in twelve days. He stood in the dining room, looked around, completely bewildered, and said, “Juice?” I said, “On it. But you have to get out of here.” He ambled back upstairs. I think he’s losing his mind. If only he would stop coughing. Then I would at least let him watch TV with me in the living room. Someone he works with got tested and has been waiting NINE DAYS (and counting) for their results.               Talked to MIL again. On our morning phone call, she said, “I’m going to Publix tomorrow. That’s the plan. But I am NOT going during senior hours! What a zoo! A line out the door! Plus, those people! They’re slow! And they drop things and can’t bend over to pick them up! They take forever! And they park their carts across the aisle and stand there and chat! No! Not for me! I’m going at the regular time!”               I love how she says “those people” as if, at 80, she sees herself as a much younger girl

               7:20am: I woke up grinding my teeth and sweaty from strange dreams and the cat on my chest.               8:00am: My phone alarm thankfully reminds me it’s Garbage Day. I drag out one can, half-full. Decreased consumerism.               8:30am: My son, Zach, asks if he can borrow one of my books. He holds up Ayn Rand’s “The Fountainhead”. I say, “Dude, knock yourself out!” I look for “Atlas Shrugged”, which I thought he might like better, but can’t find it.               9:15am: Get a text from my friend Mandy, “Talkies?” I grab my coffee and a blanket and sit in my car so we can chat/vent. I find it funny that the only privacy I get now is when I leave the house. We had a long catch up till I ran out of coffee and got too cold.               10:00am: I bring Brian a coffee and a yogurt; and a banana even though he didn’t ask for one. There are three left, turning very brown on the counter. I think of Goldilocks: These bananas are too many. These bananas are t

While many people are experiencing heightened anxiety, I am experiencing less. For the foreseeable future, I no longer have to endure many of the situations that used to cause me stress: Turning left on busy roads; driving at night; driving in the rain;  going to Wal-Mart; crowds; making sure my son gets to his rehearsals and lessons on time; making sure I remember to pick up my son from those places; wondering when my husband will get home from work; being jealous that he spends more time with “work-wife” than he does with me; being alone too much, wondering what I’m supposed to be doing with my life; Huzzah! I don’t have to look for a job!            All of my general anxiety feelings--and the occasional terror-sweats, panting and heart palpitations--have vanished. I honestly don’t remember a time when I’ve been more relaxed. My husband’s quarantine hasn’t been *fun*, but aside from worrying about microbes and the banana supply, I have it pretty easy these days.            Now

              Today is my mother-in-law’s birthday. She is alone in Florida. Her husband died four weeks ago. She has been busy throwing out his things. While it’s sad for her, it’s also empowering. There are things he kept which drove her crazy: a giant box of rusty nails; souvenir baseball caps from every place he’d ever been; papers—some important, most not. Out they all go. “I got space in the garage now!” she crowed, thrilled. She likes things organized. She gave most of her husband’s clothes to the man who cleans her pool. He was so appreciative, my MIL said, they both stood at the edge of the pool crying.               She has been spending time in her garden. She picked up ten bags of mulch at Lowes. “It took me two trips, but I did it.” She’s 80. (Meanwhile, I struggle getting 5lbs of flour in my grocery cart.) When she comes to visit us, she gardens in our garden. No one can dig a hole like my mother-in-law. Once she saw my wimpy arms lifting an inch of dirt with the spad

              I’m not really showering, not really sleeping, not really eating. These are all the symptoms of depression, but I don’t feel depressed. I feel that stretched out sense of time we’ve all been writing about. I stay up late without even realizing it. I have no concept of how long it has been since something occurred. I don’t mean for it to be 12 hours between meals—the hours just go slippery. I don’t mean for it to be three days since I washed my hair—the days just ooze.   All the usual markers are gone. I realize now how much I did because I was going to be seeing other people: Can’t go out looking like that. I don’t care if my hair is rumpled and I’ve worn the same tank top two days in a row, but I don’t want other people to think I don’t have my shit together.               I’ve been spending a lot of time coloring. Not “adult” coloring--which is a term I dislike--which makes me think of people doing untoward things with crayons--but just regular coloring. Not migra

              For someone who hates to cook, who would happily live on chips and coffee, it’s odd that so much of my day-to-day revolves around food: getting it, making it, cleaning up after it. It’s my albatross. When I get yelled at for running out of bananas or I find my son eating his cereal dry because there’s no milk, or at dinnertime when all the expectant eyes are on me, (even the cat and guinea pig give me baleful stares), I find myself feeling like some sort of failure on one hand, while feeling enraged on the other. I feed myself! Why can’t they?! Why is it always me?! I don’t see anyone else offering to make me a salad, or pick up bananas on their way home from work. I don’t eat bananas, yet I’m the one who has to make sure we have them. ( I am really hung up on the whole banana thing, apparently. It’s funny the things that sting. Ten years post-virus, is this what I’ll remember? The bananas?)   I don’t see anyone else offering to menu plan or chop a damn vegetable. And n

              Meals have gone haywire: my son and I have fend-for-yourself-breakfast. My husband gets coffee delivered on a tray. Lunch has moved to 3pm: takeout or left-over takeout, or wilted salad or Top Ramen. (—If there is Top Ramen, is there Bottom Ramen? That’s what it feels like we’re eating.) Dinner has all but disappeared. I think my son is living on fancy Swedish chocolate bars that he has hidden on top of the fridge.               I have never enjoyed cooking, and feel even less inclined to do it now. I only make dinner so the three of us can sit down and be together as a family. Since we can’t be together, what’s the point?   My son and I sit in front of the TV at 7pm. He’ll eat an entire box of Triscuits. I have lost my appetite. My husband texts me from upstairs, “When do the animals get fed in the zoo?” Poor thing. Forgotten up there.               My groceries will hopefully be delivered between 2 and 4pm, but I forgot to order bananas, butter, bagels, bread—as

             My husband came down with a 102-degree fever and a cough.   The minute that thermometer left his mouth, I left the room and haven’t been back since. He has been quarantined for five days. Aside from a few business trips that kept us apart, this is the longest we’ve gone without  touching each other since we met.               Now that we can’t be in the same room, I am so aware of how physical we are with each other; how much that makes us feel loved.               He always likes to intertwine our hands, but his fingers are so bony it hurts, so I curl my fist inside his palm—our bizarre way of holding hands. We give each other friendly shoves to see who can get in the house first.   We sit on the couch: our thighs touching, or his feet on my lap, or his arm around me, or my head on his shoulder. He hooks a finger in my belt loop when I try to stand up, and pulls me back down to kiss me. I drape myself around him while he pays the bills on his laptop. He comes up beh