Quarantine Diary
Friday March 6 — I feel achy with a sore throat. The news is filled with chatter about the fast spreading Coronavirus. I fear I have it! I call up my Doctor’s office and am told,
“A nurse will call you back to discuss your symptoms.”
My head spins slightly as I take my dog Apollo, a tousled Bichon Frise, on a late-afternoon walk. My foot gets caught in a sidewalk crack and Apollo pulls ahead. I fall flat forward crashing onto my right elbow. A fellow dog walker hears my hard thump and grabs Apollo. He asks,
“Are you okay?”
I mumble:
“Yeah, I think so…”
I roll myself onto the adjacent patch of grass and use my left arm to hoist my body up and walk Apollo home.
The nurse calls to discuss my anxious Covid-19 symptoms. My scratchy throat has subsided but then I tell her that my right arm has begun to swell. She advises:
“You need to go to Urgent Care immediately!”
My new roommate Ryan senses the severity of my condition and hauls me into his Prius. He’s a quiet polite guy who lets out steam by swearing at all the slow not so nimble drivers. X-rays are taken; I’ve fractured my elbow and need emergency surgery. While I endeavor to keep myself limber and strong by practicing yoga, the bones in my post-menopausal 67-year-old-body can be decidedly unforgiving.
Ryan drives me down the hill to the Holy Cross Hospital Emergency Room. It’s 9 PM on a Friday night and the waiting room is packed with unmasked patients who are coughing and sneezing. The room wreaks of contagion and we quietly shriek:
“Let’s get out of here!”
The next morning I return. The waiting room has emptied out and I am admitted to the hospital. I shut my eyes tight as six vials of blood are drawn. (I have been known to faint at the sight of my own blood.) My new digs become a private room in the trauma ward; hopefully far from the hospital’s Covid-19 patients! The weekend surgery schedule is booked and despite my swollen dark purple hand, my much-needed repair is put off until Monday. On Sunday, a nurse jerks me awake at 5 AM, requesting an additional vial of blood. I tell her:
“No way! I gave you all enough blood yesterday. Just let me sleep!”
Later that morning, the head nurse tries to reason with me. I continue to refuse. I tell her I’ll take the risk of having the surgery without this final blood draw.
Around 4 PM, a playful lesbian nurse enters my room. We discuss her vampire mission. As I tempt her into a detailed conversation about the finer points of lesbian sex, I surrender to her hypodermic needle! I post a photo of my sorry state on Facebook and that evening and the next morning I am visited by a sprinkling of friends willing to weather the possibility of swirling Covid infection. Tom, my on-again-off-again-boyfriend, calls and humors me with goofy jokes. His weekend is packed and he can’t peel away to visit. The next day my elbow bones are reset and held together by a titanium plate by Dr. Ramin Gangianpour, who proves to be an excellent surgeon. The incision along the back of my arm heals to near invisibility.
March 10 — I return home, ten days before California is locked down to temper the novel silent-spreading-virus. I can’t drive, can’t cook and very few friends visit. Most fear I’ve caught the virus during my three-day-hospital-stay and consider me a pariah. I poke around the fridge for items that Ryan can make into something edible. I give him a recipe for egg bites. Over the next several weeks, I quell early morning hunger by microwaving egg bites, making toast and Keurig coffee; all negotiated with my left hand. I am an eating klutz. Apollo skims the floor and sustains himself with my hefty crumbs.
The round-the-world-trip that tom and I had planned for April has to be cancelled. We were to meet in the Seychelles (a gorgeous island archipelago in the Indian Ocean), visit Doha, Qatar (in the thick of the Middle East) and then attend the Cherry Blossom Festival in Japan. I was so excited about our culture-jump-adventure! Initially, we cancel because I won’t be able to safely travel with my arm in an awkward splint cast. Not being able to swim or ride bikes would make the Seychelles visit depressing. Then, as Pandemic anxiety quashes international travel altogether, it becomes clear this trip at this time was not meant to be.
March 20 — What began as my personal lockdown because I needed to stay quiet and recover, becomes a state mandate for “Safer at Home.” The sound of traffic diminishes to a whisper, airplanes no longer fly overhead, Robocalls stop, the skies become as blue as they were when I was a child, and every evening my neighborhood fills with walkers.
“Work” is reconsidered. “Essential” businesses continue. Hardware stores, gas stations and cannabis shops are considered essential, while live music, theater, art museums, coffee houses and libraries are not. Poorly protected “Essential Workers” who drive buses, work in supermarkets and tend to the sick and dying in hospitals and nursing homes, catch the Covid in record numbers. White collar workers telecommute. Teachers lecture on Zoom. Newscasters anchor from their home offices. Celebrities offer interviews in casual clothes without makeup. I now know what the living rooms of Oprah, Phil Donahue, Brad Pitt and Gloria Steinem look like. And I’ve seen Anderson Cooper’s self-administered bad haircut.
Friends call. We compare notes. I admit to my friend Kathleen that my hair has become a rat’s nest in that I cannot reach to wash it. She rushes over. Coming from a straight-haired gene pool, my snarly curly mane is an anomaly to her. She is unable to release the knots with conditioner and offers to cut it. I am helpless and give her the go ahead. She does a great job and I thank her profusely. Afterwards I rummage in my refrigerator for Persian cucumbers, fresh dill, celery, white onion, organic mayonnaise and cold salmon. I supervise her assembly of a salad we can share.
One morning as I step out to walk Apollo, a neighbor notes I do not have a mask. She hands me two gray tinted ear-loop procedure masks and tells me to “Stay Safe.” These masks quickly become my public attire. There is much confusion about the wearing of masks. An essay written by a nurse extolling the dangers of wearing a mask goes viral. Readers are warned:
“Wearers of masks might asphyxiate from not being able to access sufficient oxygen and sicken from breathing in exhaled carbon dioxide.”
To reserve masks for essential workers, the White House Coronavirus Task Force advises everyday Americans that they do not need them. Asian countries which have weathered previous pandemics and routinely wear masks to prevent the spread of respiratory infections, fare much better. Vietnam does not suffer a single Coronavirus related death.
I guy dressed in medical scrubs posts a video about how to insure that everything that enters your home is Covid-free. It advises that mail and packages should be left outside for three days, grocery boxes should be cleaned off with Clorox-wipes and fruits and vegetables should be soaked in a bleach solution. It sounds like way too much work to me and I feel slightly guilty for not bothering. Soon enough the video is discredited and the directive about soaking fresh fruits and vegetables in bleach is named as being especially heinous in that it might well cause stomach aches!
I run out of food, make a futile attempt to secure food delivery from “Meals on Wheels” and eventually ask Ryan to take me to Super King. While reasonable patients in my condition would opt for microwaveable entrees, I use my good arm to gather fresh greens, fruit, red potatoes, and wild salmon. Masks are still optional; the checkout lines snake to the back of the store. Everyone seems to be doing a disaster shop, buying copious amounts of rice, beans and canned goods. I nab a pack of toilet paper from my cashier who has just confiscated it from a family who exceeded the purchase limit.
After nearly three hours of mixing amongst a huge swath of unmasked shoppers, I am convinced I have inhaled the virus. I listen in horror as Governor Cuomo reports on the tragic loss of lives in New York. Refrigerated trucks store the dead, patients are put into comas to receive last-resort ventilator therapy and New York’s nursing homes are becoming death mills!
April 2 — I entertain an intense addiction to Covid News. I watch the Cuomo brothers as Andrew interviews Chris who is sick with the virus in his basement. I discover Dr. Z’s potent commentaries on YouTube and become a passionate follower. Using WhatsApp, I get in touch with friends in Spain, Italy, England and India. We commiserate about our transformed worlds. I post my own analyses on Facebook which foment mean-spirited name-calling amongst several of my friends. I begin to wonder,
“How did I ever became friends with such delusional people who are so prone to weird-ass conspiracy theories and dysfunctional libertarian ideology?”
I try to “unfriend” them but to no avail. They still track my posts and spew more hate at each other. I pause and reflect:
“I don’t need to engage in these debates about the questionable effectiveness of Hydrochloroquine, the misinformation floated in the viral documentary, Plandemic, and why anti-vax ideology is so dangerous.”
I face that while my posts feature my original ideas, I am not a paid member of a think tank and I can give this provocateuring a rest. I try to seek refuge in Zoom and Webinars. My email and Facebook feed leads me to invitations to play, story and poetry readings, concerts, comedy clubs, an edgy erotic writing group in San Francisco, insider discussions on the entertainment business, a Meetup for Venture Capital Investors, and Webinars on medical applications of AI and on cyber marketing. I spend my days lurking. With the democracy of Zoom, my provocative questions often get answered. I open up a professional Zoom account, offer my Sex and Relationship clients consultations, host an impromptu Seder, moderate several discussions on the politics of Covid, and schedule my weekly women’s group.
April 6 — I am very tired of my Locked Down life. While I don’t really miss all of the parties I and my friends hosted, I face that I have never before lived a home-based-life. My house was my launching pad, but never my day-in-day-out residence. I travelled. I drove hours in traffic to hear lectures, check out exhibitions, eat in hole-in-the-wall places and meander through street fairs. Without the flurry of external distraction, an existential angst takes root. My life purpose feels up for grabs. Watching stuff on Netflix bores me. I am in tears over the pointlessness of my Cyber-Consumer-Screen Life.
April 13 — Los Angeles is expected to explode with Coronavirus infections. My throatfeels scratchy and I’m coughing a bit. I tell my other roommate Kobie that I think I’ve caught it. A friend tells me about a free testing program and Kobie and I drive over to the parking lot at Reseda Hospital. Everyone is wearing hazmat suits. We drive into a tented area, roll down our windows and get swabbed deep down into our nasal cavities. The next day Kobie calls midday to report that he’s “Negative.” I have not been called and I am fucking scared. My call comes about 6 PM. The tone sounds ominous in that I have spent the last six hours sweating bullets.
“Yes,” I reply, “I’m Leanna Wolfe.”
I am informed that I am “Negative” as well. Relief pours over of me. I have begun to read about permanent lung damage associated with even mild Covid-19 infections and I don’t want any of it.
I am still in the splint cast and whenever I am not asleep, I am supposed to be carrying my heavy right arm in a sling. I am tired of asking Ryan and Kobie to cut vegetables and to make me salads and stir fry concoctions. I start using my left hand to make sloppy quesadillas and horrible looking omelets. Out of desperation, I sneak my right hand in to cut things. Soon it grows strong enough to cut everything but carrots. I gain cooking independence, though washing dishes without drenching my cast remains impossible. Ryan obliges and washes endless cutting boards, knives, spatulas, mixing bowls, frying pans, dishes and tea cups. I almost feel guilty for being such a complicated cook.
April 20 — My awkward splint cast is removed and I start a rigorous muscle-building rehab program. Being that physical therapy clinics are closed, I order a green flex bar and several colors of flex bands from Amazon. I negotiate a masked-visit to Target to purchase a set of three-pound-weights in that shipping them would cost more than the weights themselves! Jackie, a charming Pilipino Occupational Therapist, is assigned to provide me twice weekly sessions. She stretches out my arm towards my 180 degree goal and we crack jokes. I ask her to make videos of my progress so I’ll have positive news to post on Facebook. My followers are all in agreement that I am on the mend! Soon my yoga practice incorporates my strengthened right arm as I do “down-dogs,” planks and “up-dogs.”
Just as my full cooking capacity returns, a driver shows up at my door with a delivery from EveryTable. Back when I could barely lift a spatula, I’d signed up for a city program that employs out-of-work chefs and drivers to deliver meals to seniors. I accept the food and suddenly my gastronomic world expands to include Chicken Fajita Bowls, Middle Eastern bowls with Souvlaki, Turkey Marinara Meatballs on Spaghetti Squash and fancy wraps laced with pesto. Living in the world of “Pay it forward,” when too much food arrives, I share it with Kobie and Ryan.
April 22 — I take a trip down to Venice to see Tom. I note how the once populous beach scene has become a skeleton of itself: businesses are shuttered and the homeless have claimed space. It reminds me of the Monday after Burning Man. The streets are still there, but the party is over. The visit is strained. Unbeknownst to me, Tom has adopted a “Quarantine Family,” an attractive woman and her 14-year-older daughter. I feel like an outsider. While he does ply me with some of the touch, I’d been so craving, I leave angry. I wonder,
“If I had asked to convalesce with him following the surgery, would this have not happened?”
He tries to assure me:
The “Quarantine Family” is only temporary and I will never stop loving you!”
He calls more and sends expensive flowers. Actions speak louder. I keep seething.
May 25 — A young woman in Minneapolis videotapes the suffocation death of George Floyd, a Black man accused of passing a counterfeit twenty-dollar-bill. The grueling video records white Police Officer Derek Chauvin’s relentless knee on the neck of Floyd as he pants,
“I Can’t Breathe!”
The video goes viral and riots breakout. First in Minneapolis, almost simultaneously in Atlanta and then in urban centers across the country. The riots, fueled by the vision of #BlackLivesMatter, soon inspire protest marches all over the world. The riots attract “bad-actor” white-supremacists who commit violence and destroy property to discredit the movement. Opportunists of all colors, smash store windows and loot pricey electronics and tennis shoes.
I am frozen at home. For several days, helicopters fly overhead and sirens blare as my own community of Van Nuys is looted following a protest march. I don’t join the demonstrators. My friends don’t either. We’re seniors and vulnerable to the silent-spreading virus. Overnight, dramatic reforms are proposed and the national conversation shifts to the insidious racial divide.
I listen to a YouTube posting by Candace Owens, an articulate, conservative, young Black woman. As I listen to her disclose that George Floyd was high on drugs at the time of his arrest and had an extensive criminal record, my head spins. I share her video privately with a couple of close friends. Am I a knee-jerk white progressive? I shift my news diet from CNN and MSNBC to brief forays into Fox News. I make note of how left-leaning and anti-Trump my news sources have been.
June 5 — My friend Mary, a Republican, brings over two kittens who I name Lola and Max. She’s been posting cute videos of the litter on Facebook. Despite that I have Apollo (who is 8-years-old) and Echo, a lovely12-year-old Russian Blue cat, I excitedly offer these two munchkins a home. They become the perfect antidote to my Locked-Down Politically-Confused Existence. I revel in their efforts to make sense of gravity and the immense pleasure they derive from chasing tin foil balls. Ryan and Kobie fall in love with them as well.
I encourage my friend Elayne to adopt Marley, one of their littermates. Mary, Elayne and I create a texting group to share photos of our kittens. I am a laissez-fair kitten mother who soon allows her brood full access to all corners of the house. Meanwhile, Mary (who kept two of the litter for herself) and Elayne extoll the values of spray bottle discipline. Elayne wants her kitty to snuggle with her while she watches escapist film noir while I revel in delight as Max swats at Trump’s televised address to a two-thirds- empty auditorium in Tulsa. One afternoon, I organize a politics-free Zoom so the three of us can share the antics of our kittens in real time.
June 16 — I grow increasingly tired of my Zoom life. I want touch and taste and sensation. The only thing fun about my screen life is when my kittens pounce on my computer and play with my touch screen. I am tired of lurking in meetups and webinars. I want to feel potent and alive. I throw my creative energy into creating a PowerPoint Slideshow with video inserts of my and Tom’s fall trip through Central Mexico. I fantasize about sharing it with friends via Zoom. Sadly, Zoom doesn’t have the bandwidth to project screen-shared videos in real time. I become extremely depressed.
A friend invites me to join Mitchum’s Kitchen, a food-photo-sharing-group on Facebook. The group becomes my incentive to make my solo cooking efforts attractive as I post photos of my spinach-cheese-egg bites, a croissant over-stuffed with my salmon salad, huevos rancheros with green salsa, and curried chicken salad with apples, walnuts and raisins. I invite my sister Roselyn to join the group as well; she becomes an enthusiastic participant with her spectacular looking dishes inspired by trendy chefs like Yotam Ottolenghi.
Tom reports that he and his “Quarantine-wife” have been fighting and he is looking for an apartment for her and her daughter. I feel slightly optimistic. Then he admits to seeing yet another woman whose Malibu house is cleaner than mine and who has a great circle of friends. I tell him it’s over. But we keep up the texting and phone calls.
June 20 — More of lock-down-fatigued Los Angeles begins to open up. First it’s curb-side no-contact shopping and the swapping of “tele-health” doctor’s visits for in-person ones. Eventually gyms, hair salons and restaurants with masked servers and socially distanced diners open, too.
With the invincibility of not personally knowing anyone with the Covid, I gingerly visit with friends. It begins with my next door neighbor who invites me to swim in her pool. Then my friend Diane who has a saltwater pool where I can swim naked and then Val who heats her pool to 89 degrees and encourages naked swimming. Then my step-daughter and her family visit my exe on a cross-country road trip and I stop by for a socially-distanced patio dinner. A guy friend, who has a crush on me, but who I’m not attracted to, offers to take me and Apollo on a couple of hikes. Following a Zoom dinner where they eat delicious food and I pick at leftovers, my friends Robert and Daniel, let down their guard and agree to meet for dinner at a mall where there’s outdoor tables and no other diners in sight.
June 27 — Lucy Jones, California’s pre-eminent seismologist who has devoted her career to explaining scientific concepts to lay audiences proposes in an LA Times Interview:
“Sharing Air is the biggest culprit.”
The outdoor protestors do not appear to have shared the virus while those going to crowded bars in quick-opening states like Florida and Arizona witness skyrocketing infection rates. Our nation seems completely at a loss for taming the virus as our daily infection rate reaches 40,000. The idea of “wearing a mask to protect others” (from potentially hazardous droplets) does not bode well for our narcissistic culture. While coughing remains a sure-indicator of illness, the dangers of sharing air in a closed space do not permeate popular consciousness. House parties are named as a major source of viral spreading as Dr. Anthony Fauci, of the White House Coronavirus Taskforce, forecasts an infection rate of 100,000 new cases a day as masks are forsaken and socializing continues.
July 3 — Several days ago my throat felt scratchy and I looked into getting a new Covid test. All the nearby testing sites were booked for the week. As the scratchiness subsided, I faced that I have not shared indoor air with strangers who were not wearing masks…and that it’s quite likely I am still Covid-free.
Tom texts some more. I text him back. He hasn’t given up and apparently I haven’t either. And the Seychelles are now one of the very few international destinations that are welcoming American travelers…
