The New (Ab)Normal
Each day I wake up uncertain about reality. In the first days of full-scale Covid-19 life, the feeling upon rising was reminiscent of waking up at home during a Christmas holiday or summer vacation as a child. The lack of imminent responsibility translated into a sense of freedom. This day is mine! I get to do whatever I want! But now, as those first days turned into a week, and that first week turned into a second and a third, I feel like Pi, drifting aimlessly at sea, counting the days since the Covid shipwreck. What do I do without the usual routine? Without a clear idea of what needs to be done? I felt this way at times in the Peace Corps — days devoid of plans, blank pages waiting to be filled — but the emptiness of our time with Covid-19 is different. The current lack of structure is somehow grimmer, more restrictive. But we adapt; we are malleable. A few weeks into this, and all of a sudden it is our new normal. What was life like before? I try to remember. Here is what the new normal looks like for me.
7:45 A.M.
My phone alarm beeps. I realize that, once again, I was overly ambitious. One more snooze and I’ll be up and at ‘em.
8:30 A.M.
Three and a half snoozes later and I’m finally up. I lumber to the kitchen and clean out the remnants of yesterday’s brew, then pack a fresh cylinder into the Bialetti. I brush my teeth, drink a large swig of water, and then, like Pavlov’s dog, return to the sound of bubbling liquid atop the stove. With a mug in one hand and a notebook in the other, I lay down on the living room couch. It is this sliver of time each morning — before the day has hardened and taken shape, still pregnant with possibility — that I look forward to the most.
10:00 A.M.
I have showered and dressed and am on my way to Abigail’s apartment. The roads are nearly empty. East City park is green and full of life, wherever caution tape isn’t restricting access. I pass through downtown and the entire place is deserted. I peak through coffee shop windows, searching for movement or a flicker of life. All that remains are open chairs and pale lamplight that becomes pitiful in the way it illuminates the lack of what once was — a thriving business, someones entrepreneurial dream. Will all of the businesses that breathe life into downtown be back when this is all over? As I walk up to Abigail’s apartment, I can already smell the chocolaty goodness of cookies warming in the oven. The air in her apartment is warm, and the contrast between it and the brisk spring air outside makes my cheeks flush.
12:45 P.M.
I am texting back and forth with a friend. Maybe it is Chouaib, my Moroccan brother who tells me he has been on lockdown for the past three weeks, only going outside once to pick up food for his family. Or it is Matthew in Seattle, commiserating with me about the lack of NBA basketball and how we are resorting to games from decades past to scratch our basketball itch. Or it is Adrianna, or Brad, or Tony, any one of the people who are being forced to shelter in place given the severity of things on the east coast. I think to myself, how much more difficult would this be without technology? Without the ability to talk in real time with people all over the world? I’m thankful this isn’t the case, yet I can’t help but wonder how long it will be until I get to see my friends again.
3:05 P.M.
Face mask tied loosely around my head, fingers snug in latex gloves. A line of people down the steps off the back porch, spilling out onto the gravel below. We are filling boxes at the food bank. Abigail moves back and forth from the porch to the house turned food bank, retrieving completed food request forms that tell us what to put in each box. I watch her move — she’s almost floating — and I’m amazed by the unwavering smile on her face. The ease with which she moves makes me think about diversity of ability. The ability to move without pain, the ability to think clearly, the ability to sleep through the night, the ability to overcome crippling anxiety. I often take these for granted.
One of the women who has been volunteering here for decades shouts, “Ready!” and I scoop up boxes full of groceries and take them out back. It has only been a few weeks, but the routine and our roles along with it have solidified. There is teamwork and camaraderie that the volunteers share in their urgency to do something. They’ve been addressing food insecurity issues for years, and in a time when food access is more important than ever, they remain steadfast.
Linda, the woman who has been running the food bank since before I was born, is a force. Her voice, accented by a subtle rural twang, has the two-pronged effect of being calming and definitive. When Linda tells you that this person needs some diapers for their newborn, or that you need to pack bags with ready-to-eat food because this person is homeless, you listen. As we respond to questions about the dwindling toilet paper supply, Linda is everywhere — she restocks shelves, answers phone calls, accepts boxes of donations, coordinates pickups for the elderly — all the while chatting away with every person she comes in contact with. And that is just while the food bank is open. Throughout the week, she drives from grocery store to grocery store, loading the back of her Tacoma pickup with perfectly good products the grocery stores can’t sell because of a passed due date or a tear in the packaging. I marvel at her consistency and relentless perseverance — she was doing this long before the pandemic came, and she’ll be here long after.
6:15 P.M.
I walk around the complex of baseball and soccer fields just below my house. With me is my sister, Logan, and her dog Diego. Diego trots beside us, giving wary looks at most of the dogs that pass, sniffing the butts of the rest. I’m grateful for this time with Logan. She is seven months pregnant, and anxiety surrounding Covid-19 has hit her especially hard. Infrequent family meals and minimal interaction is a necessary precaution, but it hurts. Now, most of the time we have together is spent walking the dogs. The chilly air has returned after the annual teasing of an early spring, yet people are out in droves. The path around the fields has transformed into a highway of activity — dog-walkers, runners, bike riders (from training wheelers to cyclists), stroller pushers, side-walk-chalkers, and imaginary sword-fighters, all embracing the chance for fresh air.
I can’t help but wonder, is this virus actually going to end up making the people who don’t get sick healthier? Never in my life have I seen such a strong desire to simply be outside, to be moving. I hope this can be a silver lining. I ask my sister, has she found any silver linings? What is she grateful for? The sun is starting to set — splashes of pink and orange and even a little purple twist and curl across the sky. Logan tells me she’s grateful for her husband being home, for the free time she and her friends have to stay in touch, and for the space to be more intentional in all of her interactions, but that she’s scared for her baby. If she gets sick, will she be able to hold her newborn child? Will the rest of the family be allowed to be there with her? A jolt runs through me as I imagine what it would be like experiencing the constant fear and anxiety of bringing a baby into a world plagued by sickness and tragedy. When Logan’s baby has grown, what will his generations legacy be? I close my eyes and see the ticker toll of deaths worldwide and in America that constantly runs on CNN — American death toll nearing 25,000 — but what about the babies? Are we keeping track of births anymore?
We are nearing the end of the loop around the fields, and we pass the diamond where I played my first ever game of Little League. At this time of year there would normally be the unmistakable sounds of baseball — children chanting Hey batter batter, umpires steeee-riiiiiike!-ing, and baseballs piiiiiiinking off aluminum bats. Instead, the fields are empty. We walk on.
11:30 P.M.
I lie in bed with a Murakami novel open in my lap. Maybe it is Tuesday, or Sunday, or Thursday; I honestly don’t know, and the usual premonitory feelings I have at night in relation to what day is to follow are non-existent. Tomorrow could be Monday or Saturday, it doesn’t make a difference. One of Murakami’s sentences jumps out at me:
“Still, being able to feel pain was good, he thought. It’s when you can’t even feel pain anymore that you’re in real trouble.”
Worry abounds, more than any other time I’ve known. Yet, there is hope. For each pang of longing felt for friends and family, there is the knowledge that the pain stems from the love felt for them. There is fear of the future, yet with birth there comes new life. I try not to think about all that is happening in the world and tell myself that tomorrow will be the day I pop out of bed without hitting the snooze button, but I know that tomorrow I will probably sleep in later than I’d like and that the news will be just as disheartening as it was today. So, I read my book and accept that this is the new normal, for now at least. And I wait and I wait and I wait until everything goes back to normal, whenever that will be, and I hope that, in the mean time, I will continue to find silver linings.
