until this...until now

Today was pretty much a perfect day for me. I woke up early this morning, ate a light breakfast, meditated longer than usual, and took my usual almost-daily five-mile walk in the brilliant sunshine, under a cloudless sky, while listening to beautiful music. Summer delighted me with birdsong, and treated me to vibrant shades of translucent green. No one else was out.

It would have been totally perfect except for one problem. The rest of the world is suffering. The majority if humankind is either sick, worried they will get sick, or grieving the loss of a loved one who has been sick. People are scared. Angry. Broken.

It is June here in Pennsylvania. The year is 2020. It will go down in history as the year that hosted a worldwide pandemic no one saw coming, and no one knows how to navigate. More than ten million people have already tested positive for infection with the novel SARS virus, Covid-19, that has already left over 500,000 of them dead. There is no known cure for Covid-19, and no vaccine against it, so we are left to observe rituals we can only hope will contain its spread. We have been told to stay in our homes except to get food and medicine. We're required to wear face masks whenever we go out, to keep our distance from other human beings, and to wash our hands long, hard, and often.

The Covid-19 pandemic has touched us in ways we couldn't have imagined just a few months ago. From disbelief to fear, from exhaustion to illness, from confusion to grief to anger to despair, it has invaded every aspect of our lives. We weren't prepared for schools and businesses to close. We never thought we'd have to worry about running out of food and supplies. We believed our health care system was infallible. We thought we were pretty safe.

Until this. Until now.

Back in March, I celebrated the Ides by closing my door to the rest of the world. I'd forgotten that this was the day Shakespeare dispatched the soothsayer to warn Julius Caesar his life was in danger, and he should stay at home. Still, I sensed a great looming danger on the horizon. It sounded like good advice.

I surrendered my seat for the symphony that night just to be on the safe side. I figured out how to order groceries on-line, and have them delivered to my front porch so I didn't have to venture out for food. I cancelled a dinner date with a friend, and I arranged to ship the presents I'd wrapped for my grandson because I knew I was going to miss his birthday party as he turned five. I withdrew my registration for a writing conference I have attended every summer for the past four years. All the things I had planned in advance, and looked forward to with eager anticipation.

Until this. Until now.

Nevertheless, not much else has changed for me over the past few months. I retired a couple of years ago, and I live alone now, so I'm accustomed to social distancing. I appreciate solitude, so isolation doesn't worry me. I've managed to tackle a few jobs around the house that needed attention. I'm reading through a stack of books that has been collecting dust in the back of my closet for years. I'm learning to meditate. Trying to write. Doing what introverts and loners do best, living quietly and peacefully. Enjoying solitude, embracing uncertainty, and holding onto hope.

Which, I've always believed, is how healing begins. By holding onto hope.

Until this. Until now.

Hope has taken on new meaning for me. I had hoped to join the army of brave, dedicated doctors and nurses who are out there on the front lines in the battle against this unseen enemy. I had hoped to do my part because I'm a physician, meaning I am fully qualified and capable of pitching in to support them. Except for one problem. I'm also an official card-carrying member of the Covid-19 high-risk population, meaning my body can't churn out the kind of antibodies I would need to fight the infection if I picked it up somewhere. I would be doomed, so I've been asked to step away. Because I'm old. Despite a compelling sense of duty, of urgency, of longing, I have been banished from joining my colleagues who are hard at work saving lives in the hospital where I practiced medicine for over thirty years. Meaning, I can't help at all.

Which, I believe, is what we were put here to do. To help.

Until this. Until now.

Since that day in March when I closed my door to the world, my daughter and my grandson both celebrated birthdays, without me. My daughter gave birth to her second child, without me. My best friend kept vigil at her husband's bedside as he was dying, without me. I would have been there to help through all of it. I would have come bearing gifts, and offering comfort.

Until this. Until now.

If I could, if it were safe, I would pack my bags today, open my door to the world again, and venture out. But I wouldn't run to the mall, or chance a workout at the gym. I wouldn't meet my friends for coffee at our favorite cafe, or stray into the local bookstore. I would drive directly from my front door to my daughter's, where I know my grandson would be waiting for me. Where he would propel himself across the porch and down the steps, and fling himself into my open arms, calling out, "Oma, play with me!" And happily, I would.

Until this. Until now.

"People change for two main reasons:

their minds have opened or

their hearts have been broken."

~Steven Aitchison~

jan