2020: The Year That Just Won’t Quit
By: Maureen Cooke
Tags: Covid 19 Crisis, Covid 19, George Floyd, Pandemic Diaries

Strength.

Mid-March 2020: The pandemic starts in earnest. Our governor issues stay-at-home orders. I am a writer, an introvert. I am used to being alone. Sometimes for days. I am certain I’ll be able to carry on. Overcome. Stand tall. All the rest.

Ha ha ha. Famous last words, eh?

The thing about writers? We are blessed — maybe cursed — with way way too much imagination.

I live at the end of a dirt road, surrounded by a 6-foot wall. For days, weeks, I am Carol from The Walking Dead. I am friggin’ invincible.

I order supplies — except, of course, for toilet paper, which no one in the Tri-State area has— from Costco. I have black beans, tuna fish, goat cheese. Sparkling water. Food for the amimals.

I am prepared.

I buy a gun — maybe a crossbow like Daryl’s — climb to the top of my flat roof, prepared to shoot the super-spreaders. Alas, no one comes down my dirt road. No stumbling, salivating zombie. Not a one.

Early April 2020: Easter is coming. The prez assures us that the pesky virus (from China) will be gone by then, and we will gather by the river, rejoicing in his greatness. (And I, of course, do not mean God’s greatness. The prez, as far as I can tell, thinks Easter is all about the Big Bunny and magic. Not about faith.)

Speaking of faith, my kids, son-in-law, and grandkids, show up unannounced Easter Sunday. They bring me a basket filled with flowers and chocolate. More importantly, they bring me their company.

I cry. Until I saw them, I hadn’t realized how badly I’d missed them.

So Easter comes and goes. The prez is wrong — surprise, surprise. We are still locked down. And I still climb to the top of my flat roof, binoculars in hand, gun (or is it a cross bow) strapped to my back. I look for the spreaders, the looters — have we devolved yet? Anyone to shoot. To maim. To kill.

I am vigilant but unrewarded. No super-spreaders in my neighborhood.

End of April 2020: My birthday comes and goes. I’m older. No wiser.

May 2020: I’m growing weary. I talk to myself. A lot. I talk to the dogs. To the cats. To the three Guinea pigs I’m fostering. I even talk to the goldfish.

I tell them I have found toilet paper. They are unimpressed.

I think about writing my life story, the Great American Novel (or screenplay). I think about learning to play the autoharp.

Mine is truly a life of the mind.

I discover Zoom, get together — virtually — with anyone who’ll have me. I show off my eyebrows — I’m coloring them myself these days. I talk about my hair, how I’ve bought a pair of hair scissors and am cutting it myself.

I talk about my dogs. About Charlie with one eye. About Ely who has eaten everything I own, at least once. I talk about food. How nothing sounds good. How I’ve lost weight.

I am boring beyond belief.

I stop zooming.

I sign up for the May 30 Greatest International Scavenger Hunt (GISH) organized by Misha Collins from Supernatural. I have no idea what it is, but I think maybe — just maybe — it’ll give me something to with my time other than talk about myself.

I think it’ll be fun.

May 25, 2020: George Floyd is killed in Minneapolis. And nothing is funny anymore.

I can’t pretend I’m Carol, can’t pretend to have a gun or cross bow.

I cry, worried about the world my grandkids will inherit. I denounce systemic racism on Facebook. Makes me feel good for maybe half a minute. Then my family responds they’re not racist. I try explaining the difference between being a racist and systemic racism, give up.

I reach out to a black friend on Facebook, apologize for not speaking up sooner, for not being an ally.

Protests take place across the country. It feels like 1968 all over again. I am weary beyond belief.

I want 2020 to end. Now.

It doesn't.

May 30, 2020: GISH kicks off but not as planned. Instead, many of the activities are devoted to learning about racism, African American history, becoming a true ally.

I am appalled at how little I know.

Why did I never learn about the Tulsa Massacre of 1920? Why? Why did I never learn about sundowner towns?

The prez continues his tirade against everyone and everything I hold dear. He is a bully, who knows nothing about politics, nothing about uniting the country.

I can’t sleep. I wake up in the middle of the night, sweating, my heart pounding.

The country is in chaos and the man in charge blames China, Democrat-led cities. He blames everyone, accepts no responsibility, refuses to lead.

I despair.

With no one in charge, how will we ever heal?

I struggle to write, to laugh. I long to be an alcoholic, a heroin addict. An anything, so I won’t have to think.

To Be Continued