Lately
it is hard to get out of bed in the morning, or out of the recliner during the
day. This 65+ chronicler with underlying health conditions is familiar with
this reality all too well. I know it is the same for many of you—you tell me it
is so in your social media posts and phone calls. How could it be any other
way? Even before the pandemic, loss was ever a part of our existence. But
before the pandemic, we had ways of coping, methods we developed over the
course of our experiences, approaches that allowed us some measure of control. We had tried and true actions, as well as psychological
and spiritual tactics; we had church-buddies, and/or sports-buddies, and/or
gym-buddies, and/or work-buddies, and/or buddies in other walks of life—we had
work, hobbies, medications—we had parents, siblings, daughters, sons,
grandchildren—we had people, people who wrapped us in their arms and made it
all okay. But we don’t have access to our tactics anymore because there is an
enemy out there that is impervious to the psychotherapist’s couch and the
church’s pew. This enemy will snuff us out as readily in those hideouts as
anywhere else. And worse, we don’t have our people anymore. If we know what’s
good for our health and/or longevity, you, they, I, we, all of us now live in our
separate cells of solitary confinement. It is a known fact that human beings do
not do well for long periods without hugs whether of the physical, emotional,
or spiritual kind. I haven’t had a physical hug from anyone, not from my
children and grandchildren, or my sister and other family members, or from
friends since the first week in March. That’s five whole months. Unless I am a
sociopath, the disconnection makes for wretched days and questionable futures.
On
the other hand, there are “essential workers” who would give their right arm
for the privilege of riding out the pandemic, home alone, parked and with their
feet hiked up in a cushy recliner. Foregoing hugs would be a nominal sacrifice
for the assurance of protecting ones self and ones children and spouse and
other loved-ones from the virus that they might bring home to them. The awful
truth is that no-one is untouched by our current reality.
On
top of the loss of our tricks of behavior and of our people, we’ve lost our way
of life and we don’t know if we’ll ever get it back; or if and when we do get
it back, if we’ll like what we get—for it will be different. And the
infuriating thing is that none of this is of our own choosing. It is now and
will be then a thing thrust upon us, and independent Americans do not like
having things thrust upon them. Below our sadness and loneliness is a boiling
anger at such injustice. How dare this thing do this to us! We are Americans!
This kind of thing does not happen to Americans! We have been taught that we can
be and do anything we make up our minds to be and do. We’ve worked hard, kept
our noses to the grindstone, did all the right things—we’ve spent our lifetimes
creating our unique, beautiful, and wonderful selves—and now what? What do you
mean that we have to wear masks? Can it really come down to these rules, to this
emptiness—this uncertainty in this world that now lends little or even no credence
at all to our desires and dreams? How unfair!
But then again, isn’t it about time that we Americans grow out of our tendency toward magical thinking? Life is not Disneyland; Pollyanna’s message is a dangerous one for our well-being.©
Linda Lee Greene's books are available for purchase at Amazon.com.
