Tag Archive for: pandemic blog

Day 222

Wildfires, a Two-Headed Shark, & Food-Scented Masks

Day 222

It’s Sunday. Less than two weeks until the election. Here in the SF Bay, city officials have “encouraged” residents in our area to evacuate “if possible” because fierce winds “may” spark wildfires.

My neighbor next door grabbed her family and dog and checked into a hotel downtown by the waterfront. She urged us to do the same. We’re staying put for now but I’m nervous. Will I be like all those flood victims I watch who fail to heed evac notices of hurricanes bearing down on them? Or is this legitimately different? After all, nothing is happening — yet.

Pandemic, politics, racial injustice, and economic turmoil … it is cause for such sadness. Adding to it all, another person I know has just died. Not of COVID-19. But still, I cannot count the number of people I know who have died in the past seven months. More than at any finite period of time in my life.

OK. Enough! My Sheltering-in-Place journal is supposed to offer relief from our woes, not add to them. So, what have I got that’s light today?

Let’s see.

Item 1: I saw a story about a two-headed shark. That’s amusingly weird. A fisherman in India caught the baby 6” shark and kudos to him, he took some pictures and then tossed it back in the water.

Item 2: The latest in mask wear? Masks that smell like food!

Jack in the Box has created the fried chicken-scented face mask to promote its new plant-based offering: the “Unchicken” sandwich and Hormel Foods is offering a “Breathable Bacon” mask, which according to the company’s press release “features the latest in pork-scented technology with a two-ply multi-fiber cloth to keep the delicious smell of bacon always wrapped around your nose and mouth.” No mention if the pork-smelling mask is prepared under strict rabbinical guidelines. My guess, alas, is no!

That’s it on Day 222. Stay calm. Wear a mask, food-scented or not!

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Day 156

But Thinking Back 43 Years Ago

Here in the SF Bay, we began sheltering in place for 156 days ago. That’s more than 22 weeks of wearing masks, non-stop washing hands, worrying, and trying to focus on the bright side of things.

Yet, amid this crazy countdown, I’m observing a different “anniversary.” Forty-three years ago this week, I got my first full-time adult job. It happened on August 16, 1977, and the circumstances were uniquely unforgettable.

I had graduated from college at the age of 20 with a degree in Russia Studies — Political Science and Russian Language — from Barnard College, Columbia University in NYC. Since I was a bit on the young side, I wanted to take a break before starting graduate school.

Back at home in Las Vegas, Nevada, I knew I wanted to become a foreign correspondent. So, as the first step toward that goal, I walked into the offices of the Las Vegas SUN newspaper owned by legendary newsman “Hank” Greenspun.

Somehow, without an appointment or even benefit of a recommendation from anybody in the community, I landed a meeting with the paper’s kindly managing editor Al Kolber. Kolber, if I recall correctly was a native New Yorker and loved that I was a Columbia U grad.

Al, a diminutive fellow — almost elfish in appearance if you can picture a chain-smoking elf, in turn, called the almost 6’-tall hard-charging female city editor Chris Chrystal. Chris grilled me for a while and then nodded her approval to Al. I was hired!

But Then …

We had just started discussing my start date and salary when suddenly bells started ringing. People were running in every direction and shouting at the top of their lungs. Typewriters (yes, typewriters) started tapping. And yes, the phrase, “Stop the presses” was bellowed out.

“You start Monday, kid,” Al said, rushing out of his smoke-filled office. “Gotta go.”

What was the excitement all about? What happened on August 16, 1977? Who remembers? Why Elvis Presley died, that’s what. Big news in the Entertainment Capital of the World. Big news everywhere.

That was my introduction to my new profession — where the death of a swivel-hipped rock-n-roller can rock a newsroom and the world.

So goes Day 156 — Just a silly recollection as we bide our time, waiting for a vaccine and better days.

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Day 127

My Photo Phobia

Thanks to all the promising coronavirus research underway, vaccine trials may soon follow. That, of course, is great news. But with all those tests, will soon come non-stop news photos of vaccinations being administered, you know, yucky close-up shots of needles being plunged into people’s arms.

And those photos are bad news for me.

You see, I’m squeamish, squeamish to the max. More to the point, I’m vaccination-photo phobic.

I cringe when I see photos or watch movies (or simply see) people getting injections or intravenous needles. I don’t just cringe, I get weak at the knees and green in the gut.

Back in the Day

When I was a reporter, I covered Las Vegas’s health district for a time. Walking into the shot clinic, I’d shield my eyes and grab my photographer’s shirt. Eyes averted, I frequently bumped into wailing toddler-patients and busy staff! En route to an interview, I became a walking health hazard!

I did the same at murder scenes, clinging blindly to my cameraman’s shirt with one hand, holding my nose with the other to avoid the smell! Yes, a real blood-and-gore reportorial lightweight!

Anyway, enough about my ancient past.

Back to the Present

Like everybody in the world, I cannot wait for the day we have effective treatments and a vaccine that frees the world from the scourge of COVID-19. So, bring on those clinical trials. We need them ASAP.

And in terms of my needle-photo phobia, I guess I’ll be obliged to ask Handsome Hubby to screen and censor the newspaper each morning, cutting out offending photos before I sit down to my Rice Krispies and New York Times.

📚 📚 📚

Meanwhile, if you’re looking for an entertaining read, I’ve got a completely biased recommendation! My friend Laura Shea’s latest novel is out and it’s a good one! Murder in the Wings is a buzzy mix of theatre, academic sardonic wit, and murder mystery all rolled into one great read. Buy it. Read it. Enjoy it.

And so goes Day 127. Bee good. (And that’s not a typo. Check out Laura’s book. It’s a clue!)

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Day 100

Thanks, but No Thanks

I got a call from the lovely lady at my nail salon a couple of days ago telling me she was open for business, asking if I wanted to book an appointment. It was good to hear her voice. I’ve missed her. She’s been one of the stalwarts of my somewhat solitary writerly existence since we’ve moved to Berkeley. So, it was nice to get the call. We chatted briefly, caught up on family news — happily her 100-year-old mother is doing well, but then I politely declined to schedule an appointment and vaguely said I’d see her “in a while.”

Manicures and pedicures are supposed to be relaxing and amid rising infection rates in California, the nation, and the world, my heart just isn’t in sinking my toes into a pedicure bowl and chatting it up with the girls while wearing a mask and observing whatever safety measures are in place in a manicure shop. It just doesn’t seem worth the risk. It just doesn’t sound fun.

So, instead of booking that appointment, I ordered some non-toxic, vegan nail polish to apply at home. It’s overpriced, but a sheltering-in-place, cautious girl’s got to have some fun! And besides, after 100 days, I’ve got my self-applied manicure mojo down pat! I’ve even assembled my own manicure kit complete with basecoat and orange sticks. Remember orange sticks, ladies? Still, I admit it is not nearly as much fun as gossiping with manicurist Cindy from Vietnam at the nail shop every two weeks.

While I can do my own nails — and toes, sort of, what I cannot replicate at home is live theater. I’ve been watching streaming performances from my beloved Berkeley Repertory Theatre, Lincoln Center, and other companies far and wide, but it is just not the same. It will be a long time till we all get to walk in, sit down, and enjoy a live show. But I for one cannot wait.

I’m sorry this isn’t an upbeat journal entry. I don’t have it in me today. Frankly, I’m worried. I’m reading too many alarming reports about rising infection rates and I fear we’re opening up the country too quickly. I can only urge people to be careful. Wear masks. Wash their hands. Keep their hands away from their faces (which somehow seems the hardest thing to do). Religiously practice social distancing. Be patient. AND every day, find something to be grateful for. That may sound Pollyanna-ish, but I think that part is essential too.

That’s what I’ve got on Day 100. Good wishes to everyone. I’m grateful to have you all in my life.

OK. I cannot resist! Here’s some news that made me chuckle and cringe: Actor Dennis Quaid just got married again. The detail that got me? Quaid is 66. The bride, 27. I guess who am I to judge? But I don’t know. I just don’t.

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Day 94

New Friends ... with Masks?

We all long to spend time with loved ones. An inescapable and aching fact. But what about the thrill of making new friends? How do you make friends when you cannot see their faces? Their smiles? Their full expressions? How do you take the measure of a person when they are masked? The Lone Ranger wore a mask so as not to reveal his identity. Ditto Zorro. How do we discern the full and true nature of new friends? And I’m only talking about friendship. Thank goodness, I’m not searching for a date or a new mate!

Yesterday a carpenter came over for some cannot-wait-for-the-pandemic-to-pass repair work needing to be done. Essential, at least in Handsome Hubby’s eyes. The carpenter is a blast. Not only skilled but funny and nice. I think I’d like to become friends with her but how to commit to friendship without knowing what’s behind the mask? It feels weird. Plunging into a new friendship is always an act of optimism and trust. Doing so without a full facial frontal seems astonishingly bold — and I’m not even factoring in the health risks even with social distancing.

I don’t know. I guess I’ll just tap dance into the night to the tune of “Let’s Call the Whole Thing Off” even before the fledgling friendship starts.

But, to paraphrase the oft-quoted line from Casablanca, it could have been the beginning of a beautiful friendship. Oh, well.

And so goes Day 94. And remember, despite the inconvenience, keep wearing YOUR mask. Also, if you’re having problems breathing while wearing it, the New York Times offers some tips to help.

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Day 92

There Ought to be a Law

Workmen on the roof (or Santa Claus is up there clogging). The noise is making it hard to concentrate. So, here’s one quick marital tempest in a sheltered in place teapot!

Using lemons from our massive lemon tree, my next-door neighbor Kimberley regularly makes these “to die” for lemon bars. I don’t really like lemony desserts, but every time she makes them, Handsome Hubby goes into raptures over them. He gets so “swoony” over them, I fear he’s going to file divorce papers, dump me, and propose to the lemon bar lady next door.

So, in an act of wifely devotion, I made a fancy lemon pudding. Now, this may not impress you but the instruction to “fold egg whites gently” is as weighty, frightening, and consequential, as being told to perform brain surgery.

To me, the successful folding of egg whites is a near-impossible feat requiring great skill, good karma, and the perfect alignment of the stars.

Well, to my utter surprise, karma and stars came together. The dessert was a feathery perfection. It was so perfect, I went swoony. It was so perfect, I the non-lemon dessert-eating person inhaled two portions. The only person who didn’t go into raptures? You guessed it. Handsome Hubby. His comments: “Not bad. It’s OK. It wasn’t that hard to make, was it?”

Mock my dessert. Mock me. After 90+ days of sheltering in place, I was the one ready to serve something else, perhaps HH’s head on a platter!

Disheartened, I tossed the recipe into the trash and scrubbed up my sugar-flour-butter strewn kitchen in a major sulk.

The next day I brought the lemony leftovers over to my daughter who also likes tart treats to see what she thought. Even before arriving home, I received the following text message: “The lemon pudding is Life Changing!”

I dashed to the trash can at the curb, but I was too late. The garbage had already been picked up. Now I’ve got to search the Internet to find the damned recipe!

So goes Day 92! There really ought to be a law! Oh, and HH is swoony again. Kimberley just dropped off a fresh batch of lemon bars.

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Day 86

Does Not Compute!

Infection Rates are Rising; Cities are Opening Up. These two conflicting pieces of information have got me … well, deeply conflicted.

I know we cannot live our lives hiding behind our doors. Still, as one just now getting over a serious illness, I’m not feeling particularly brave — even masked and gloved — ready to greet our new COVID-19 world of social distancing, manic hand washing, and avoiding touching my own face like I have the plague.

Yes, I want to go out, but the expression “Shop till you drop” now sounds ominous and as does “I thought I would die when …” and if I have to social distance when I’m in a restaurant, where’s the fun in that? Half the fun of eating out is listening in … listening in on the conversations at the tables to your right and left.

Aside from friends and family, the places and people I most want to visit are my hairdresser, manicurist, and masseuse. Yet, in terms of those three ladies, sadly, the expression, “too close for comfort” comes to mind. Of course, in my town, the option of booking those kinds of appointments isn’t available yet. So, that “will I or won’t I” angst is still in the realm of pure speculation.

As for running out for an impromptu treat, say an ice cream cone, again I ask “Where’s the fun in that?” How is something a lark if it requires a four-step safety process?

  1. Getting all suited up in a mask, gloves, and, for safety, a face shield;
  2. Talking to somebody/ordering through plexiglass;
  3. Gingerly sliding the credit card through the payment slot and dreading the placement of that now “contaminated” card back in your wallet; and
  4. Then, making a mad dash to your car to shed your protective gear AND douse your hands in hand sanitizer WHILE somehow balancing your ice cream cone;

All that before you can breathe a sigh of relief and finally, “enjoy” your slightly melty treat.

And for me, the activity I most long to do won’t begin for a long while and that is to go to live theater. So, my incentive for venturing forth faces an extended intermission.

So, from my perspective, I’m going slow in terms of re-entry into the world. I’m not typically a scaredy-cat but COVID-19 continues to spook me — big time.

Meanwhile, on a silly note, I saw an ad today for a “best-selling ‘face lift in a jar’ moisturizer,” currently on sale for only $34. The ad promised the crème would turn back time. My question: how far? I’m only looking to go back to 2019, right before the coronavirus sprang forth, and began its deadly assault on the planet. If that moisturizer turns back time just that far, put me down for a jar. In fact, I’ll take two. As they say, it’s a bargain at twice the price!

And so goes Day 86. Stay safe.

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Day 85

First in Space AND First in the Ocean’s Depths

It’s Day 85 of sheltering in place in Berkeley, CA. And while I sit and ponder headlines of pandemic, protests, injustice, and massive unemployment, I finally found news to celebrate.

The news? Astonishingly, the first American woman to walk in space has also become the first woman to reach the deepest known point in the ocean.

Yes, thirty-six years after her historic spacewalk, astronaut/oceanographer Kathy Sullivan accomplished her equally historic 35,810-foot dive to the Challenger Deep this past week.

This dive makes Dr. Sullivan the first person to both walk in space and to descend to the deepest spot in the ocean.

The Challenger Deep is approximately seven miles down in the Mariana Trench, located 200 miles from Guam.

She and her fellow scientist spent about an hour and a half at that depth in a deep-sea research submersible before beginning their ascent back up which took four hours.

In a sweet touch, upon returning to their ship, they called the astronauts aboard the International Space Station, around 254 miles above the earth.

Dr. Sullivan made her own historic spacewalk in 1984.

To the Couch and Not One Step Beyond

Now, as I read about Dr. Sullivan’s daring exploits up high and down low, I admit I was somewhat chagrined. You see I have acrophobia. Last night Handsome Hubby and I saw the movie The Aeronauts, based loosely on the 1862 balloon flight which set the altitude record of more than 30,000 feet. Dizzy and shaking, I couldn’t watch most of the aerial shots. “What’s happening now?” I kept asking. As you can imagine, I missed at least two-thirds of the movie.

Just for the record, Dr. Sullivan set her latest record at age 68. By any measure, this is an inspiring person. And on Day 85, don’t we need all the role models we can get?

You can read more about her achievements here.

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Night 49-Day 50

Oh, What a Night!

Yes, I had my first night out since the San Francisco Bay area shelter in place order was issued in March. Unfortunately, it was to the Emergency Room.

I was running a high fever that kept rising and I felt like a Boeing 747 had landed on my chest. I wasn’t coughing (much) and I still had a sense of smell and taste. It seemed more pneumonia than COVID-19.

Talking on the phone with my doctor, he agreed but said “No matter” to the ER I had to go and since enough of the symptoms overlapped with COVID-19, I needed to enter through the specially-designated coronavirus entrance, carrying a handmade sign saying “I’m here for testing.”

Handsome Hubby dropped me off. We waved good-bye and I admit I worried it might be for the last time. I admit I was terrified.

Through the Door

But once I crossed through the threshold of those doors of Alta Bates Hospital, my heart rate which had been pounding painfully suddenly slowed. I instantly felt safe. There was calm everywhere. And I knew I was in good, caring, unrushed, focused hands, hearts, and minds.

I first sat, alone, in a fairly large isolation room, staring at a TV screen watching news stories of projected soaring COVID-19 death rates mixed with eHarmony dating ads!

Then, a nurse walked in and things started happening, one, two, three. Pulse-ox, temperature reading, questions, lab work, EKG, chest X-ray, and the dreaded COVID nasal swabs. Note the use of the plural — swabs. Maybe I’m special, but I got two swabs. One for each nostril. Not pleasant, but quick and necessary. (Although I did offer the nurse $2, a buck per nostril to skip it. She just looked at me like I was well, sick.)

Each step of the way, I was informed about what was happening and what the results were. There was none of that “you’ll have to wait for the doctor for the results.” No cumbersome forms to fill out. In fact, I only signed one form when I left. No repeating 10 times what medication do I take. None of that. It was all straight to the business at hand. What the hell was making my chest hurt? Why did I have an alarmingly high heart rate and why did I have such a high fever?

The Upshot

After six hours in an immaculate private ER room being cared for by the kindest nurses, technicians, and doctors, I got my diagnosis. No COVID-19. No pneumonia. And no blood clot in my lungs. Instead, some variation of your basic flu virus exacerbated by an untreated thyroid condition which made my whole system go haywire.

Tylenol, IV fluids, and pain medication brought the fever and heart rate down, slowed my racing (and admittedly frightened) heart. It also made it easier to breathe. And with that, I got to call Handsome Hubby to come to pick me up and go home. Never did Telegraph Avenue in Downtown Berkeley look so pretty at 4:45 a.m. It made my heart race — in a good way.

Oh, what a night.

So, went night 49 and Day 50 (since I slept all day).

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Day 47

A Disgrace to My Gender

With apologies to womankind, everywhere. I hang my head in shame and confess. I have failed. The weekend is here and I have nary a chore, nary a task, nary a “honey-do” for my honey to do.

Yes, the unthinkable has happened.

But these are unimaginable times and after six weeks of sheltering-in-place, I have run out of chores for Handsome Hubby to do. He’s fixed the leaky faucet outside. He’s replaced the burned-out lightbulb at the top of the stairs. And he — finally — cleaned the garage.

HH used to be a regular Mr. Fix-it, but as he’s gotten older (and less patient), his mantra became “Hire somebody to do that.”

But when the San Francisco Bay shelter-in-place order came down, he couldn’t get away with that anymore. So, I got to re-activate the “honey-do” list and man, oh, man, did I have fun with it! I listed ten million and twelve pesky little things I hate doing around the house. And HH — to his credit — went through the list, one-by-one, and knocked off the dirty little manly deeds.

Who’s Laughing Now

But now the list is complete. So, who’s having the last laugh?

Obviously, HH.

With no more chores to do and hours of “quality” weekend quarantine time ahead, I know HH is thinking three words: Die Hard (and) Terminator.

Yes, payback is a bitch. Now I’m the one going to suffer, sitting there watching those damned movies for the ten zillionth time with him. Talk about a chore!

Please, Dr. Fauci, help! Please let me shelter-in-place somewhere else. As Barbra Streisand sang in Funny Girl, “Would a convent take a Jewish girl?”

Oh, well. So, goes Day 47.

Wait! Anybody need any chores done? It’s not strictly sheltering-in-place, but if you have essential tasks that need doing, I’m willing to lend HH out. No charge — mask and gloves included. The tradition of the weekend “honey-do” list must be upheld! Besides, there’s a Die Hard marathon playing Sunday. Save me! Please!

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