Trivial Trials

We knew things were changing.  Who among us knew what to expect?  

March 12^th, Winnie and I were at the Chicken & Pickle, a pub built for games and a couple hundred people.  We met there for lunch and pickleball with about fifteen friends.  Yes, the earliest cautions suggesting social distancing, extra personal hygiene and not touching your face had already been hitting the news.  When we texted our daughter about our plans for the day, she returned a text featuring an emoji with a scolding, frustrated expression.  She thought the evidence was clear that her parents’ judgment had been mottled by senility.

On that day, we didn’t think the risk was great.  We took precautions.  We wiped the pickleball paddle from tip to grip with a Lysol disinfectant wipe that claimed it would kill 99.9% of germs.  That COVID-19 is a virus and not a bacterium was already quite clear so anti-bacterial treatments would be of no use.  We assumed, without the benefit of real knowledge, that this virus could be considered a germ and that 0.01% was a manageable risk.

In doubles Pickleball there are two people on each side of the net but they are only within six feet of each other sporadically.  Of course, since the game involves a bit of running, bending and swinging of the arms, we oldsters were working hard enough to sweat and spew droplet laden breath more rapidly.  On that day, we had yet to accept that we posed a risk.  If any of us became infected we might get sick but we would surely facilitate the virus’ spread.  At the end of each game, no handshakes – we touched paddle to paddle and said, “good game”. 

So, after our questionable judgment to play pickleball, Winnie and I decided to do a 14 day self-quarantine to limit the chance of transmitting the virus if we had unknowingly acquired it.  In all of the days since, we have stayed symptom free.  The evidence is pretty strong that we probably did not get infected that day but until testing, for detection or antibodies, is widely available we won’t know for sure.  Our fourteen day self-quarantine morphed into the city, and finally a state, stay-at-home orders.  Thirty-three days and counting.

My quiet mornings seem quieter now.  I rise pretty early to feed Eva and Quincy, our Labradoodles who got their eating gene through their Labrador lineage.  To be truthful, they would let me sleep later but I love the small hours of the day.  For me, the quietude and solemnity of pre-dawn hours is a salve for my soul.  It is a time to think, to pray, to consider blessings, to dispel fears, to read, to drink hot coffee and to rub the ears of a dog who truly wants your touch.   

On many such mornings, I have heard an ambulance siren grow louder as it rolled northward, up Brookside Boulevard toward it’s probable destination – St. Luke’s Hospital or perhaps, to Children’s Mercy.  It gives me a cold shudder when I think about that – about a family in the midst of emergency care for a loved one.  Sometimes, I say a prayer.  I pray for the victim, the family or for the skill the ambulance team. Sometimes I just felt selfishly thankful that the ambulance, at least that time, was passing by my family and me.  

In these weeks that history will call the time of Covid-19, there are fewer sirens.  Under the stay-at-home order, either people don’t need the ambulance as often or perhaps when an ambulance is needed, there are none available.  The corps of EMTs, nurses and ambulance drivers have fallen victim to their own dedication in the pursuit of caring for people infected by this novel coronavirus.  First responders race to the site of someone in need even when their protective gear is woefully inadequate.  As frightening as the symptoms and effects of Covid-19 are, a world without that cadre of people could be headed for extinction. 

In the city, sirens are commonplace.  Through any busy, normal day the sound of a siren can be heard multiple times.  For some of us, the sound of a siren is just one part of the cacophony that makes up city noise.  Street noise.  It does not elevate our adrenaline.  It does not call us to action.  It’s just noise.  Someone else’s problem.  We do notice if a siren from a police vehicle or ambulance inconveniences our driving or movements.  

Wondering when the world will again be safe for pickleball is as trivial as it sounds.  But we’ve all felt something like it.  The time isn’t now, nor will it be soon.  When I think about how I might have contributed to spreading the virus by playing pickleball, it is difficult to look in the mirror.  When one more person is infected, EMTs, doctors, nurses, policemen, fire fighters, and ambulance drivers are personally affected – not to mention grocery clerks, stockers, sackers, deliverers and family who risk their own health so seniors take less risks.  The only rational conclusion I’ve reached is that what I do matters in ways it never has before.  Lives could be at stake.  

Yes, we knew things were changing.  We didn’t know how or how it would feel.

Beyond its medical effects, this virus changes your senses.  Being conscious of how every breath of air feels in your chest makes the air itself seem heavier.  The dearth of street noise makes the ringing in my ears louder.  Gray days feel colder and look grayer.  Yet, sunny days are welcomed through my rear window as joyously as a resurrected best friendship.  I plan to smell the roses as soon as roses bloom.  I’ll miss shaking hands but will wait to shake hands until shaking hands is safe.  I’ll store up hugs but when I hug, hugs will be tighter and longer when hugging won’t help the virus spread.  

How will I mark the time?  Probably with a mullet.  I didn’t like them when mullets were the rage.  Less now.  Short in front now means bald in front of a receding hairline.  Long in the back now looks like weathered, unraveled hemp rope.  I will soon have an unplanned mullet or its kin.  Perhaps, with strategic use of a rubber band, it might be swept into an old-man-gray-ponytail.  So, for now, in the absence of a Covid Cut I can mark time with a mullet.  And,

 I will stay in.  I will wear a mask.  I will wash my hands.  I will be patient & thankful.  I will keep a respectful distance from people.  In the quiet of my early mornings, I will pray for everyone taking the risks to care for us all.  Unlike mine, their trials are not trivial.

                                                                                                                    --td