Like everything else Covid-19 is messing with -- our work, our favorite restaurants, our quest for bread and toilet paper -- the nasty little virus is complicating our relationships. In some ways, our relationships and how we relate, are at the heart of the complications. Being near each other is the way the virus spreads. Staying away from each other flattens the curve and slows the pandemic. The oxymoron of the moment is social distancing. I get it. I'm onboard. By now, most of us are onboard. But for each of us there was a line, a moment --or many -- when the sands shifted and ideas about what Covid-19 would mean, became reality. The weekend before the social distancing effort began in the United States-- I left NYC with my husband to visit our house in Albany. We had friends performing in three separate plays, and the weekend was packed with social activities. All of the performances were canceled before we left the city. We considered staying home, but travel was only going to get more difficult, and there were things to be taken care of at the house. So we packed our bags and copious amounts of hand sanitizer and boarded Amtrak. We would take care of the house, pay a visit to our favorite restaurant to support them in a rough time, and check in on friends and family before what was shaping up to be a long winter/spring quarantine. Now, of course, this seems ridiculous -- but this was two weeks ago and change, since then, has been the only constant. My husband works in health care, and we'd both been watching and reading extensively about Covid-19. At the time we felt the travel was not a risk. If we did, we wouldn't have gone. In retrospect, maybe I would have skipped the trip. But that was then.
We saw a few friends on Friday, and ran a few errands. But on Saturday morning, plans to see someone I dearly love were canceled. There was vagueness on both of our parts -- hers about how scared she was about catching the virus, mine about how important it was that I see her in person in a time that was beginning to feel increasingly serious. With just a little time and distance I can say that I totally understand and respect her fear. But in the moment, I had a terrible time. In the moment I was hurt. In the moment there were tears. In the moment, even while I somehow understood that I was failing as a friend, my heart was breaking. For me it was the last time we would see each other, possibly until the summer. In my head, and in my heart, I had taken precautions specifically to protect the people around me. But to her, I was potentially dangerous and was being precarious with her health and the health of others. I didn't mean to be precarious. She didn't mean to hurt me. We know that now. But a lot has changed in two weeks. I may have mentioned that already. Today, I go for walks through Washington Heights, keeping a six foot distance from my neighbors, and I'm weighing a 13 story climb against a crowded elevator ride to my apartment -- so yes, I understand the need for social distancing. In retrospect, my reaction that day seems so out of proportion with my friend's perfectly reasonable request to stay away. So why was I so upset? What I've come to is this: that moment was, for me, the shifting of the sands. Suddenly, slowly, the idea was seeping into my consciousness that, on a list of things quickly changing in our universe, we might now need to be afraid of one another. I couldn't parse it at the time, but the idea that saying no (my least favorite word) and, to some degree, turning away from someone that you love, might actually be the right thing to do. This is a crushing blow to someone who sometimes rides the subway just to be around people. So this first realization -- this first shifting of the sands -- really unnerved me. I'm sure you've had your own moments of shifting sands; the slight changes that unbalance us and make us remember that life is much scarier, much more precarious than people we realize. Lately it seems the sands shift often. It shifts when I'm watching press conferences on television, when someone crosses the street to avoid me, when I see capacity lines at grocery stores, when my husband leaves the apartment to go to work at a hospital. But now when it shifts, I am ready for it. I'm learning to right myself, to balance. I can't hug the people I love, but I can talk to them, and the last two weeks have brought more, and sometimes deeper conversations. I've gathered with siblings and friends. I've been touched when people I haven't seen in years check in on social media to see how we are doing. I've seen virtual concerts, museums and I've even taken time to reach out to folks here. We are steadying each other. We are helping each other find balance. Maybe shifting sands are the new normal, at least for now. If they are, then what comforts me is that taking care of each other is a part of the new normal. Even if taking care of each other looks a little different than it did two weeks ago.
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