The Flaw In The Pandemic

We didn’t prepare for enough waves.

I finally figured it out. We all hit the wall and at roughly the same time.

But you know that. Talk to any creative, and you’ll hear the same sad tale. Things were going great guns. We were beating this shutdown to a bloody pulp, getting our work done, exercising our bohonkuses off, rocking our quarantines like a boss.

For the first two weeks.

And then, we were like, what the eff? It’s not over yet?

But I need a haircut. I want to go to the gym. Have you seen my toenails? How long do you expect me to go without a pedicure?

When cases started to rise, we did penance for our selfish thoughts. At least some of them. (Give up pedicures? Never.)

So we gave thanks we didn’t get the virus and improvised. Home haircuts. Homeschooling. Home office. Home sex.

By week three, we were so sick of staying at home, our partners had to tie us to the bed to keep us from running out into traffic just for something to do.

But then sh*t started to get real when we heard we hadn’t even finished the first wave. One look at the spikes and we knew we had entered uncharted territory. Truly scary times and I’m not even going to remind you because you all remember.

New York.

Say no more.

That took the snark out of our Covid jokes. Like we had any left at that point.

By summer, we were talking depression.

Even the best of us, those who got 10/10 on Room Rater, were singing the blues. We were in solidarity with one another because we couldn’t do the one thing that got us through a bad day. Write about it. In the old days, we could whine and bitch on Medium, and someone would listen. Not only would they listen, we’d get paid for it.

Pity party as an art form. It worked. Until it didn’t.

Then all the familiar names started to fall away. Where was our tribe? Calls went out in the publications. Anyone heard from so and so? He hasn’t written in a month. Does he have it? And no, they didn’t mean his mojo. They were talking about the virus.

A follower would report back that the writer in question was holed up on his balcony, playing with his bottle cap collection because he said nothing else made sense.

After a while, the SOS calls slowed down. We knew what was going on. You’ve heard of Zen mind, a place of perfect stillness? This was COVID-mind, a place of pandemic paralysis.

And I have to admit, I found myself in that brotherhood.

I, who bragged obnoxiously about the importance of writing every day, had stuffed my computer under a bag of clothes I’d take to the thrift store, when thrift stores were allowed to reopen.

Of course, there are the heroes who have continued to write every day. I needn’t name names. You know who you are. The ones who made a pact with the devil or keep a painting of themselves in the attic that’s slowly deteriorating as the pandemic roars on. But you do you, looking good while the rest of us age in dog years.

Finally, though, I’ve figured out the error of our ways. Well, maybe I should just speak for myself. Perhaps all of you have nailed this third wave. You’ve been lucky not to get the virus, and you’re sailing into home base healthy and happy.

For me, though, my problem began when I put all my enthusiasm in the first wave.

The first day the emergency siren sounded, I stocked up on my toilet paper and hunkered down for a couple of weeks. And that’s where the virus got me. Not in my body, because I’ve kept so far from it you’d have to shoot it into me from a rocket on the moon.

My head is another matter.

I shot my wad during the early days. I quarantined like a champ. I trained like I had my eye on the Shelter-in-Place Olympics. I was going for the Gold Medal in steps at home with style points for wearing nice clothes instead of slobbing around in sweats all the time.

But I forgot the basic rule of athletic training. Pacing.

My workouts got me through the first few months, when I, like the rest of the planet, believed we’d all be back hanging out with our peeps before Labor Day.

I’d spent my motivation, perseverance, and ability to endure pain before I’d even worked up a sweat.

Then in June and July, I had nothing left in the tank. When I should have been training for a marathon, I’d been sprinting. No wonder I hit the wall.

If only someone had told me to prepare for the long haul. That a third wave didn’t just refer to the spike in the virus. It also meant that we’d have to dig deep, once again, and find that extra measure of gratitude that we were well, even if everything else had turned to fish food.

That we had to look at the world outside our window and tell ourselves look, don’t touch. And be good with that.

Yeah, if only someone told us we had to make a plan for the long haul and not just a quick and dirty approach to the pandemic.

Well, actually, people did. Science people. Like Laurie Garrett. The Atlantic. We’ve been warned for a while that something like the coronavirus could happen.

It feels good to blame the government for the mishandling of the pandemic if that’s your jam. We could also accept responsibility for our own well-being, at least a little bit, and pay attention to the news. Read best-selling books on the subject, and be forewarned.

Don’t get me wrong, I blame our government for a lot. I know that many people find it easier to follow the road cleared by the snowplow than get out in front of it and dig their own path to the future.

I’m not casting blame. It’s the way some people are. I didn’t read the articles, either.

Perhaps if I had, I’d have made a long-range plan instead of suiting up for the 100-yard dash, and I wouldn’t have tanked this summer.

I’d have developed a system to keep me writing every day, showing up on everyone’s feed, exercising like a champ with my optimism intact.

But here I am, learning my lessons when I learn them.

I’m on my 3rd wave of planning how to get through this. Or maybe it’s my 57th. I’ve lost count. What I know is that I no longer expect it to be over soon, and that, oddly, gives me some peace.

I will be front and center for the vaccine when it’s available to me, prepared for some uncomfortable but short term side effects. I’ll continue to hunker down until there’s enough herd immunity and assurance about long, really long-term immunity. Only then will I go about my life again.

Holidays in 2020 will be a non-event for me, even though I love Christmas and New Years at my daughter and son-in-law’s house. I’m hoping we’ll celebrate the end of 2021 and welcome 2022 in person. I’m fearing the way people are fighting the inevitable and spreading virus, we won’t ever have enough vaccine to bring this pandemic to its knees.

Yet, if we do this next wave right, plan for the long game, make peace with what is, be grateful for what we have and what we don’t — a death sentence from COVID, forget about instant gratification, we’ll get through this.

I’m an editor and writer on Medium with Top Writer status. I’m also an editor for the publication, Rogues Gallery. I’ve published 55 titles on Amazon and edit for private clients. If you’d like to hire me as your editor for fiction, non-fiction, or business writing, please contact me here. If you’d like to read more of my work on Medium, click here to sign up for my newsletter. Thank you for reading and stay safe.