When I’m stressed, my lizard brain decides to cry. The problem is that it doesn’t inform the rest of my brain that it’s time to cry — my eyes just start leaking, big rollers falling down my cheeks like a soap opera star facing her thought-dead long lost lover.
I can be thinking about something totally benign, and I mean, really thinking about something else — playing a computer game, shopping for moving boxes, trying to figure out which agent to query next for my novel, my cerebral cortex fully engaged in doing whatever that thing is — and my face will be slowly leaking tears the entire time.
To be clear, I am not actively upset while this is going on. I’m often not even aware that I have tears rolling down my face, so it’s not like one of those throat goes tight, you’re trying not to think of it, voice trembling kind of things. It’s exactly like someone has grabbed your hand and said “why are you hitting yourself?” when you’re not, in fact, hitting yourself. This happened while Esteban was in the hospital exactly seven years ago this month. It’s almost like I can fool myself 99% of the way into not reacting to the ongoing horror around me, but that 1%? It’s in charge of the wet works and it is going to work overtime.
Last night, we ordered pizza take out. It’s one of my perennial comfort foods — thin crust mushroom and extra cheese — and I’ve been requesting it probably more than usual. We took a drive to pick it up and also as an excuse to get out of the house and break from the monotony of constant inside-ness. Then we watched a bit of Last Chance Kitchen for Top Chef and then Esteban went off to play his game and I sat on the couch and watched Outlander until I realized that I had two loads of laundry sitting on the bed and I could watch it in there while I folded laundry. Then I just gave up and went to bed, which was, to be honest, the right idea, because I’ve been struggling with the line of demarcation for bedtime. When you never go anywhere or do anything, how do you know when you’re tired? If you’re tired all the time because everything is traumatic, how do you decide when you’re tired enough for bed? It’s a riddle wrapped in an enigma, soaking in a pandemic marinade.
This morning, we woke up early and got a jump on our plans before the heat of the day set in — a quick run to Costco to get gas in the truck, and then headed to campus to clean out my office there.
Being back on campus after two months felt wrong and apocalyptic — set into effect already by crossing the Las Vegas strip which is barren and all of the neon signs are black with white lettering reminding us Stay Strong and Be Safe and also, a tribute to Roy Horn, who passed away yesterday from COVID. I had been through the Strip a few times since the Shelter in Place was in effect, but today many restrictions were lifted commercially, so I expected to see more people out and about. Nope — not really, and campus itself was as empty as it ever has been. We drove the truck onto the pedestrian paths and parked it right outside the door to the literature building to make everything easier, and then realized that I also had to clear all of my electronic baggage from my computer there too, so the entire thing was a longer process than I expected. We took my rolling suitcase, since I had a ton of books and files in there — and I had also forgotten about the ton of other stuff too, snacks and gifts from students, and two dog beds from Ole’s visits to campus, and also a forgotten unopened bottle of Diet Coke in the fridge (score!)
I was surprised to see that no one had taken a small clear bag of basic medical masks that has been sitting on my desk since the first week in March. While I share the office with only one student, tons of people have a key to it and I absolutely expected something as valuable as a medical mask to be gone, but there it was. Faith restored in my fellow academics, I guess.
The building has been locked down since early March, but as a Fellow, I have a key that opens the outer doors. Aside from the emptiness, it felt like nothing had changed — the same video scrolls were still rolling on the flatscreens, the same “leave the lights on” lights were still on inside the Institute department where my main office resides. But there is evidence that time has moved on — Esteban pointed out the way that there is now a rust trail off the wheels on the golf carts that are usually parked and chained outside the back door to the building. And inside the back hallway, dead bugs by the dozens, moths, grasshoppers, things I tried not to look too closely at. This illusion that time is passing so slowly disappears and you understand how quickly things are moving while we bunker and hunker and shiver away from the spectacle of All This.
It didn’t feel final. None of this feels right. It felt like there should have been some kind of victory lap, some kind of parade, ticker tape or otherwise, and instead it felt a bit like a rescue mission, like we were thieves in the night. I took my mask off in my office while we packed, assuming no one had been in there exhaling recently, but of course, that’s how virus spread happens. You feel safe. You feel normal. You can’t see the tiny particles that hope to impregnate you into becoming their own movable spore delivery system. The greatest heist movie ever has such a plot twist — they never saw it coming.
After we brought all of my stuff home and stowed it in my office, we went back out and grabbed the dry cleaning from the no-contact dry cleaner, and then picked up our grocery order from a lady wearing a mask who was so sweet and chatty. Kroger has been paying all of its employees a $2 an hour “hero pay” but it announced that it will cease doing so next week, despite the fact that at least four Kroger employees have died from COVID, contracting it while working in the stores, despite the fact that they are putting themselves in harm’s way as essential workforce this entire time, so that people who are high risk like me can benefit from their services. Then we came home, unloaded our groceries, and then I wrote an email to Kroger asking them to pay their staff a living wage with full benefits and no medical co-pays to compensate them for this incredible service they provide at the risk of their own bodies and lives. How is two dollars an hour too much for this? How was it only two dollars in the first place? How are they no longer “heroes” because some other people decided that we’re not going to be afraid of a virus anymore?
My hair stylist texted me while I was writing the email — during the shut down, she lost her studio because she couldn’t cover the rent. Now that the governor has lifted restrictions for hair stylists, she was wondering if she could come to my house and perform services there. When all of this started, I had texted her and asked if I could prepay for services — she turned me down, and now I want to scream at her for being noble when she clearly had needed the money back then. Granted, my monthly hair services alone probably weren’t even a dent in her rent payment, but maybe it would have helped? She offered to wear a mask and a shield and I would also wear a mask, and she would do my hair in the house with a portable sink.
I asked her for another option — it really comes down to risking our health for vanity, which I have a problem with personally. If we’re not willing to go into a grocery store right now, which is a lower risk, it seems illogical to then bring someone into the house for several hours who shares very close personal space with a series of people who might be asymptomatic or even recovering from and still contagious with the virus, just because I don’t like seeing my natural hair color coming forward. Vanity is considered a deadly sin for a reason, no?
She’s going to whip up a DIY color option for me and leave it at the door — I asked her to charge at least what she normally would plus a delivery fee, which is only fair considering how much of an additional service it would be. She seems open to this, but I can tell from her tone that she is worried that other customers may have the same concerns but just have moved to drugstore box color instead.
March seemed to move so slowly and then April flew by at record speed. I was talking with Esteban a few days ago about how it feels so much like the time “we” were in the hospital, the way that you start to acclimate to the new normal, figure out a routine, tell yourself little stories to keep yourself distracted. There was a cold shock when we finally got released from the hospital after 44 days and the physical residue took months and years to unravel, maybe still unraveling now.
So tears appear for no reason, seemingly no reason, for every reason, tears again. That tiny part of my brain is watching. That tiny part of my brain refuses to be institutionalized by this sameness. It constantly is pushing me to pay better attention, count these days and hours and minutes as they slip past, unnoticed. Unconsolable. Unceremonious. Understood.
