Sequestered

My writing has been sporadic.  Teaching full time and running a business are taxing but also, my schedule has grown so routine, weeks go by and there are no experiences or revelations worthy of blabbing about to the world. Now, on a work hiatus, the last few weeks have been so eventful that I’m not sure where to start. 

I filter all of the archival footage requests for my business.  These are likely written by production assistants, kids in their twenties usually. One request is for footage of “Martha Mitchell—an obscure figure from the Watergate era,” and another is for “a pianist named Liberace.”  My children have expressed particular concern about the coronavirus because of my age.  When I was born the life expectancy for an American female was 67.  The odds are now that I will live longer but the consciousness of being closer to non-existence looms more and more in my day-to-day.

At the February 2019 college reunion, I attend the memorial service. Professors are inordinately remembered but there are much younger alumni noted on the program.  My classmate Rachel is diagnosed with blastoma.  We arrange for golf carts to take her around the campus and dote on her.  Her spirits are good but she, one of those fit, outdoorsy women, is obviously physically diminished.  Rachel’s good cheer evaporates at the memorial service.  It ends, and she is crumpled.  We have reunions at our small college every five years.  Rachel waves the alphabetical list of names.  “I don’t want to be on this list at the next reunion.”  We all know her diagnosis and don’t bullshit her.  We just hold her close.

It’s funny that memories of the home base are hazy.  The days and weeks are all so similar and bleed together. Memories of other places are so much more distinct.  I visit Rachel in Albuquerque last spring break.  She is receiving an experimental treatment developed in Israel, a helmet with electrodes that zaps the cancer cells in her brain.  She’s in better shape than at the reunion.  We drive the Turquoise Trail to Madrid listening to local radio.  We shop at her food coop and I make dinner for her kids and boyfriend.  Unused to an electric stove, I leave a loaf of bread on a burner, not realizing the heat is on.  The Pyrex pan explodes and shatters into a million pieces and we sadly sweep up and pick the tiny shards of glass from the stove with a tweezer.  The bread is trashed. Rachel’s sons are the same ages as mine and we dine, sans bread, on her candlelit patio, the aroma of sagebrush wafts after an afternoon rain. I still feel bad about the bread and learn this week that there will never be a chance to bake her another loaf.

On the same day I learn of Rachel’s death, Himself forwards me a communication that he receives via Ancestry.com.  An adoptee, about ten years ago Himself connected with his birthmother.  This has been an emotional roller coaster, although recently the relationship has been less fraught.  He has learned to navigate Birthmother and largely avoid discord.  Essential to this course is that my communication is limited to buying greeting cards and signing them “with love.”  Ancestry has identified what is categorized as a “first cousin.”  The fine print states though the possibility that the match could also possibly be a half-sibling.  Himself has a half-brother, a year and a half younger, also surrendered for adoption and living in the Bay Area.  The kids and I, and even the kids’ friends, go berserk and sleuth and stalk, but Himself is rather non-plussed and curiously uncurious.  I think he has keeping himself reined in and cautious in reaction to the revelation and the complications it presents, but I also suspect that he has always sensed in his bones that there is a brother.

This transpires during the week that we are teaching our students to wash their hands correctly, singing “No virus for me…” instead of “Happy Birthday” to the tune.  We suspect that the schools will close.  When I hear the announcement on the radio I cheer.  I love teaching but we’ve had a particularly grueling couple weeks of testing and I am relieved for the paid vacation.  When I admit that I’m happily burrowed in at home my friends bristle.  I figure that there’s nothing that I can do but keep myself and those around me safe.  The virus is going to take its course and while the consequences might be harrowing, there’s nothing that I can do and no value in panic.  That said, we have discounted toilet paper on monthly delivery from Amazon and a full freezer.  Still, I regret that my communication with friends takes a less grave tone than is expected.

I write this, having missed only one of the nine weekly classes I ordinarily teach.  I’ve survived long lines at Sprout’s and Food4Less.  There is a list of things to get caught up on, like filing taxes and getting the car serviced.  I have two and half unread novels checked out from the now shuttered library.  Some edible marijuana is delivered.  The driver has trouble finding the house.  I flag her down.

“I should have known it would be that beautiful painted gate.”

“What, does it scream ‘Pothead?”’

“Yeah.”

My first few days of diminished social interaction are pleasant.  This will be a test however of how long I can be confined to quarters without suffering cabin fever.  Perhaps the advantage of this advanced age is having survived the AIDS plague and earthquakes and 9/11, I know that while there might be painful consequences, eventually the panic will subside, and memories will fade.  And the edibles will certainly help me keep chill until the headlines change.