One year in, and counting

Hallelujah! The new CDC guidelines suggest that fully vaccinated people can, after two weeks, have dinner with a few other fully vaccinated people—without wearing masks. A Facebook friend calls it Liberation Day.

We’ve got a date for one child to visit, I’m already contemplating small dinner parties, and I can’t wait. It’s been a long, long year.  

Almost exactly a year ago, I was sitting in a friend’s living room, agitating with my book group over whether it was safe to go on our long-awaited Jane Austen tour to England. How innocent that all seems now! There we were, sitting in one room, thinking this Covid thing might be a blip. We weren’t even wearing masks.

That meeting felt innocent even before the week was out. By March 14th, Covid was popping up all over the country and all over the world. Cases in London were escalating rapidly, though not as rapidly as in NYC. Then the border closed. Our precious trip to England was definitely off. By that time, though, we were grateful that we didn’t have to make the decision. We each got online and canceled our plane tickets. We consoled ourselves that we’d booked with a reputable tour company. Maybe they’d either refund our money (no) or move our bookings forward a year (yes). Luckily, it did turn out to be a reputable tour company, and they’re now re-booking us for two years forward, the spring of 2022. (I hope we don’t wind up viewing this re-booking as innocent, too…)

Then, as March rolled on, we watched in horror as, all over the country, the numbers of the hospitalized and dying kept escalating. Covid spread from weddings and funerals and ordinary social interactions, hospitals and morgues in NYC filled up, businesses and restaurants shuttered their doors. Our local colleges and universities reluctantly sent their students home for the rest of the academic year. We learned how to shop for groceries early in the morning and waited in line to buy disinfectants. Still, we told ourselves, “We’re the lucky ones—retired, with homes to shelter in. And at least it’s hitting in the spring. We can have socially distanced lunches with friends on the back patio. Maybe even dinners at a restaurant—outdoors, of course.” We told ourselves that the disease would probably lessen in the summer. Maybe it would flicker out entirely.

But it didn’t. Inexplicably, masking turned into a political statement. To our horror, deaths hit 100,000. Now it’s over 500,000. And now here we are, a year in, and counting. And we’re tired of it.

There are sensible reasons for optimism. More people are getting vaccinated by the day, with the pace accelerating as scheduling systems become more resilient and the third vaccine becomes available. The vaccines are good ones, too—much more effective in clinical trials than earlier vaccines for other diseases. Those of us who are over 65 and reasonably computer savvy are now between our first and second vaccinations. And we’re prepared for that second dose with ibuprofen chicken soup, and a cleared schedule. Not that clearing the schedule is so difficult, these days…

But there are still solid reasons for worry, too. The new variants are, at a minimum, more infectious than the initial form of Covid. (I haven’t found any clear information about whether the vaccines effectively protect us against the new strains. If anyone has better information, please let us all know!) Also, the Stupid States are opening back up again, and the stupid college kids are off to the Florida beaches for spring break. (Not that there aren’t lots of smart, sensible college kids. There are! But those kids are not headed to the beaches in Florida, to party with lots of alcohol and no masks.) Numbers are almost bound to rise in the next month.

In other words, we’re still stuck in uncertainty. One year in, and we’re still fluctuating wildly between hope and anxiety. At least I do.

I’m grateful, don’t get me wrong. Not only was I personally lucky, but I watched many people and businesses adapt intelligently to the new conditions. The library figured out a way to loan out books safely. Restaurants bought patio heaters for outdoor dining. Stores made individual appointments for customers to try on clothes (I was too vulnerable to chance it, but it was a good idea). Travel organizations—Road Scholar, Context Travel, Rick Steves—created great online programs. Families initiated game nights via Zoom, classes went online, groups of friends met to discuss films or lectures. Teachers were resourceful. Political activists helped elect a President who cares about public health. All that took time and work.

NONETHELESS.

I’m tired of it. And I’ll bet you are, too.

Back and forth goes our mood, from upswing to downswing and back up again. After all, spring is coming. (Again. Thank goodness.) There’s more daylight every day, and the songbirds are returning. Before long, it will once again be warm enough to have friends over for coffee or cocktails on the back terrace—even in New England. Places will re-open for outdoor dining. My book group will probably figure out a way to meet in person—outdoors and maybe at lunchtime, but in person.

Things will improve. People are planning cautious trips to see kids and grandkids. People are mulling over dinner menus. Like bears emerging from their winter retreats, we’re lifting our noses to catch the scent of spring. We’re a little battered and shaky, more than a little restless, hungry for sunshine, fresh air, and the chance to move. I pity anyone who tries to get in our way.