In our back yard, the hellebore and crocuses are blooming. The days are getting longer and warmer. But there’s no getting around it: I’m sad.
Like many of my age cohort and economic bracket, I had travel plans for this spring. My book group was going to England for a tour centered on Jane Austen. We were going to have our own small bus, two nights in Bath, visits to cute country villages, and lunch at the Jane Austen’s home, Chawton. Afterwards, many of our husbands were going to join us for a few days of museums and theater in London. Now it’s all up in smoke.
For the past two weeks, we had been agonizing about the trip. Should we cancel? (By the time the virus hit England, it was too late to get any money back. Two weeks in England is not cheap.) Could we postpone until next year? (We still don’t have a solid answer from the tour company, but we’re hoping…) We discussed our options obsessively on walks, over lunch, and via email. Yesterday – Wednesday – everything became clear. Italy was in crisis, Britain’s numbers of cases was on the rise, and Trump announced sudden, severe restrictions on air travel to Europe. Even if we returned with all ten of us healthy, we might be quarantined.
So we’re not going to England. No one even had to say it. Of course we’re not going.
But I’m sad.
My non-book-group friends are sad, too. They also had plans. One couple was heading, as usual, to their second home in Italy for six weeks. Another couple was going to Mexico, another to Ireland for a festival of traditional Celtic music, another to the Bahamas and then to Seattle to await the arrival of their first grandchild. All those trips are canceled.
Everyone I’ve talked to has acknowledged that other people will have it much, much worse than we will. Elderly people will suffer from social isolation as Senior Centers close or their home health care workers call in sick. Foreign students – especially the ones who are poor—may be stuck in limbo as the colleges and universities close. Restaurants and their waitstaff will suffer financially. In fact, almost all hourly workers will suffer financially. (I saw a lovely recommendation to buy gift certificates to restaurants for the next few weeks. That way, they can continue to have an income stream.) Hospitals will be deluged; exhausted doctors and nurses will be vulnerable to infection.
But even so, those of us who’ve had our trips canceled are sad. It’s going to be a strange, quiet spring.
This morning over breakfast, my husband and I realized that there’s now a new set of questions to agitate over. Will I have to stop writing in coffee shops? Will we stop eating in restaurants? (Maybe. When cases pop up in our area, we’ll definitely stay home.) Will we continue to go to movies? (We have Netflix and Amazon Prime at home, but I adore going to movies with friends and then discussing the film over dinner afterwards.) Will we cancel our visit to the grandkids this spring? (They’re adorable, and I hate not to smother them in kisses, but they’re walking virus-traps. Last time we visited them, I arrived home with a terrible cold.) Above all, how will we handle it if one of us gets the virus? (My husband will probably get a mild case, but I’m asthmatic, so might have to be hospitalized.)
For the past week, I’d been consoling myself with a silver lining: if my trip got canceled, I would be in town for all the meetings of my (very fun) spring classes. Now, however, the university is closing – so there goes my Italian conversation class. My Shakespeare class is run by the local Learning in Retirement group, which is not dependent on a college or university. On the other hand, we’re all in the at-risk age category, so will we be able to continue? If those classes do keep going, will it be prudent to attend them?
Those are surface worries and first-world problems – irksome but manageable. Lurking underneath is the shadowy fear that I’ll catch the virus — that maybe I’ll even die. Although I do have severe asthma, that’s not a likely outcome. It’s not impossible, either. And at my age, no one could classify it as a tragedy. I’ve had a lucky, wonderful life; I’ve updated my will recently; the people I love know that I love them. But I’d be sad.
For now, I’ll wash my hands, sanitize surfaces I contact, and try to focus on the beautiful spring unfolding around us. As for you – you wash your hands, too. And let me know how you’re doing.
Let’s look on the bright side! Who better than introverts to know how to thrive during these days of social distancing? No more lame excuses! No more weighing “accept that invitation” or “stay home”? Stay home! Yay! Let’s watch every version of Emma ever made, now that we’ve seen the newest, which was moderately good … I can’t say that it was entirely good, to paraphrase Mr. Woodhouse, who in this version is played by Bill Nighy … he was entirely good, although with not nearly enough lines. Let’s see … what else? Expand your sourdough bread repertoire! Read the third volume of Wolf Hall (a Val Day present from Brian which arrived yesterday… my children think it’s so sweet that “our generation” observes V Day … they don’t). Having stocked up admirably, I will have no problem staying in … for a while. But if it interferes with heading to NS in June, watch out!
Yes to all of that — PARTICULARLY the part about Nova Scotia! Do you have your Rossmount reservations yet?
I read your blog.
So, you are going to have the experience of living like Jane Austin, instead of visiting her house. Stay home, visit with family and neighbors, and read a book. At least Mr. Darcy is right there with you. 😁
Yes, what an excellent way to think of it! We’ll take walks, read books, write letters (probably on our devices), and try to find things to laugh about. And I DO have a Mr. Darcy, with the fortunate addition that he has an open temperament like Mr. Bingley. And yet I’m still bummed.