Heading out of town. Leaving the four walls we’ve shared this last month. Crossing into another state entirely. Feels like we’re getting the hell out of dodge and maybe even leaving Covid behind too when all we’re doing is driving to Highlands, NC for the day so my husband can check out a jobsite for a potential project. The pets remain to nap the day away. Gave the dog two Benadryl to help with her skin itches, so she’s definitely in for a good nap. Wonder if they have weird Covid dreams too?
I had another strange dream last night. It was my birthday and I went to the mailbox and it was packed with little gifts wrapped in brown kraft paper, a delightful surprise I’ve never seen. I filled my arms with as many as I could carry and went to the front door. The street was somehow smaller and the driveway shorter to this house, the one in the dream, yet it was still the house I live in now. The front stoop by the door was filled with more birthday packages, these boxes beautifully wrapped. I’ve never seen anything like it, and it was exciting. As I approached the door, several people I didn’t recognize left, and none of them were wearing masks. I went in and the house had either just had a real estate tour or a closing had already happened in the eight hours I’d been at work. A woman with ‘50s sprayed brown hair with a “That Girl” flip greeted me. She moved about as if she was the lady of this house and carried a refined contentment amid its new décor. All I could utter is, “Where are the pets?”, imagining the coming and going must have led to their escape. In an I’m holding them hostage tone, she told me they were secure upstairs. I scanned the place full of berber carpets and monochromatic décor, straight out of a Ballard catalog. There was nothing personal, not a family photo of mine or hers, a stack of bills, or umbrella stand. Knowing my pets were safe I quickly tried to figure out how I was going to handle this situation. Forget my birthday, which normally was a day I’d savor, my entire life had been hijacked. And still it seems by some miracle Covid hadn’t seeped into this antiseptic environment. I wanted to go see my pets and rescue them, but where was I going to go? My family wasn’t around – maybe they were at work and school? – but this lady was clearly planted here. Then I woke up.
Our third cat, a gorgeous black outside older kitten, is no longer with us. Early in the morning a few weeks ago as I was upstairs in the bathroom looking out the window, a large coyote confidently and ceremoniously ambled across our back yard, our sweet black cat dangling from its jaws, its mate following behind. I’ve never seen anything like this, as if somewhere in the depths of the woods surrounding our house, the earth just opened up and swallowed up this sweet creature I’ll never see or hold again.
A dad in my town named Matt died recently of Covid. He leaves behind four kids and an ex-wife and friends and family all who were pulling for him. He used to teach yoga at the Y, and I loved his classes. He was so calm, and I always felt that way during and after his classes. I hate that he had to fight so – which went against his chill Zen nature, but Covid is horribly unpredictable and relenting. Emory University Hospital said he was their sickest patient, and while I didn’t hold out much hope after hearing that, now that he’s gone, I feel sad for all he left behind. And for him too. So much more life to live.
Driving up I-985 with Uncle Tupelo coming through the speakers and half eaten deli sandwiches rewrapped for later, we were quiet anticipating whatever was coming next. I hope we’ll find ourselves on curvy roads so Evan can strike the riding the fast car on the curvy mountain roads off his bucket list. I hope I see cows or colorful mountain ranges, or both. Joe brought along a Bass Ale for me and a Hopsecutioner for himself, just in case I decided to take off the brakes and have a beer. With my hyperfocus on my health of late, I still feel guilty drinking anything and average only a glass of wine every week/ten days. Surely, that’s allowed?
It felt mischievous slinking out of town
We all seem glad to be going somewhere after standing still for weeks. It felt mischievous slinking out of town, as if we had needed a permission slip to leave the city and had decided to hell with it and just up and left. We certainly weren’t slinking and made our usual production — kids scurrying about looking for stuff, headphones and jackets and snacks, and grownups grabbing coolers and ice and drinks. The dog understands this commotion all too well and got that pitiful look on her face, as if saying, really? again? You said you wouldn’t leave me anymore! The Benadryl had kicked in and she started to nap, realizing even her most convincing looks were futile and we would keep right on packing.
Maybe nobody will be wearing a mask in NC. Maybe Covid would magically go away while we were on the road and we’ll return to something that feels normal. I need this escape. We all do. It offers another day behind us. Something different.
I’m going where there’s no depression to a land that’s free from care – Uncle Tupelo
I tried adjusting my warped sunglasses to hide my exposed right “eyebrow” both of which have disappeared without notice in the last few weeks. Eight weeks post chemo, I’ve got more hair loss still, a little more from my scalp and now this void where brows should be. Maybe I’ll draw them in and give myself an astonished expression with high arches above my eyes, like our dog’s vet’s assistant used to do. The line was so sharp and looked wide awake, and I’m assuming she drew it on fresh each morning. On my face there is a faint dirty blond space where my brows were and a few scattered hairs remaining. Summer is going to be strange as it is, so the brows’ return will be something to look forward to.
We’re in Rabun County now passing signs for Lakemont, the turn off for Lake Rabun, which takes me back to fun weekends with my childhood friend, Margaret, at their lake house there. For these weekends, my mom would crank out one of her famous pound cakes to bring with me, and we’d have it for dessert after the beef fondue with consommé rice dinner her mom made. Afterward, on Saturday night, Margaret, her brother and I would boat over to Hall’s Boat House to hear the Blue Grass music and watch the cloggers. There were kids our age from area and Atlanta schools, and it was fun to check out who was there.
Heading back toward home, we stopped along the road in South Carolina and walked along a path leading to expansive views from Bald Rock. Walking as people approached, Joe reminded me, “Don’t forget to hold your breath.” I thought there must be some dog poop ahead or something, but he was referring to the coronavirus. (We’ve discovered we both hold our breath sometimes when passing people if we don’t have on a mask.) I had forgotten about the virus for much of this day trip since we saw so few people. There was that one man we saw in downtown Highlands wearing a mask, but otherwise no signs of any pandemic. How nice to forget and just focus on the path in front of us.
A little taste of our music, and the song Uncle Tupelo’s No Depression, along the way:
https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=TAwwtgKTSHE&list=OLAK5uy_lFrQViIio3lZzMqezdN4OSNmnPateFBs0
https://music.youtube.com/watch?v=TAwwtgKTSHE&list=OLAK5uy_lFrQViIio3lZzMqezdN4OSNmnPateFBs0
The days are bleeding into each other, and the pets are confused. Glad we’re home 24/7, but still, they give us that, “Why are you all here, like ALL the time?” look. I’m not their cruise director, but even with full bellies and exercise, potty breaks and unlimited adoration and attention, their eyes say, “What now?” I think we’re all asking that same question, despite thinking we should be cleaning out closets, learning a new language, taking up piano, and scores of other things we swore we’d do if only we were home and had the time.
I’ve become a TV watcher. Savannah Guthrie and Lester Holt are my AM and PM bookends, with CNN occasionally running in between. It’s been interesting to see the reporters in their own homes, no longer TV personalities, but real people with imperfect homes and clutter and regular morning faces. Dr. John Torres typically broadcasts from his entry way with his coat rack behind him, a bicycle helmet dangling on top. Is he the cyclist or his kids, if he even has any? Al Roker greets us from his kitchen, sometimes juggling the weather with kids’ breakfast duties. Savannah Guthrie speaks to us from her basement, and even without the benefit of hair and makeup staff, she looks great and you realize those things no longer matter. Miguel Almaguer comes to us from his living room. Where did he find that gorgeous tufted blue sofa behind him? As if that matters during a pandemic, but it’s clear he chose that room to speak to us from for its stunning sofa.
Last night an Oral B commercial caught my eye and made me gasp. Their electric toothbrush’s brightly colored bristles were spinning fast in concentric circles. They looked evil, like the Coronavirus. Everything does now. When life resumes, I’ve wondered if artists will play with the virus’ form and its signature spikes, or just let it go, burying this bad dream, without trying to make chicken salad from chicken shit.
Yesterday I walked to Emory, criss-crossing the streets weaving around a few scattered people. We waved so there was a friendly vibe, but the distance was palpable. I found a stick on the ground with which to press the elevator buttons. You feel the virus everywhere. At the entrance to Winship Cancer Center there was a friendly crew asking you why you’re there, if you have a fever or cough, etc. There was tape on the floor demarcating the 6 ft. distance from reception where you need to stand. I stood even farther back. During my appointment, my masked and gloved radiation oncologist offered me gloves to use for signing paperwork, lest Emory’s pen be a conduit for the virus. Everyone I dealt with wore an N95 mask except the nurse educating me on RT side effects. I began rolling my stool away from her to get more distance and she asked if we were good, and I told her I’d like more like 10 feet between us. I felt I was being rude, yet if I catch this thing, my treatment could stop, and I can’t afford that. None of us can afford to catch it.