I felt nervous coming back from Florida last Sunday. While I was there, it was obvious that the vast majority of people were not paying close attention to the news, and were paying even less attention to the social-distancing directives. For me, getting home meant passing through what I could only imagine were virus strongholds in the Orlando airport and at LaGuardia. Though I had no symptoms, it was of course possible that I was already infected: I had taken a business trip the week before and, before going to Florida, had moved around the city in the usual ways: subway to work, meetings and lunch with people in the office, and so forth. I had been compulsively washing my hands and trying to keep my distance, but -- like so many others who aren't professional athletes or otherwise swimming in the needed money and connections to get tested -- I couldn't be sure.
I was less worried about contracting (or having contracted) the virus on my own account than I was about passing it to Stephen, who for his own reasons was being extra-cautious. By the time I walked through the door, he had already sanitized everything; all I had to do was remove and wash my clothes, clean my phone and luggage, and then join the rest of world -- or at least those of us who don't work in essential jobs -- in waiting.
In some ways, the adjustment to my schedule has not been difficult. Although Stephen and I have been keeping our distance from each other -- which we will continue to do for at least another week -- we have plenty of space to do so; we also have a garden, which is just beginning its spring bloom. As always, the hellebores are first.
We're particularly proud of our Helleborus foetidus 'Dunham,' whose alien flowers blossom in an unusual candelabra arrangement.
Here's a view from above.
The days have passed in much the same way they did for me before the virus, given that I already worked from home several days a week. I wake up, exercise, eat breakfast, take the cats out to the garden, and work, which is all done via my laptop. (Thank you, technology.) Time passes. I eat lunch and work some more. Then dinner, maybe some television or some reading (for pleasure) or playing guitar, which I find relaxes me before bed. The cats are very attuned to this routine; they modify their own habits so that we come together and drift apart several times a day.
The biggest change for me has been not running. When Stephen first mentioned the idea to me -- I was still in Florida -- it seemed a bit ridiculous; I couldn't imagine how I would contract the virus on a run, at least the kind of running I tend to do, which is relatively fast and solitary, usually in the early morning along the river. The vast majority of news reports downplayed the risk, so long as you continued to show no symptoms. But once I got back and began to assess the situation, it didn't seem like such a big sacrifice to give up a daily run. There are plenty of workout programs available online for free. I've been doing them. I miss running -- there's nothing like it, especially as we move into the spring season -- but it feels good to concentrate on other muscles, to teach my body to move in different ways, to be flexible, to adapt.
I've now spent eight days in the house without going any farther than the sidewalk (once, to put out the trash). I'm reasonably confident that I don't have the virus, but there's always some continuing uncertainty. If I cough, is it just a cough -- my spring allergies are definitely kicking in -- or the beginning of something far worse?
If the news is to be believed, it's possible that I'm infected but that the symptoms haven't appeared. It's also possible that when I finally leave the house -- eventually I'll need to go somewhere -- I'll be infected, notwithstanding every reasonable (or unreasonable) precaution I might take.
This sense of uncertainty is not unfamiliar to me. If anything, it defined years and possibly decades of my -- young, gay, closeted -- youth. I remember being petrified after my first gay kiss, being certain that I was going to die, even though I knew I was being illogical. And after I did more than kiss, the fear never went away; I'm sure most gay men -- particularly of a certain age -- know exactly what I'm talking about, and I'm also sure that a lot of people who are not gay men are being introduced to this kind of uncertainty -- this question of 'have I been infected by a deadly virus' -- which, if you let it, can become completely consuming to an extent that it overshadows whatever pleasures life has to offer, even or especially the small ones.
Let's hope that, at some point in the near future, this virus won't have to be so consuming; that we'll be able to go to a doctor or a clinic and find out in a few minutes whether we have the virus and, if so, get some medicine to treat it. (And not have to pay a ridiculous amount of money to do so.)
But until that time comes, I know from my own experience that it helps to focus on other things. For me, it's the new leaves of our Japanese maple.
And the red flowers of our cold-hardy camellia, which this year has multiple blossoms for the first time.
And the daffodils, cheerful and curious, a perfect flower for early spring.
And my gratitude that, for this period of time, that I am in a position to say that this day -- whatever day it is -- can be expected to look exactly like tomorrow.
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