Pandemic
by Keesia Hyzer
On March 10, 2020, I went out to dinner with my friend, Gretchen. Sharing fries and a bowl of pasta, we were jammed together at the bar at Fairchild, a small restaurant on Monroe Street. All the tables were full and a line snaked out the door. “What are you thinking about this virus?” she asked sipping her wine. “I’m not worried,” I bragged. “I’m fit and healthy.” Little did I know that evening would be the last time I would eat inside a restaurant for over a year.
A few weeks earlier, my husband, Tom, and I had been sitting at a cliffside restaurant overlooking the ocean in Ixtapa, Mexico, with newly found friends. We’ve vacationed here nearly every spring for twenty-five years and have become accustomed to at least a week of carefree roaming in the fishing village, reading under a beach umbrella, sopa de tortilla in an oceanside cafe. At a farewell dinner I suggested, “Maybe we can arrange to come at the same time next year.” “Sure,” said Doug. “If the plague doesn’t get us.” We all laughed, a bit nervously.
Back home at the grocery store I was surprised to find the shelves with hand sanitizer empty. Same story online on Amazon. Tom came home from Hy-Vee to report that he ran into a woman crying in the toilet paper aisle. When he asked what was wrong, she sobbed, “I’m just so happy they have toilet paper. I haven’t been able to find it anywhere.” Toilet paper?
Looking back at my 2020 Wisconsin Poet’s Calendar, I discover it is a chronicle of the Year of Pandemic. March 15, I wrote “Lockdown Begins.” I flip through subsequent dates. Weeks of empty pages and crossed out events followed. And then: Zoom with kids, 6:00; Facetime calendar meeting, Nancy and Gillian, 9:30; grocery delivery, Whole Foods, 3:00-4:00.
Adjustments to a world where an unseen virus swirled uncontrollably killing first hundreds, then thousands, then hundreds of thousands.
We quickly adopted a routine in our household of two: walking the dog twice a day was our ticket outside to see people, breathe without fear. When we approached someone coming in our direction, either we or the oncoming walker would detour to the street to maintain our distance. My husband, never a fan of yoga, began practicing with me every day. We found an online meditation (again, a new experience for my reluctant Tom) which we tuned into every day at noon.
A text thread of women friends became an almost daily ritual. “What are you doing right now? I’ve cleaned all the cupboards in the kitchen.” “Does anyone have an onion?” “Pasture and Plenty delivers food kits.” “What do you mean you’re going to the dry cleaners? Having your sweats dry cleaned?” “We’ve decided to postpone the wedding until September.” “They say this could last another two weeks. Sigh.”
Eventually we worked up to a “live” happy hour in my front yard. Everyone brought her own drink, glass and chair. We spread out over the driveway and the front lawn, laughing and drinking, to the amusement of my neighbors. We continued this throughout the summer, with the prerequisite of a “pre-tinkle” so that no one would have to go inside.
Among the many cancelled trips—a wedding in Vail, a mother-daughter trip to New Orleans, a Peace Corps reunion in Oregon, a trip to Mexico City to celebrate the Day of the Dead for my seventieth birthday with friend Julie. Instead, Kristi, Gretchen and Mary brought champagne, sushi, cupcakes and a goofy birthday hat to my backyard where we celebrated in the late October chill. Neighbors stopped by to wish me well with flowers and homemade cards, the phone buzzed with texts and calls. I later said to Tom, “I think that was my most special birthday ever.”
Our immediate neighborhood developed a camaraderie I have never experienced in my 35 years here. “I’m going to Gino’s. Who wants lasagna?” texted Kirsten. Cara: “We’re ordering Chinese from Nani’s. What can we bring you?” Me: “Everyone’s invited to our front yard for pre-Thanksgiving drinks. Bring your own everything. John, please bring a fire.”
The studio where I teach yoga closed that March along with the entire mushrooming yoga industry everywhere. Continuing to pay rent, I had every hope that it would open again. In June Tom suggested that I hold yoga classes in our back yard. And so began a weekly gathering of neighbors and yogis from my regular classes. It was a lovely, needed relief.
We all had our own “risk budget.” Playing golf was one of the few activities allowing us to be outside, socialize at a distance. But inside the clubhouse, around the pool, in the Golf Shop rules were unevenly followed. Some people wore masks, others didn’t. In general, the atmosphere made me uncomfortable. One day I had the grandchildren at the pool and got home to find an email explaining that two of the employees at the outdoor food shack where we had ordered lunch had tested positive for COVID. I was furious with myself for exposing them to danger. And frightened. My son was understanding and said he would watch the kids for any signs of illness. I joined the long line of cars at the Alliant Center for a COVID test. After two days of quarantine, I received the results: negative. I felt like a statistic.
People also used “risk budgets” differently for family contact. In the beginning, during lockdown, we saw our children and grandchildren but only at a distance. That system gradually gave way to seeing them in close contact. We would justify this by saying, “They’re part of our pod.” But as the number of cases and deaths soared in the fall and winter we returned to distancing and then not seeing them at all as the weather turned cold. Some people never changed their habits, gathering as usual for family holidays, traveling by plane to visit friends and family. “Don’t judge,” we constantly reminded each other. “We all have to make our own decisions.” And then the sobering realization that these could be life and death decisions.
Near the one-year anniversary of the pandemic, I read this quote in the New York Times: “The weirdness of the world became normal.” I began to mentally collect ways the weird became normal: Thanksgiving table laden with food, empty of family. Our five and seven year old grandchildren donning their tiny masks as if they’d been doing it all their lives. Hours spent on the computer ordering groceries online for pick-up or delivery. When groceries arrive, first the bags chill in the garage, next we wipe down everything with disinfectant and wash and dry all fruits and vegetables. We plan all week for a restaurant carry-out treat as Friday night entertainment. Soggy fries, cold Friday night fish fry, warmed up burgers, never so tasty.
A new vocabulary emerged: Zoom, doomscroll (obsessively scrolling through media expecting bad news), flatten the curve, superspreader, PPE (personal protective equipment), social distancing, “the Rona” short for Corona Virus. We bumped elbows instead of exchanging pathogens by shaking hands. Cars lined up for miles for food handouts and COVID tests. Emptiness on State Street. No shoppers, no cars. Businesses boarded up. For Rent signs. Closed. And finally, maybe most importantly, no national leadership. No recognition of the reality. No plan.
Also near the end of the first year of pandemic, the vaccination era. “The cavalry is coming,” said Dr. Anthony Fauci, our leading epidemiologist, for many of us the only voice of reason. Like everything during the previous year, we knew nothing about the “rollout” of vaccines. In the beginning, people made appointments wherever they could find them. I initially had our shots scheduled in Sheboygan, a three-hour drive away. Eventually we were offered shots at my husband’s former clinic where he had practiced medicine for 38 years. Our feelings ranged from jubilation to still more uncertainty. I felt no qualms about receiving the injection. The uncertainty came from not knowing how it would change our lives. We knew we needed to continue to wear masks, but could we eat in restaurants? Socialize with our other vaccinated friends inside? Finally feel comfortable with our grandchildren who were not eligible for vaccination?
In April 2021, we began to enter that transition period between vaccination and whatever came next. France and Italy were in lockdown again. Despite millions being vaccinated per day, the number of cases once again crept up. A new variant called the Delta emerged to sow fresh doubts. By mid-summer the numbers of vaccinations plummeted and became a political statement. Was there an end and if so, when?
I began to fill the pages of my calendar. Weekend of May 14—a trip to Minneapolis for Julie’s 70th birthday. Last week of May—babysitting with Otto in Denver. Kurt and Erika’s visit after July 4. A family trip to Minocqua cabin, mid-July. The possibility of starting up our yoga program for the residents at the jail again seemed probable.
In a New York Times editorial, David Brooks made the following predictions for late 2021: “We are going to become hyper-appreciators, savoring every small pleasure, living in a thousand delicious moments, getting together with friends and strangers and seeing them with the joy of new and grateful eyes.” I have great respect for Mr. Brooks and hope that I can share his optimism and predictions of joy. But what of the scars this pandemic has carved into our psyches? Especially those who have lost friends and family to the virus.
Recently I met a friend who I hadn’t spoken with all winter. As we were catching up, she became quiet. “My husband lost his 56- year- old brother. He was on a ventilator for eight weeks and couldn’t even see his family. When they finally took him off, he died in fifteen minutes. It was horrible.”
At the end of May 2021, I reveled in the celebration of my best friend’s 70th birthday. The weekend of celebrating ended with a sit-down dinner for fifteen in a formal dining room complete with china and silver. The fluttering candles lit up the faces of friends sitting shoulder to shoulder at the same table for the first time in fourteen months. As we shared food and wine, we relished the closeness of conversation, the privilege of raucous laughter, the simple touch of hands to arms. I looked around at the unspoken but clear joy in what we had once taken for granted—being together.
As we travel further into 2021, I will deeply inhale. On the exhale, I hope to let go of what I don’t need: a constant sense of dread, the stress of making life and death decisions, a fear of the unknown, loneliness and loss of life. And on the inhale, I hope to be grateful for newly found relationships, the quiet ability to appreciate the physical world, the spontaneity of visits with friends and family and listening more closely with deep empathy. And I will continue to wonder, what transformation will be next?
Keesia Hyzer, a retired high school English teacher, writes poetry and personal narrative for amusement, her family, and her enthusiastic writing group friends. She has published poems and personal narrative in Verse Wisconsin, Wisconsin Poets’ Calendar, YogaChicago, and Poetry Speaks. Keesia has also co-written several textbooks for English Language Learners.
