What the Dickens Should We Do?

I could have used the first week of quarantine in these days of the coronavirus pandemic to finish writing several pieces I've wanted to write for weeks, months, years. I even have titles for some of them: "Mt. Baldy," "Pillow Talks," and "Fun Zone." But I didn't. Instead, I turned my entire daily routine topsy-turvy, taking long naps and then staying up to read in the wee small hours.

I could have read the books my book groups will tackle when our distancing precaution is over, Following Atticus and The Pioneers. But I didn't. Instead I sat entranced with Malcolm Gladwell's Talking to Strangers and the most current issues of The New Yorker.

I could have, would have, should have...but I've given up recriminations. Instead I'm reflecting on the things I did do in this new year, which somebody has mentioned seemed to have been scripted by Stephen King. 

I saw my physician in January for my annual checkup and an optometrist and ophthalmologist in February, got a laser treatment to clear the lens cap on my left eye and a new prescription for glasses. All before health care professionals weren't conscripted for attending to the urgently ill and vision centers weren't shuttered.

I shopped for essential toiletries before the mad toilet paper stampede made going to any open stores a bona fide health hazard.

I got to promote an anthology with one of my pieces, "An Arrested Development," at the fabled West Hollywood "Book Soup" which I'd always longed to explore.

I took in another stellar play, "Fun Home," at the Chance Theater with my son and daughter-in-law, followed by "Murder Runs in the Family" at my local Westminster Community Theater and a final performance of "The Great Gatsby" at the minuscule Maverick Theater, before entertainment venues were all closed.

I got to celebrate St. Patrick's Day, sipping excellent Bushmill's Irish whiskey safely alone with a close friend, when we made the wise decision to forego any crowds.

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of Light, it was the season of Darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair, we had everything before us, we had nothing before us, we were all going direct to Heaven, we were all going direct the other way – in short, the period was so far like the present period, that some of its noisiest authorities insisted on its being received, for good or for evil, in the superlative degree of comparison only.  --Charles Dickens

 

Sometimes We've Earned the Right to be Trite

A few weeks ago I got a message from a Facebook friend, a gentleman who grieved the loss of his wife, who had died a couple of years earlier. They'd been married for 51 years. In addition he now felt doubly heartbroken because a new love of just a couple of months had yet to make a decision to become fully committed to him. He alluded to "Magnificent Obsession," a 1929 novel by Lloyd C. Douglas, later made into a blockbuster film.

Unfortunately, all the wishing in the world will not bring our deceased loved ones back into our lives

Expecting new ones to replicate the devotion of lifelong loves might be overoptimistic. I felt so sorry for this man. In an effort to offer compassion, I replied that sometimes when we're grieving it often pays to take the focus off ourselves and our needs. I mentioned that I used to share with my patients who felt overwhelmed that they might begin their days by thinking of three things that they can do to help them keep putting one foot ahead of the other. First, find a way to help somebody else. Second, create something: draw, write, cook, make a list of future travel plans.

I didn't share that this past Christmas, when I felt betrayed and sad, I cleaned a sock drawer. Just creating order out of chaos cheered me up. Third, I'd written, seek something that's personally comforting. For me, that might be reading one of the books I've yet to get around to and discovering why it was considered a classic.

In return I received an emotional note saying he wasn't asking for a professional consultation and that the advice I'd given him was trite. He interpreted my last suggestion to mean that I'd treat myself to a piece of chocolate. He said his whole life was constructed on the "paying it forward" concept introduced in "Magnificent Obsession." So my mild nudge that he make a mindful plan now daily was "ultra trite."

OK. But right now we're undergoing a worldwide pandemic and the elderly have been increasingly isolated. We are not going back soon to the Good Old Days. Young people don't want to visit grandparents for fear of infecting them. Those of us in my apartment complex have been forbidden to congregate anywhere together, so all of our common areas, our pool, spa, recreation room, computer room and gym have been locked. Even our front gate is locked, making it difficult for potential visitors since we'd have to stand outside in the rain and click them in.

Now it's St. Patrick's Day. I won't be going to an Irish pub today, after all. All my plans for the next few weeks have, as yours, been put on hold. I'm reminding myself that even if we don't have access to movies, libraries, museums or coffee shops, we still may find some comforts. I'd like to share these with those who are feeling like it's hard to find any brightness in their day. Lavender candles and camomile tea still sound good to me. So does watching a couple of good movies.

But before I succumb to a chorus of "Poor me, poor us," I remind myself to count my blessings. After all my years overseas in developing countries, it's clear to me what they are right now. I have groceries in my cupboards. Some people I've lived with could only afford to buy a cup of rice at a time. I have a warm bed with blankets. Yesterday, right here in California, the world's fifth largest economy, I drove by homeless people trying to snuggle in their sodden blankets under an eave. I've received some St. Patrick Day cards in the mail and some by email, including an Irish jig in a Jacquie Lawson card. When I lived in Seychelles I was still receiving Christmas cards on Valentine's Day.

So, no, the jig isn't quite up yet. I'm holding on to hope.

Spirit Brighteners: https://www.verywellmind.com/how-to-cope-with-loneliness-during-coronavirus-4799661 

Why Elderly Feel Marginalized:https://www.apa.org/monitor/2019/05/ce-corner-isolation

How Other Countries Cope with Lockdown: https://www.bbc.co.uk/newsround/51904789

A Leap, a Spring and a Shamrock

Leap Year Weekend in Healdsburg

A week ago I realized two months had already passed since I sat mesmerized watching a sunny Rose Parade. I'd been sitting in an outdoor patio cafe in Healdsburg Leap Year Day, marveling at how the year was speeding by.

Somebody at the table mentioned that maybe it just seemed to go by faster as we grow older because time seems so endless when we're young. Now I'm wondering if that's true. I know that the summers of my teens seemed to drift on slowly, catching the bus to Hermosa Beach, standing in a wet bathing suit in the parking lot behind The Lighthouse, falling in love with cool jazz. And waiting for school to begin again in September.

Another friend tried to provide an explanation of this phenomenon, claiming that when we're young we have so much more to look forward to, getting through each grade toward graduation, choosing college or the military or a job that might lead to a career. Looking forward to marriage, raising a family.

So here it is, the eve of Spring Forward morning, when we return to another eight months of Daylight Savings Time, with longer afternoons and early evenings. What do I have to look forward to now? Well, after all it's March. So there's March Madness, the first day of spring, and my favorite, St. Patrick's Day, with limericks and the wearing of the green.

But wait...first I've got Friday the 13th. I'm celebrating that this year with a real turn back of the clock, back to the Roaring 20s.The storefront Maverick Theater in Fullerton brought my favorite F. Scott Fitzgerald novel its stage and I'm itching to see it. Maybe I can't do the Charleston any more, but I can still don some beads and swill a bit of gin.

So who says older folks have nothing to look forward to?