The curtain is closing around America. In one week, everything has changed. The inexorable threat that has been invisibly barreling down at us is now giving evidence of its arrival. Ominous vibrations of the rails, dirt jumping on the tie rods, tell us the train is on the tracks. It’s coming.
This is a unique moment in the history of this country and one that woke me up before my alarm already composing my thoughts. Shortly, the sound of the train’s whistle will be audible to all except the utterly deaf and the long puffs of steam will be visible to all but the utterly blind. There is no genius to the prognostication that there will be a great toll of human suffering in the coming weeks and there is little point to remarking on that fact.
The arrival of COVID-19 has gone from an intellectual exercise to an emotional one that has been accompanied by a spasm of hurried preparation. Though I don’t condone the hoarding of toilet paper, I understand the impulse to stock up on items we would rather not live without knowing that challenging times are ahead. The true panic arose in those who thought we would somehow be immune and that the dearth of cases was meaningful, even in the profound lack of testing. Many seemed to believe this was a foreign disease, even as it transitioned from China (very foreign) to Italy (not as foreign), but it now shows its face as American as apple pie, waving the stars and stripes and singing the National Anthem.
More importantly, even for those of us who have watched the numbers and studied the insidious behavior of this beastie, things are different now. Confirmed cases pop up closer to home and the threat I knew lurked in our communities is starting to show itself. We stocked up weeks ago, weeks before the rush, but it didn’t feel like we were about to be carried on a wave, thrust off our feet by a natural force that we cannot control. We can only choose where to stand on the beach and we chose to stand pretty damned close to the ocean.
At this moment, we are the sand piper pumping its little legs running away from the approaching wave. The bird can spread its wings and fly above the ocean but we cannot, so we run—or try to—as fast as we can. The wave will hit us; the question is not if but when and how much. Run, little sand piper, run.
Here is the thing: the sand piper is an individual creature that makes the decision to stand too close to the ocean and to run when it can, but our current emergency is a collective effort. Right now, social distancing is the only tool we have left to try to make this disaster manageable. Doing it is not simply an act of self-preservation but one of community responsibility.
This crisis arrives in the midst of divisive politics and divisive thinking. The initial response, bifurcated by political lines, is now unified by a single goal: help your neighbors; think of your community; protect the vulnerable; save your fellow Americans. As horrifying and ominous as this moment is, it is also glorious and wonderful, an unexpected about-face to bitter gnashing of teeth.
To be fair, many people are being dragged kicking and screaming into the effort and many others are terrified of the personal consequences of a protracted economic slowdown. These are real and legitimate issues but fortunately are also visible to lawmakers and governments. In the same spirit, we will get through this and we will do everything we can to make sure that the American people survive as unscathed as possible.
This moment in our country’s history also coincides in an important personal one, the two-year anniversary of the death of my son Colin. Everything we are going through as a nation feels very familiar to me. We knew for several years that his brain cancer was incurable, yet he endured and we kept finding pathways to give him more time. After we struggled in despair through Christmas, he reached his ninth birthday, then the next Christmas, then his tenth birthday and another Christmas, before his brain was too crowded out to keep his little body going.
The entire time, we knew what was going to happen but lived in the moment until his moment did ultimately arrive. In the meantime, he joined the Ithaca Police Department and had a stellar career with the force, finding satisfaction in an ongoing relationship with his comrades and the community. He was Officer Colin and he emblemized hope and commitment to helping each other.
I am glad that Colin didn’t have to live through this, but it feels like he is here. He would have been frustrated by social distancing and would have decried the selfish emptying of shelves driven by fear instead of necessity. However, he believed deeply in the importance of helping others and he would have embraced that mission, not just through social distancing.
I am seeing it now: people checking in on each other and neighbors finding ways for the vulnerable to reach out for help even if they’re not connected by social media. It is the video chat drinks and the random texts, the overwhelming number of volunteers offering to help the school system provide meals to children and families in need. This is Colin.
Personally, I feel acutely prepared for this after dealing with the upending of our lives that came with Colin’s initial diagnosis. Ask any cancer parent who’s endured the rigors of high-dose chemo: the vigilance, the hand washing, the fear of contact are all part and parcel of that experience. These are obvious and non-trivial parallels, but it truly goes deeper than that.
I have described it as passing through the veil and becoming a cancer parent. It’s a one-way door. The world changes on a dime: routines, priorities, and goals. Things that you took for granted are now different. Was our child going to survive? Would he ever be able to eat, walk, or talk again? The future Colin that we had imagined before the diagnosis evaporated in a second, not to mention the upheaval of treatment and a surprise move to Memphis for nearly a year.
We cancer parents understand the chaos that is now happening on a national level. So many questions and a vast sea of uncertainty beyond the health and medical concerns. Will the kids finish the school year? Probably not. Sports, formals, graduation and the concomitant parties, all gone. This is a season rife with disappointment and unexpected change.
Yes, I get that this is disorienting and distressing, but I also know there is light at the end of the tunnel. I walked out the other side the better for it. At the moment, I see a massive orientation around what is most important in life. Everything else gets sloughed off and what I see remaining is our connection to others. Social distancing is generating new manifestations of social outreach and it is forcing people into a community mindset.
How enduring these changes will be is uncertain. As with all things, your mileage will vary. I am especially curious about the softening of political boundaries once the intense need for national unity recedes. In this moment, I would like to imagine that it will persist at least in some form and that tragedy can bring with it constructive good. Colin is next to me, whispering in my ear, “Never give up on your dreams.”
