On top of everything else, now we have to learn a new language: lingua corona.
B.C., (Before COVID-19), only one out of 10 Americans knew about PPEs (personal protective equipment). Now we rush futilely from Costco to Walgreens to CVS, from Safeway to Kroger to Albertsons, seeking masks, gloves, visors, gowns, thermometers and, naturally, toilet paper and Spam.
That is, we used to do that before SIP (sheltering in place) took over. Now we sit in front of our TVs and tablets and phones, hoping there is enough bandwidth, and explain to our children why they can’t go to the playground or invite Jacob over for a playdate.
We are all telecommuting, putting in more hours than normal, missing the camaraderie of co-workers’ birthdays and speculation about management’s latest scheme to make us work more productively. We worry about the isolation of elderly shut-ins and drop food and flowers on their porches and wave.
If we go outside, nervously seeking fresh air or walking the dog or the little ones, we conscientiously practice SD (social distancing), whereby we don’t get closer than 6 feet from each other, calling out pleasantries or amiably grumping about it all.
If we feel hot or have a cough or get off an airplane or, heaven forbid, sneeze (into our elbow), we SQ (self-quarantine). If we really are sick, we call the doctor who explains it’s best if we SI (self-isolate) until the unlikely event when there is a test available.
We pore over the details. If you have COVID-19, you may lose your sense of smell or taste. We going around sniffing or opening the refrigerator door.
On the phone we trade horror stories we have gleaned from the newspaper or gossip or the latest Dr. Anthony Fauci briefing, also known as the Voice of Reason.
We stop boasting about how brilliant our children are (being around them 24/7, they seem slightly more ordinary) and casually mention that we managed to stockpile 10 rolls of TP, hoping to get a reaction of envy.
We ponder SDS (sports deficiency syndrome) and wonder if we will ever again see a ball, any ball, or a puck or even a shuttlecock thrown in competition on television.
We fret over whether our hometown will become a hot spot, and what that will mean. Is it possible that 75% of all restaurants in America will fail? Is it possible we’ll have a national lockdown! What would that mean?
We SHSH (stay home, stay healthy) but sometimes we do it because we don’t want to get cited for a misdemeanor. We cluck our tongues at those selfish young people with their beautiful young bodies cavorting on beaches or rooftop parties because they “don’t get it.”
We sit glued to the TV as famous scientists, pundits, doctors and government officials Skype because the studios are gone. We eagerly look at the backgrounds behind them to see how they live. Wow! What a collection of books, all arranged by color! A commercial offers a free bottle of hand sanitizer if you buy an SUV.
We develop new phrases: Pulling a Rand Paul means endangering your co-workers in the Senate before you get the results of your test, and you test positive. Going all Donald Trump means denying there’s a problem or blithely announcing it will all be over by glorious Easter morn because “we can’t let the cure (economic recession) be worse than the problem (death).”
We worry whether that strange reading on the thermometer means the battery is dying. Is it a hot flash? A burst of fury that the TV signal is down?
We eat and eat and eat, because there’s not that much else to do. We pick up “Rise and Fall of the Roman Empire” but our eyes keep drifting over to the TV. We vow to clean out the cluttered garage, but keep taking a “little break.” We start taking afternoon naps and walks.
And then we hear of the death of someone we know or someone famous. Or we learn that the lovely man and wife down the street who have the meticulously manicured lawn and hand out the best Halloween candy are desperately fighting for their lives in a hospital ICU.
And we are grateful, so very grateful, to self-quarantine and breathe deeply and do our part and count our blessings and to be able to worry about the future.
Ann McFeatters is an op-ed columnist for Tribune News Service. Readers can send her email at amcfeatters@nationalpress.com.
