Tag: COVID-19

World on My Brain

It’s the last Sunday in March. A month that is usually a revival. A rebirth. A slow start to shed the hibernation fat if you’re in Vermont. The opening of pool season along the Strip if you’re in Vegas. This is our first March living in our home in Bretagne, and the flowers of someone else’s labor have sprung in pretty much every corner of our yard without warning. Little gifts of nature, from a cluster of mint lining the sidewalk next to pink tulips and a splash of jonquilles to the perfectly-formed, somewhat sensual calla lilies that remind me of our wedding day ten years ago. It’s this magic, this cycle-of-seasons uplift, that has kept my spirits high in what has otherwise been a month of unprecedented actions. Contamination. Closures. Confinement. Fear. Fatigue. Illness. Questions of what and why and for how long. Masks and gloves and a lack of masks and gloves. Risking health to grab eggs and meeting the eyes of strangers that all say the same thing: Is this really happening?

And in this, the real March Madness, the disparity of our privilege is something that keeps me up at night. Romain asks me if I’m okay when I’m tossing around at 3 AM, but the answer lately is always the same: I’ve got the world on my brain. Here in France, we have been ordered to at-home confinement since mid-March until at least April 15. This is not a lax shelter-in-place announcement but rather a strict command, the consequences of which are large fines. So imagine being in a small, urban apartment with multiple family members with no access to a terrace or green space – and the sounds of neighbors facing a similar reality stomping and thumping through paper-thin walls. Imagine being elderly or handicapped and having to figure out how the hell to get the services you need when the world outside has essentially been shut down. And to be homeless. To have no defined domicile, no safe, clean space from which you can ride this pandemic out. And here I am. I can’t imagine. Somehow a series of life decisions have placed us here in this moment with undeniable privilege. I’ve pulled the machete out a few times this week to spend time outside and blaze more trails in the thick grass of our backyard. I woke up last night as the wind howled to check on our tent pitched between the bay laurel tree and patio slab. I’m writing from the quiet of our bedroom where I can shut the door, rest in bed, and have a moment to myself. I retrace our decisions: what if we had taken the apartment in the center of Vannes? What if we were still living with my in laws? My parents? What if I had never changed jobs? What if we were back in Vermont and making a relentless go at trying to feed the financial needs of an outrageously expensive cost-of-living/healthcare/childcare machine that never seemed satiated? I have learned to live forward, but in a circumstance like this, I can’t help but to reflect and wonder and let this and that world on my brain simmer and stir.

This will be the week that the medical teams across France will be pushed past the breaking point. Because cities and global economies and government structures might come to a screeching halt for COVID-19, but pathogens will not. Our fallible nature and mortality will not. Nurse and doctors and emergency response teams continue to handle their pre-COVID-19 calls: accidental trauma, heart failure, overdose, amputation. Car crash, suicide, emergency birth by c-section. So how do you make room for a pandemic? How do you prep your team for non-stop hysteria? The hysteria: those not infected but who think they are (because of a cough or fever or other general symptom or paranoia – and rightfully so) flocking to the ER. The hysteria: those diagnosed who need to be treated and placed in quarantine flocking to the ER. The hysteria: those diagnosed who are succumbing who need a bed and a ventilator and other specialized treatment that an ICU provides. The hysteria: death. The dead. 2300+ and counting.

So I’ve got the world on my brain. My fellow humans in my heart, especially the caretakers and caregivers and medical magicians who give and give and sleep for 3 hours if lucky and give some more and make things “better” again. Their sense of duty and diligence, despite the need to perhaps care for family – and the need we all have to take care of ourselves. When did we become machines…

I pick up my coffee mug each morning, and the words of John Muir stare me down: The mountains are calling, and I must go. Here in Bretagne, c’est le Gulfe du Morbihan whose shores and changing tides and cold waters tug at the heart. We’re all aching to smell that ocean air and roll up our jeans to splash and laugh and take in a panoramic gaze at the beauty in front of us. But we wait. Those waters will be there. For now, we stay here.

Prout Prout Prout

Last night’s home confinement excitement was the arrival of a very large John Deere tractor in our neighborhood around 18h. Those John Deere shades of mechanical green and yellow always make me think of Vermont and farms and lambing season. In another life, I would live in a oversized patchwork dress stained with red wine and full of quick hand-made repairs to loose threads and mysterious rips (like the one I bought in 2003 from a friperie in Paris). And I’d roam my garden of herbs and peonies, yellow roses and bougainvillea surrounding koi ponds – and a meadow where my lamb babies would roam and bounce and bleat. Unfortunately, this tractor wasn’t on duty to deliver anything small, furry, and cute. Rather, it was hauling a massive empty tank and a set of nasty pipes that would soon go to work pumping out all the sludge from a neighbor’s septic tank through a hole in their back yard.

Let me remind you: we’re in the middle of a pandemic. It’s complete home confinement and permission slip-controlled activity around here, which means everyone is home and looking for something to distract them. And you better believe that everyone was looking at this giant machine with great anticipation to see a late afternoon shit show. Literally.

The lone driver was a young guy who couldn’t have been more than 23. First came the noise – some kind of whirring that was probably a vacuum within the tank. Nina and I looked at each other, and I lifted her up to peek as far as we could over our fence without being too obvious that we needed entertainment. And then came the smell, one unmistakably of all things bathroom business. Prout Prout Prout we sang. A little pet here and another pet there. Here a pet, there a pet, everywhere a pet pet. (This is the kind of stuff we sing. I’m not proud. But I’m honest.) When we got to the upstairs bathroom to draw the water for Nina’s bath, I realized I had a direct shot at everything that little guy was doing in the neighbor’s yard. He was using that hose as a giant straw through which the vacuum in the tank was sucking up tons of shit sludge from a hole the size of a car tire to travel the distance of my neighbor’s house, up over a fence, and into that tank. And, who knows, maybe it’s because we are in the middle of a pandemic that this guy wasn’t wearing any gloves. It bothered me for a second. Bu then, do you care about fecal germs when this is our reality? Probably not.

I wish I could say the hose came loose and started whirling about like some Pecos Bill episode involving a lasso and a tornado. But there was none of that. Just your typical septic tank cleaning in the middle of a pandemic.

Since yesterday, a few updates have come down the line:

— No use of bicycles while exercising. Run – run with your child – but that’s it.

— The marché in Vannes is going to actually be open tomorrow. They’ve moved 40-50 food-only vendors to an open-air park and will only allow up to 100 visitors at at time. I feel for small businesses, but I don’t understand the logic here. We’re literally locked in for an indefinite period of time and need a permission slip to leave the house. But the market is okay to organize and attend? I’m confused.

Back to singing prout prout prout and wondering what’s next.

Five Minutes in a Photo Booth in the Middle of a Pandemic

Nina is singing while she dresses paper fairies in a sticker book I snagged at Carrefour yesterday:

hohohohccccccackkkcackcackcackhuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhcocococococo cwa cwa cwa cwa yeeeee attends moi woc woc woc et le neee neee nee umadhhhmehhh maman je veux jouer avec mon playdough yup-pyuu pyuu, yup-pyu pyuuu, cahhhhhhhhh.

About an hour earlier, she was asking me to name things that are jaune. She did not believe me that birds are yellow, and somehow that feathered creature conversation has subconsciously flown itself into the depths of her tout-petit brain stem so that the only song she can sing right now literally is that of a morning bird. A small but resilient morning bird (the kind that can wind their way through my rose bushes at full speed without getting pricked) that is overstimulated from the chocolate morsels that swirled their way into my bowl of pancake batter and onto a certain three-year olds breakfast plate earlier today.

This is day one/morning one of a 15-day home confinement in France.

We sensed this was coming and knew it had to happen when the news reports Sunday night showed scenes of city goers continuing on with life as if nothing was happening. Ca me deprime were the words of one man interviewed when asked about the crowds of people hanging out behind him despite the recent order to stay home and avoid assembling. Was it defiance against being told by the political machine what to do? Was it a unique disregard that stems from a fundamental lack of roots most have grown in their cultivation of empathy and compassion for others? Was it simply fear and a lack of courage on display – because doing what is uncomfortable/being vulnerable requires everything brave within us? Probably a mix of it all.

In any case, I started hearing reports yesterday morning that full confinement orders were being finalized and prepped for public presentation. My biggest concern, apart from not being able to get to my in laws and help if needed, has been my appointment scheduled next week for the renouvellement de mon titre de sejour. Of course. My visa appointment had to fall in the middle of a pandemic. So while all of France was readying themselves with caddies of food and drink – or driving to summer homes to escape the city (I heard reports of a big uptick in ferry traffic to Belle-Île), I was at Carrefour yesterday camped out at the copying machine trying to finalize a dossier that awaits with impatience its date with the prefecture. 31 copies and 6,20 euros later, I was done with step one. I realized that I had no cash left to operate the photo booth to get my ID photos for step two, so I went to the bank, returned, and stood at the accueil to wait for someone to break my 10. But I soon learned that no one is going to voluntarily come to you and your germ-infested bank note in the middle of a pandemic. And if you stand at the accueil long enough by yourself in the middle of a pandemic, you’ll soon be overcome with an eerie sense of impending doom as your eyes pan the aisles anticipating a scene from a robert kirkman thriller and bring this reality into view: the store will be packed with people, the store will be silent from noise, and the store will be absolutely empty of food. There are exceptions.

— I saw a lot of disappointed pineapple, two heads of green cabbage (the kind you expect to find babies growing in), a sad box of eight forgotten kiwis, a few pears, and two barquettes of baby tomatoes (now in our pantry). A few packs of shrimp. A freezer full of smoked salmon spreads and the like. Two packages of magret de canard, sliced thin. A half row of ham in the bio section.

— A woman of about 70+ walked into the store and rushed passed me, suddenly pausing. Il y a une guerre ou quoi? Il n’y a plus de rien. (Is there a war or what? There’s nothing left.) I turned and met her eyes which were red and weepy. A routine cold or a consciousness that only hard-lived experience can invoke? I almost wish for the cold.

— There was a store employee with a scarf wrapped tight around her neck as she moved around with so much speed that I almost remember her being on wheels. Once customers caught on that this woman was giving 200% to helping anyone in need find a substitute for items on their shopping lists, they flocked to her. And my eyes stayed on her. Stayed on her scarf. It was red white and blue and full of stars. An American flag. I stared. I’m sure I opened my lips and mouthed mom. I thought of home. This home. That home. The global home. What the hell is going on? Will Nina believe us when she’s 17 and listening to me recount the time the world stopped?

I made it out of the store. Arms full of my long-loved Trader Joe and HEB bags and two sacks of dog food. I eventually found someone at the accueil to break my 10, and I spent 5 minutes in a photo booth in the middle of a pandemic. The stool was too low, so my squats came into good use as I had to balance my thighs to get me leveled at just the right height. Doing this + trying to push the right button to start the camera without my glasses on is a skill. I took the first round of photos without using my two extra attempts and drove home. Once I got a chance to really look at those photos, I touched my face on the photo paper. Dear girl. Dear me. The face of giving everything you’ve got in the middle of a pandemic. I wake up each night in a deep sweat, even if the window is open. My eyes beat the 6 AM alarm by minutes. I do my best to let the little things tumble by. I read 3-4 children’s books a night in two languages and fall asleep in a toddler bed, always brushing my teeth before dumping myself into our bed down the hall. And there’s work and being a partner and being my own human all folded up in there. So that face. Dear girl. Dear me.

After dinner, we crowded on the couch and quickly found the channel for the presidential address. Someone was live transcribing the words coming out of Macron’s mouth, and I couldn’t help notice the corrections they’d make on the screen as words were typed incorrectly, deleted, and type correctly again. Nous sommes en guerre. Nous sommes en guerre. We are at war declared Macron. We must all do our part to get through this. Businesses will have their overhead fees, like utilities and rent, waived. Associations will be given funding to support residents in need of food. And we will be in confinement for 15 days. In order to leave the house, we will have to print out a permission slip to present if/when asked by the authorities. Even to go for a run.

There’s not much more to say. It just has to be done. Nature will get us through this. Coloring and playdough will get us through this. Being reasonable and understanding will get us through this.

Dear girl. Dear me.

When this is all over, I will be making a trip back to that photo booth. To record the face of what one looks like on the other side. To test my thighs in that 5-minute squat. To find that woman with the scarf and share a smile and probably way more than she wants to hear.

Somewhere Between Motown & Modest Mouse

I woke up this morning wanting to read anything I could that did NOT make reference to COVID-19 or remind me that my fellow humans are engaging in shouting matches with store employees (who are psychologically and physically exhausted and still trying to serve) over bottled fucking water. WE CAN DO BETTER HUMANS. My reality at the moment – along with the 67 million others here in France – is that we are shutting down and being told to stay home (except if you want to go and vote today – voting or bust apparently – that’s another story) care of l’arrêté du 14 mars 2020. This rocks everyone’s world with a far-ranging scope of effects that I am (with all my gratitude) privileged enough to be financially/mentally/physically prepared for at this moment in time yet empathetic enough to understand the WHY behind it. France is the proverbial meat patty wedged between two hamburger buns: Italy and Spain. COVID-19 has it’s jaws pressed firmly into each bun, and as those viral dents clench tighter to bite down and chew, it’s our steak haché that’s going to get more than its share fair of the feels.

Lame food metaphors aside, France is going to feel this. The world at large is going to feel this. And the lack of care towards pro-actively making the effort to reduce the impact (along with the absurdity that results with mass hysteria/only listening to these related sound bites) surprises me but doesn’t, sadly. As one message I scrolled past on social media this morning stated, yes, I’d probably be fine if I fell ill. But it’s the others who’d catch the virus from me who might not be able to survive. If you don’t believe this, I challenge you to the following: reach out to someone elderly near you and propose a helping hand. Do it via telephone – don’t just show up at their house (because depending where you are, they might want to avoid all in-person interaction right now to keep themselves alive). See what kind of response you get. I woke up yesterday and thought about an older Irish woman whom I’d met a few weeks earlier in the woods while hiking. We’ve come across each other a few times since then and exchanged numbers at some point (it’s nice to have an English speaker sometimes for a lazy afternoon chat). So I thought about her, knowing that she was in the age group of those who are most at risk right now, and I sent her a text that started like this: I just wanted to send a message to say hello. With this virus going around, please let me know if there’s anything that Romain and I can do to help if you need something from the store but don’t want to get out.

About half an hour later, I received her response which began like this:

Hello Joani, I was very touched by your offer. For the moment, no problem though I have cancelled all activities since the case was reported in Auray. I have an auto immune problem plus fragile lungs, so I prefer to be careful.

Rien à dire de plus.

Onward. We lead these next few uncertain weeks with a full heart, full cups of coffee, and a full playlist. Today we were somewhere between Motown and Modest Mouse.

Nina woke up at 7:45 AM with her signature appel: Mamaaaan. Mamaaaaaaaaaaaaaan. When that happens, there’s a 98% chance that she’s going to kick Romain out of her room if he attempts to go see her in my place. As these stats don’t lie, that’s exactly what happened. After I got her to the potty and back, she was focused on playing solo in her room which meant I got to read (eye-opening piece on giraffes). In bed. In the morning. With our beautiful magnolia tree blooming and beaming at me through the bedroom window. BECAUSE IT WAS NOT RAINING. And Nina brought us (imaginary) coffee and breakfast treats (wooden necklace beads, plastic veggies, and viennoiseries made out of felt that my MIL crafted last year).

Cue Please Mr. Postman.

Breakfast was a melange of three separate dishes: spinach and eggs (Romain), pain au chocolat with a fruit bowl (Nina), and my usual yogurt + granola + one banana mix. Real coffee. Pajamas. No rush to be anywhere but here.

I Can’t Help Myself (Sugar Pie, Honey Bun).

Wrapped up the first half of the day with more time in the kitchen and flour in Nina’s hair. My secret mom ingredient is cream of tarter. With it, I have made play-dough for children in three different countries that out rolls/out lasts anything that you’ll buy at the store. Nina can now recite the recipe which I share here in hopes that caretakers can use it – and then take a breather while kids stay creative: 1 cup flour, 1/4 cup salt, 2 tsp cream of tarter. Mix in a pot on the stove. Turn on your heat, add 1 cup of warm water and a tiny drop of oil. Stir at a high heat until that mass thickens up (don’t stop stirring). Add in any food coloring and be done. Take out and knead a bit. Let it cool off before you hand it over to your little people. You’re welcome.

One Chance. And pretty much all of Good News for People Who Love Bad News (except Black Cadillacs – little ears over here).

Jumping off for more reading. As Brené Brown writes, what stands in the way becomes the way. So I’m keeping my way filled with what I can control, what brings me joy, and flexibility so that I don’t get stuck and lose sight of the light ahead when things do get tough (because they will – but we are resilient beings). This too shall pass my friends.

In the Heart of a Pandemic

It’s been some time since I’ve come here to write. Perhaps this is because I spend my professional life online, capturing behind-the-scenes product logic and details from the trans-Atlantic mouths of my brilliant, code-filled colleagues and transforming it into digestible material for our clients. I absolutely love it. But when my work day ends, my WANT TO DO list looks something like this:

  1. See my girl.
  2. See my man.
  3. See my dog.
  4. Color. We have a family set of map pencils, crayons, and markers that get put to good use each late afternoon alongside some good tunes and drinks. This is our family apero.
  5. Actually complete a full crossword puzzle (this is me dreaming – I get a puzzle in MAYBE once a month).
  6. Read. Brene Brown’s Dare to Lead sits with a bookmark on page 47 next to a thin paperback in French that I grabbed months ago in town.
  7. Get outside. Nature is constantly calling.
  8. Soak in any sun that might find a way to shine through given that it’s been raining in Bretagne since October.
  9. Prune my rose bushes. Machete off dead branches from my banana tree. Snip away flowers and weeds from our very Honey I Shrunk the Kids yard (we haven’t cut the grass since October).
  10. Get in a full phone conversation with my mom and dad (that’s not interrupted by a certain 42-month old needing to ask “Maman, le requin mange quoi? Et le toucan?”).
  11. NOT look at a screen.
  12. NOT sit in front of a computer.

So with that, I’ve purposely distanced myself away from technology during my “me” time in a concerted effort to give space to those people and things that bring joy to my life. Yet, with our current COVID-19 situation, I need to give space to documenting what is quickly reshaping all of our routines.

Two weeks ago we met some friends at a movie theatre in Vannes. There’s always some kind of toddler-focused programming going on, and we love a good film (with popcorn – they sweeten it instead of adding butter here). It’s usually two short films followed by a slightly longer third one, and each one has their own respective artistry on display. Whether you’re nearly 4 or 40, the programming is thoughtful, and I appreciate how the theatre staff is involved with greeting the children, introducing the films, and handing out an activity pamphlet that keeps our child busy when we go to eat lunch afterwards.

Back to the movie: we noted in our conversation with friends that the COVID-19 situation was something to keep an eye on. But we were still out. The theatre was full of other families. Even in the rain, the street sidewalks were dotted with umbrellas. Our post-film creperie was packed as usual. A routine Saturday looked and felt like a routine Saturday.

The next day, the first COVID-19 cases in our area were announced. And a cap of 5,000 people was put into place for the max limit allowed in public assemblies. The buzz around COVID-19 was taking off. And though we weren’t still sure what this meant, we talked about it a lot with the initial conversation thread being something like this: WTH is really going on with COVID-19? It’s wrapped its wheels around the global media circuit and steamrolled forward, leaving environmental and social issues in the dust for now.

I’ve kept my ears open to information coming in from reliable sources amid an inundation of news. For me, this has included tracking what’s been happening at a local level via the Prefet du Morbihan. They’ve done a great job of harnessing social media to reach the community, posting a regular “point de situation” each day, and responding to questions from the public.

It’s also meant staying attentive to Italy and the situation which continues to unfold there because this story is the one that demonstrates what we could be facing in France. The key points that rest in my mind are:

  • An aging population has the highest risk. And France has a large aging population.
  • No matter how much infrastructure exists at present to support those who are ill, there is not enough infrastructure to meet the needs when the young and healthy fall ill alongside the elderly and anyone with a compromised immune system. ALL AT THE SAME TIME. There simply will not be enough medical staff and ICU beds and specialized equipment to meet these needs.

It’s these two points that sit heavy on my mind. I have been calm – and rational. We wash our hands. We live in a very small, rural village, so it is easier for us to distance ourselves from others. But I think about my neighbors in this community, one where every association is geared towards retirees because most people are retired. They are part of this aging population who will be most affected in the coming weeks days.

I went to the grocery store today a little after lunch time, and the parking lot was eerily empty. The first two rows closest to the entrance are usually packed. Today I probably counted 12-15 cars in the entire parking lot of six rows.

Inside the store, everyone was at least 60+ years old – and very much keeping to themselves. I wondered how many of them had to pep talk themselves into getting into their car to grab extra items today. I was humbled by the fact that the aisles were stocked with toilet paper and bottled water and all the things people in other areas/countries seem to be running towards (like the Best Buy big screens on Black Friday). One woman was in the yogurt aisle with her cloth handkerchief that she used to discreetly dab at her runny nose. I thought, the risk for her is everything – to be elderly and perhaps afflicted with a minor cold – but needing to come to the store. Who do you call to grab the basics when, well, you have no one to call?

That whole grocery store trip felt off. All of this feels off.

Fast forward to a few hours ago: all schools nation-wide are being closed in France as of Monday, March 16.

We’re in the heart of a pandemic.

I need to sleep on this to process what our dear France will become in they days, weeks ahead. And of course, my mind turns to the large-scale question of what will WE become? Will we check in on each other and act with patience and compassion? Or will the worst of us be on display – will we see a global state of “each human for themselves”?

For now, I look to nature. That beauty will be what saves us all right now. With the forecast finally showing multiple days of sun, we will retreat to the yard for more of maman’s wacky gardening habits – and mud pies with flower soup. We will retreat to the forest for a quick run in the early morning and late afternoon. We will retreat to the beach to search for shells at low tide and breathe in that fresh, cool Atlantic air that stirs the body into taking a deep afternoon nap. I have a feeling that we will all need as much rest as we can get to fuel us as we move forward.