March to March - Annus Horribilis
In 1992, Queen Elizabeth, after a devastating fire at Windsor Castle and after seeing the marriages of her children come to an end, referred to the year as “annus horribilis.
Your Majesty: Hold my beer. 1992 has nothing on 2020.
One year ago, March 11, was when we first heard the word pandemic used to describe the spread of coronavirus, the dreaded COVID-19.
I was just back from the BIG 10 Basketball Tournament in Indianapolis, where my fellow Rutgers Women’s Basketball fans and I went to games and mingled with the thousands of people also in attendance. We chatted with strangers wearing their team colors, used handrails, public restrooms, concession stands and we ate inside restaurants.
We brought disinfectant wipes and hand sanitizer and swabbed down the seats and the tray tables on the plane on our way back on March 8, understanding that this Coronavirus had nothing to do with the beer of the same name, but without having any real understanding of what it would become.
Two weeks, they told us. Just stay home and don’t do anything for two weeks. Who knew that two weeks would turn into 52 weeks – and more – of a lockdown?
Suddenly, the world stopped. Schools were canceled – for two weeks. College students on spring break were told not to come back. Some foolhardy ones decided not to compromise their spring break plans and partied anyway. Some came down with the virus.
The first thing that gave me pause and perspective was the story of a New Jersey family who had gathered for a family event and at least seven people came down with COVID. The grandmother died without even knowing a daughter and son had already passed away. That made the story relatable to me.
Meanwhile, two weeks stretched on. Teachers were suddenly expected to be experts at remote education. Employees had to figure out how to work from home and provide care for their home-bound children while doing so. I kept waiting for the internet to crash!
I canceled doctor appointments and stretched out trips to the supermarket to every other week, stocking my freezer, preparing food as if Armageddon was near. And it was. People were up at midnight, vying for precious slots to have their groceries delivered. And through it all, the employees at the supermarket worked. They are heroes, too.
A year ago, people panicked about toilet paper. Hoarders would scoop up packages that were on the shelves. People got into fights over greed. And the shelves became bare. I never ran out, but I have been counting squares ever since. I wonder if I will ever stop.
No more traveling, gatherings, trips to restaurants, Broadway shows, and movies. Grandparents couldn’t see their grandchildren, even the brand-new ones.
No more hugs, no more kisses. No hanging out with friends. No visiting sick people in the hospital. Just isolation and Zoom calls for church services, cocktail parties and book club meetings.
Thank God for Zoom, right? We have spent a year looking at people on that Brady Bunch screen. The phrase of the year had to be “You’re on mute.”
Businesses closed, people lost their jobs and health care workers became heroes as they provided care – sometimes in a patient’s dying moments – as the hospitals became overwhelmed. Bless their souls for what they did and continue to do. In cities and suburbs, people went to their windows and banged pots and pans in their honor.
Restaurants closed or morphed into take-out places. Pizza joints, with plenty of take-out experience, thrived. Fine dining languished as officials closed down indoor dining and gatherings of any size.
Reaching the unemployment office to file a claim became an obsession as systems failed and people could not file their claims for money they needed and were entitled to get.
Weddings were postponed, funerals did not take place, and loved ones could not spend time with their relatives as they lay dying in the hospital.
There were no class reunions, no proms, no senior class trips, no live graduations, mostly replaced by our new favorite word, VIRTUAL, ceremonies.
I didn’t get a haircut for four months and finally took matters and scissors into my own hands. If you didn’t look at the back of my head, you’d say it didn’t look bad. Even my hair stylist was impressed.
Everyone – from regular folks like me to health officials – scrambled to figure out the best way to NOT get this scourge, while politicians either told us it was no big deal and would go away in the spring when the weather got warmer or they began presenting the grim statistics of the daily death toll. It was hard to figure out whom to believe. The so-called experts had never dealt with anything like this and they were making up the game plan as they went along.
I happened to have masks in the house from a previous respiratory illness and I began wearing one on the rare occasions I left the house even though there was no immediate directive recommending or mandating that we do so.
People started making their own masks. Kind friends made me some and sent them to me unsolicited. And I bought masks, too. Who knew they would become a fashion statement? By the beginning of 2021, I was double masking, using a KN-95 with another mask over it for my runs to ShopRite. And I keep a mask on a hook by the front door in case a delivery comes and I have to interact with the driver.
Meanwhile, once masks wearing became mandated, some people claimed they had medical conditions and should be exempt from wearing masks or that it was their freedom to refuse to wear them - other people be damned. There was an incredible display of selfishness and stupidity. Some people suddenly thought of themselves as epidemiologists, claiming they knew masks didn't work. These are probably the same people who failed science class in high school.
You couldn't cross state lines. Individual states set up their own rules for who could get into the state. If you spent the winter in Florida from NJ, good luck getting back. There was mandated quarantining with no way to enforce the rules.
And there were deaths. And more deaths. And COVID cases began piercing my inner circle. People I knew got sick. Some died. And we still don’t know the long-term effects. When a healthy 30-year old I know who liked to climb mountains posted that she was several weeks into her recovery from COVID and could barely breathe or walk, I was shocked.
No more than 50-60,000 were expected to die, the president said. One day, it would all just go away, he claimed.
Today, we have seen in this country alone more than 500,000 deaths. To give this number context, think about the capacity of the Rose Bowl and imagine that everyone there was killed. And then imagine that happening five times – that’s the staggering number of people lost.
Everyone should get tested, some said. But there is too much testing, said the president, insisting that the more tests there are, the more cases we will find. But don’t we WANT to know who is infected so they can be quarantined? Denying the numbers is like me refusing to get on the scale so I don’t see that I have gained weight. But then, where to go to get tested?
In my active senior community, our clubhouses were shut down and the residents took to the streets, walking, running, biking – anything to keep them active since all the amenities that we moved here to use were no longer available.
Isolating in my comfortable house was not like being imprisoned. I could take a walk, watch movies, read books, talk to my friends – but I had so much trouble concentrating. I was scared and worried about the health and well-being of everyone, including myself. And I know so many other people who felt the same way, unable to read a book or think about anything but this ubiquitous disease. I couldn’t engage my mind on anything else. I doomed-scrolled social media, watched the evening news like never before and felt untethered and overwhelmed.
And even as COVID stuck around and got worse, a new epidemic of racial injustices knocked it off the front page when George Floyd was murdered by a police officer whose knee was on Floyd’s neck long enough to kill him. That horrific act, seen on TV everywhere, touched off riots and the discussion about how 400 years of racial injustice was much more than could or should be tolerated. As a white person, I felt guilty and ashamed of my own white privilege. I understood that all lives can’t matter unless Black Lives Matter.
The injustices against Black people and people of color demanded better education and understanding from all of us. We cannot tolerate being a society where ALL people don't have equal opportunities to work, to advance, to vote, to excel, to contribute to society. I didn’t even know what Juneteenth was then, but I do now. I took the opportunity to get involved in discussions on race and health inequities. All of this was eye-opening and long overdue.
Sports was largely gone from the scene. I found myself watching a cornhole tournament one day. The Rutgers Men’s basketball team, on the cusp of being selected to play in the NCAA Basketball Tournament for the first time in 30 years, was instead removed from the court with just minutes to go before they were to play their first BIG 10 Tournament game. Both Tournaments were cancelled, along with the remainder of the NBA season. In the summer, all of the teams in the WNBA played in Florida in a controlled environment they called the “Wubble.” I watched more WNBA games than ever before, hungry for basketball.
I quarantined my mail, leaving it in the garage for at least 24 hours before bringing it into the house. I did my grocery shopping and immediately came home, showered and washed my clothes. Hand washing became a ritual.
Meal planning, prep, cooking and clean-up became a constant, interrupted only by occasional take-out meals. I spent so much time on inventory management of food that I could now get a job in a warehouse. I can't wait until I can sit in a restaurant and have someone explain the meals and take my order, then serve it and take away the dishes. Between the hand-washing and the dish-washing, my hands have aged considerably.
I tried to keep myself sane throughout the pandemic. For 100 consecutive days I posted on Facebook relevant, funny or heartwarming songs about being alone, missing friends and fun, trying to entertain myself and others. Then I switched to songs more reflective of the turbulent times.
To stay connected with my alumnae friends through our Associate Alumnae of Douglass College, I created a series called “Tea with Tina” and hosted Douglass alumnae for a several virtual gatherings that were attended by people from Florida to Colorado to California, and not just by the usual NJ crowd. I started a written series called “Sharing Our Stories” where alumnae could submit articles explaining how they pivoted in their personal and professional lives because of the pandemic. Among the authors was a woman who unexpectedly lost her sister to COVID, and there were pieces from educators, a doctor, a mediator, a new bride, an EMT, a social worker and many more who graciously shared their stories. Fittingly, our last entry was from our Executive Director, who hosts a grief counseling group for her church.
I attended webinars so I could visit Barcelona or museums or learn about the history of Grand Central Station and know more about Anne Frank. I participated in a trivia contest led by a beautiful drag queen. I expanded my horizons and my mind.
Sweatpants became the standard uniform. I worried that my earrings would no longer fit because the holes in my ears might close up. And let’s not even talk about the real COVID 19!
In October, I turned 70 with little fanfare. My besties came over, stayed mostly masked (except while we were eating) and we had a few laughs and nobody came down with COVID – a major victory! My sister picked up take-out tacos – my favorite smoked brisket – for a two-person celebration seated far apart. She and I have barely seen each other for the past year, and always at a distance for only short periods.
In November, my beloved Rutgers Women’s basketball team started its new season without fans permitted in the stands. I warned my neighbors to expect loud cheering coming from my family room. And even after missing most of January and some of February because of COVID issues, the team gave me something to cheer about, reeling off nine straight wins in their return to the court. The Rutgers Men’s team also showed signs of life and is again hoping to go to the NCAA Tournament. It was great having something happy to celebrate.
In the fall, I fretted about the election, and I cried happy tears when my team won. In January, I asked a college classmate in Washington to share her story and pictures of three Wednesdays in January to give us an insider’s look at the January 6 assault on the Capitol and its aftermath. I cried – sobbed, really – through much of Inauguration Day.
Once vaccines were approved and became available, I joined the throngs of people spending inordinate amounts of time online, vying for appointments. By February, most of us who were eligible were scrambling, with vaccines in short supply and inadequate processes set up to schedule appointments. Every conversation included a reference to getting an appointment, getting a shot, which vaccine you received and its side effects. I still know many people who can’t set up appointments for themselves or their elderly parents. The system needs major improvements, and we all need to be patient. Your number WILL come up.
So now I have been fully vaccinated for a few weeks. But I’m still double-masking, limiting my trips anywhere (I put gas in my car in March for the first time since December), refusing to eat in a restaurant or go to a movie (I adjusted to that surprisingly well) and avoiding contact with people. The BIG 10 Basketball Tournament is happening this week in Indianapolis again, and somehow they are carrying on without me. A very limited number of fans will be there to watch the games in person, but I’ll be safely ensconced in my family room this year. At least there are no lines for the concession stands or bathroom here!
I will continue to be cautious, but I am looking forward to actually seeing my fully-vaccinated best friend in the spring and giving her a long and awkward hug – the first hug I will have had since last March 8th. She and I have been friends for 53 years and although we have always lived 200 miles apart, we have never gone this long without spending time together. I’m sure we will pick up again as though no time has passed.
I know that so many people had it much worse than I did in the past year, with losses of loved ones and cases of COVID. I know I am one of the lucky ones, but this disease, the quarantine, the unrelenting fear have all affected me in ways I never could have imagined. I don’t want to forget last year, the lessons learned, the losses, and the things that made me grateful to be alive. I never got COVID, which is the biggest blessing of all.
And I know that I never again want to have an annus horribilis like 2020. It was unforgettable in every way.
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