March 7 – 88 – 12 (Part 2)

Death, death, death.

Every day.

One day, I counted the sirens of over 30 ambulances, likely COVID victims on the way to Elmhurst Hospital, almost a mile down the block, and where I spent 40 days in 1992. I saw rows upon rows of pine boxes in a ditch on Hart Island. Hart Island is an Island in the East River, where for many generations, the penniless have been buried. For COVID, it was being used for when the City’s other cemeteries were full.

Again wondering, in my 3 ½ room apartment, whether that would be me, talking to no-one except virtually or on the phone, maybe occasionally hearing the sound of my own voice.

The routine: wake up at 5:30am, read for awhile, sometimes take a shower (I couldn’t find a lot of toiletries online), zap some sausages in the microwave, maybe cook some eggs. Then maybe Italian sausages for lunch, again, zapped. The last really good meal I made for myself was chicken makhani. Really good.

But I had gotten too too regimented, afraid to go out because I was in the epicenter, and the local supermarket was too crowded. I ran out of toilet paper and toothpaste, but I was able to find a source of toilet paper.

Again, a huge mistake trying to ride it out myself.

It did not help that we have a society where people’s lives, when it gets down to it, are not valued in the least. Trump ordering meatpackers to report for work despite high COVID risk. Arbitraging PPE so Jared could make money.

The last, most egregious: the murder of George Floyd. Almost 10 minutes. Mama, mama. Evil incarnated in a uniform. Not just the knee, but the Asian-American officer shooing people away. Too much to bear. Civil unrest over the murder; all of it justified.

I despaired.

And broke down.

Realizing, thinking more about Death and possible meaningless, nothingness, though I do in fact believe in Consolation after this life. It is hard to divide by 0, though.

I have probably had five or six Breakdowns in my life; the worst was 1992. Every single one has been about Death Anxiety and Purpose Anxiety. The shortest (about three weeks) was in 2018. This one feels a lot like 1992, but I am still working…

I truly realized I cannot live alone.

I called Francine; JJH was going to drive me to her house.

Between the initial arrangement and the day I arrived in NJ, four days elapsed.

The following paragraphs have some graphic content, but since you are my Brothers, I do not feel uncomfortable sharing.

After making arrangements to go to NJ, I still had to wait four days, both for the ride and my new meds to be delivered (Ativan being most important). Those days were Hell.

I felt like jumping out of my skin. Though I never had active suicidal ideations, I didn’t trust myself in the state I was in. The state I was in: one morning, I saw that I had drank some soda during the night. I did not remember doing so. Did I sleepwalk and drink it? Consequently, and I do no think so dramatically, I hid every single sharp item in the apartment, just in case I woke up half awake in the middle of the night and did something stupid.

Tuesday came, the day of Freedom. Perhaps the roughest day. I hadn’t gotten my tranquilizer yet, so I still felt like jumping out of my skin. Just to stay in place, I said the full Rosary, out loud, all the Decades, all the Mysteries. I felt like a different person, or, more exactly, two different people arguing with each other. Without getting into it too too much, my Theology has definitely changed. My Uncle kept me grounded by reading most of the Psalms to me.

The medicine arrived. So did JJH.

March 7 – 88 – 12 (Part 1)

The last three months have been filled with many mistakes; the last one is one which I pray that I can take back.

Games Day on March 7 in the Heights was not one of those mistakes. It started and went off like most Games Days-getting up early, cleaning the apartment, anticipating all my friends coming out and geeking out on some geeky games, and some early morning booze.

But something different was in the air. Maybe not in the apartment, that day, but some terror lurked offshore and in parts of the country.

The coronavirus.

Yes, we have had many coronaviruses (plural), most which we experience as a common cold.

But this one was different.

And I think that was the subtext of that Games Day so long ago.

We talked about it a tiny bit, and looked up and remembered the plural of virus.

But, more indicative of the change in living that was to come was the fact that we played and played and played until about 12:30am. Deal or Duel. A mediocre game with some great flavor text. TK, Rob, and me.

When we finally said our goodbyes, we went to “elbow” pump each other; but then decided to hug each instead, because we knew it would be the last time we’d be in each other’s presence for a long time.

Until the next day or so, it’s the last human physical contact I had with friends or loved ones since then.

88

I started working from home on March 9. I did go out to the local Burger King the next day, armed with hand sanitizer.

But I needed my two Whoppers, fries, and Coke Zero!

I haven’t been in a crowd of people since then.

I remember telling my immediate boss that working from home would be fun.

And so it was.

I eliminated about three hours of commute time, and I got into a routine-I’d watch de Blasio, Cuomo, and even Trump; waiting for what Dr. Fauci would say. And I’d get updates on the virus from Dr. John Campbell, a Professor in Nurse Practice in the UK. And virtual Mass and call-in Rosary.

I was set.

But I was scared; looking back on it, I was probably more terrified than scared.

But I did feel the palpable presence of everyone who had lived with me in the apartment.

I would tough it out.

I have always had OCD, so I became the super-heavy purveyor and doer of OCD. I decided I wouldn’t leave my apartment for the duration, be it six weeks or fiver years. I only took the garbage out once every week or so. I kept all my recyclables in my kitchen, terrified to even use the elevator for two or three minutes because of the smallness of the space and the possibility there might be extra virus; lurking. I did not open the windows for a few weeks because of the theoretical possibility…

By OCD I mean this: the few times I left my apartment, to throw out the garbage through the compactor chute, to pick up mail (I held the mail for 45 days for fear of going downstairs), to pick up the food delivery, even to finally take a walk around the block in May, I would put on my mask and gloves, and, as soon as I got back, I would strip down at the front door, and race to take a shower. Any items I had brought upstairs I would be sure not to touch for three days. The same ritual. Every time.

I feared even any slight slip-up: 55 years old, technically obese, and asthmatic, my profound terror was that I would die, alone, in my apartment. Why this fear? A number of people in my neighborhood suffered that fate,

Coco

Coco, my Coco!

Thought she didn’t recognize me at first

An early-morning walk with gloves and mask

Perhaps not needed

I found her

I love her

Now she licks my face (in recognition)

Like Before

And walks, though beginning anxiously

Are like before