My initial reaction to the Coronavirus conversation was one of empathy and, frankly, nonchalance. I appreciated that those far from me were suffering, and for that I was saddened. Empathy carries within it a degree of privilege—until it lands on one’s doorstep.
The landing point for me was when the NBA suspended its season. And, schools began closing. And, my husband’s company began speaking of having the employees work from home. A pet therapy conference I was scheduled to attend was cancelled, as were all visits for the next month.
I wondered if I should avoid visiting my neighbor because I had been in the same room with a coughing student. When I accompanied my mom to her local grocery store, I saw for the first time the results of fear living right beneath the surface—not full-out panic, but rather an unease and uncertainty that caused people to strip the shelves of wipes and bottled water and toilet paper and even bars of candy, sticks of gum, and containers of mints.
In an effort to avoid anxiety, I began reading articles from trusted sources and listening to podcasts from voices of reason. For the same reason, I stopped. I watched Ivy, who still ran to fetch a ball and return with it at full-speed; I sat on a rock in the woods and listened to my four-year-old grandson tell me a story with multiple twists and turns. In the midst of a rapidly-changing landscape, I focused on what remained the same. At least for a little while.
Yes, I will be aware. And, wash my hands. And, look out for those in my world. And, pray for those outside my immediate reach. And, I will marvel at the sunrise. And, plant petunias. And, sip coffee. And, try my best to remain calm.