Writing Corona: Day 21
I live in New Orleans, Louisiana. As of today, I know five people that have died from the COVID-19 pandemic. Five people. So far.
People that I knew. People that knew me by face or name. They are part of the body count that makes the evening news. Silent contributors. Dots on a scatter diagram of the upward curve.
The first call was about the passing away of Mr. Earl and Mr. Carl. They were custodial workers that I hired years ago. That was last week when they stopped breathing. Next call was about a doctor at a clinic. Then it was my friend’s first cousin. Pam used to help me with filing income tax. Yesterday I got word about Biscuit. He was an elderly groom that lived on the race track. I never knew his real name.
New Orleans is listed as a city but it’s really a big village. It’s a place where they say “you never meet a stranger.” Word gets around fast. You don’t need to read the obituaries. You get a text message or a phone call. “I don’t know if you heard but…”
I’m 77-years-old. Sheltered in place now for 21 days. I can feel that the circle is closing in. It’s not abstract anymore.
This morning, after sitting meditation, I watched the last curl of gray ash from the incense stick drop to the floor. The only sound in the apartment was the humming of the refrigerator. Impermanence whispers to me.
Why Mr. Earl and not me? What is happening out there? Keeping it together by staying apart. What am I taking for granted? How do I relate to the situations and conditions of people around me? How does it feel? How do I survive yet stay connected?
How do I relate to the nurse in ICU at University Medical Center, where the COVID-19 patients in the hallways are lined up in rolling gurneys waiting for the next available ventilator? She wears a face mask donated by a group of women quilters in Tucson, Arizona. She is numb and fatigued from a 12 hour shift. She wanders off to the patient waiting area for a cup of coffee. Collapsing on a couch under a television monitor, she listens to the president declare that the government is not a shipping clerk.
How do I relate to the Domino pizza delivery kid that makes $8.75? After a 15 minute drive in his Honda Civic that is leaking transmission fluid, he arrives at the gated subdivision. He punches in the security code and watches the iron gate slide open like a curtain revealing another world. Past the sculptures and water fountains, the kid drives past rows of spacious landscaping and three-story homes, each with a swimming pool in the backyard. It’s his dream land destination. Dodging the spray from the automatic sprinkler system, the kid carries the box of hot pepperoni and three medium Dr. Peppers up to the door. The owner, wrapped in a lamb’s wool robe, gives the kid a $2 tip.
How do I relate to the woman from San Luis Potosi, Mexico, whose construction worker husband was deported after being detained by ICE? Just a couple of blocks from the house—he made an illegal U-turn and got a traffic ticket. Now she stands in the cramped kitchen, while the two young girls watch an Easter bunny jumping around and counting to 10 on Nickelodeon. On the wall, a string of Christmas lights form a frame around the image of the Virgin of Guadalupe. Today is the family’s fourth day of eating tortillas, frijoles, arroz amarillo, salt and limes. The neighbor had promised fish but, so far, he hasn’t come around. It is her third week of no work after being sent home from the hotel. The familiar smile and laugh from her face has slipped away. Given her undocumented status, the woman can forget the $1200 stimulus check. It’s not going to happen. Not in this house.
Gary McMillen
New Orleans, La.
