Covid Fatigue

I’m noticing a growing trend among pretty much everyone I know. We’re all tired of this, tired of being stuck at home, tired of having no place to go, tired of seeing the same faces, tired of feeling like we’re stuck on the great Limbo Treadmill, plugging along and getting nowhere. It doesn’t matter how much we love our homes and the faces that surround us. We’ve seen them, all day, every day, seemingly since the dawn of time.

My number one focus is still Rochi and how we can cope with his ongoing recovery, which seems to defy medical explanation. We’ve seen specialist after specialist–neurologist, audiologist, ophthalmologist, otologist–and they all say the same thing: there’s nothing physically wrong with him. There’s no superfood or magic pill. He just needs time to recover, and that could take weeks…or days…or years. We just don’t know.

So while I am preoccupied with all of that, we are still living in the midst of a pandemic. When all of this started, Rochi was already sick, hospitalized, skinny as a pair of chopsticks. In that context, the disease seemed irrelevant to me. “What care I for plagues and fools when I’m alone in Tokyo, worried and scared and not allowed even to see my friends?”

In time, he started getting better, or more accurately, we decided the hospital was doing more harm than good and we sprung him. In time, we made our way back home, home to our pretty house and our furry family and our comfortable bed and a spacious kitchen where I can focus on producing healthful food.

That focus has been intense, so intense that I forget the rest of the world is out there, attempting to cope just like we are. But the disjointed surreality of it all is still with me, most of all when we go out. We pull into a parking lot and suddenly we are surrounded by masked strangers. I can’t shake a moment of panic; Americans only wear masks when they rob banks, or so my psyche believes. It’s a gut reaction and I can’t shake it. My common sense jumps in soon enough and explains to my quivering heart that masks are a good thing, but until that happens, the petrified child inside curls up in a corner and sobs. “This just can’t be. This isn’t how the world works. Too many things have changed too fast. I can’t catch up.” The treadmill keeps running and I can’t get off.

I dream strange dreams of things that have never happened, of going places I have never been and doing things I would never do. I dreamed that I went to the VFW in Nanawale for the Friday night fish fry.

But it wasn’t a dream. I did that yesterday. And it made me really happy. It’s not just supporting the VFW, although I do. And it’s not just that the fish is really good, although it is. And it was drive-through, everyone masked, whereas it used to be seated, indoors or out. But most of all, we got to go somewhere we hadn’t been in over a year and got to speak to some people we hadn’t met before, even if it was only for a moment. even if our unspoken communication was gestures and smiling eyes over masked noses and mouths. Driving back home in a car filled with the smell of fried fish, I felt grateful and tired and happy and sad.

What do you call it when your real life is so surreal that your dreams seem normal by comparison? And where is the danged ‘off’ switch on this contraption?

Is that a gun in your pocket?

I was noodling around the Interwebs and discovered that just down the road a bit, the Nanawale Estates VFW was having a breakfast this morning. The very thought brought back wispy childhood memories of church dinners and barbecues at the Community Grove. This was an ideal opportunity to combine my enduring love of going out for breakfast with doing something good for the community. It was also very high on the list of things I never thought I’d do and I revel in new experiences.

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Arriving at the VFW, we were given a warm greeting by Commander Deb and then piled up our plates: French toast, hash browns, scrambled eggs with cheese, sausage and fruit cocktail fresh from a can. (Ahem.) Eight dollars well spent. That was at 9:30 this morning; it’s after 3:00 now. I’m still not hungry.

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As I stuffed myself with this bounty, I soaked up the conversation around me. There was a group of men discussing the horrible treatment they’d received from veteran’s hospitals. The one sitting closest to me said he had served 26 years, had seen two wars, and was treated like trash by hospital administrators. This is the treatment they get after willingly putting their lives on the line? How can that be true when we are sitting in breezy sunshine, eating good food, listening to birds sing?

I was feeling the warmth of human connection, empathy, the shared pain of lasting scars, the challenges we all find a way to survive, when one of the guys made a joke about how he had once been married and that was worse than anything else. They all laughed, belly laughs, guffaws. I felt my empathy drain away. I knew they were just being guys, needing that twisted machismo that seems so important to men but only thinly veils their pain. I didn’t have the energy to respond so I pretended not to have heard.

There was an artist at the farmers’ market who had a similar effect. His detailed freehand line drawings of Hawaiian plants and birds and ocean creatures were so full of life, I was considering buying one. Then I noticed he was working on a drawing of a sub-machine gun, a solid, metallic symbol of death. I nearly gasped. If he truly wanted to alienate me, he could have drawn disemboweled kittens, but the gun was effective enough. I sighed and moved away.

After so many years in my Tokyo oyster shell, I feel disconnected from who I once was. These moments of interaction with others help me define who I am becoming, help me learn to trust my instincts, my intuition. Each day feels as if my heart is pumping moments of other people’s lives through my own veins, absorbing their realities and perspectives, finding strength and wisdom from both their sameness and their difference. In a sense, I am rediscovering myself, finding me in others, finding me in me.

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