We’ve reached that point in the summer where I go into reminder mode, in that I have to remind myself of the rare good things that happen during this season. I’m talking about chocolate and mint chip ice cream, the smokey taste of barbecue, fresh peaches eaten out of hand or in a dessert, cold and refreshing air conditioning, delightful beach reads and furious gardening (more on this last one later).
Because summer is so painful, I must also remind myself that the season will eventually end and things will get better. The brutal heat waves will stop roasting my plants. Some of the mosquitos and ticks will die off before sucking all of my blood. And yes, the seemingly endless migraines will return to their more regularly scheduled programming of two or three times a month, rather than repeats of two or three times a week.
I also recognize that the last few months have been difficult for everyone. To date, nearly 9 million people have contracted the novel coronavirus and more than 468,000 have died. As you can imagine, I’ve been working like mad, covering the global pandemic, the economic fallout, the continuing quarantine, the 2020 campaign season and the nationwide protests. When I finally sign off at the end of a shift, my brain is oatmeal. Creative thought is often impossible.
I’ve been having nightmares all year, but they’ve gotten really bad of late. Usually, my nightmares are simply stress dreams about work (enough already) or the pandemic (death, destruction, bugs), which rob me of restful sleep. This week, however, the pandemic dreams have switched from bugs to suffocation. As most dream dictionaries note, to dream that you are suffocating signifies that you are feeling oppressed by a person or situation; you are experiencing a lot of stress and tension. I expect this is true for many.
Even without these nocturnal warnings, I have been careful. The last time I was in a room with more than three other people was on Feb. 25 when I attended a Silent Book Club meeting at The Bookery. The first coronavirus cases were just beginning to appear in New Hampshire so I immediately began self-isolating.
From March 15 to June 15, the state’s “stay at home” order closed all non-essential businesses. Since then, I’ve only left the house on occasional trips to the local nursery, bank, ice cream shop, grocery store and pharmacy. Such encounters have involved opening the car window or trunk, receiving goods from a machine or masked/gloved worker and driving away.
For these rare and mostly contactless jaunts, I purchased nearly a dozen reusable masks and wore one every time I went out. I donned them to protect the elderly, the infirm, the first responders and essential workers, the people who are at the highest risk of contracting this potentially deadly virus. The rest of the time, I remained at home because with my chronic cough, testing positive for COVID-19 would be a likely death sentence.
Being homebound hasn’t been as frustrating for me as for others. As a writer, I’m a bit of a homebody anyway. I’ve become more of one since entering middle age and have made every effort to make my home a wonderfully hygge place to live.
M’s university went virtual back in March and so he’s been working from home, a situation that pleases us both. Since I already telecommuted, little changed for me lifestyle-wise.
And while I do miss browsing the stacks at the library or catching a double feature at the movies, I have plenty of entertainment options at home. According to Goodreads, my 2020 reading challenge effort is back on track. I was once up to six books behind. Now I may just hit my goal of reading 60 books before this dreadful year ends.
