PANDEMIC THOUGHTS (June 25, 2020)

After more than 100 days in isolation it’s the little things that throw you off your stride. The other morning, as I was marching on my treadmill, headphones on and enjoying a music clip, the phone rang. A gas meter man waited outside to be let in. I scanned my surroundings – husband in the shower and son not yet up – and concluded I would have to get the door. I turned off everything and ran downstairs to get my mask and gloves. I had just opened the door when my 90lb German Shepherd, appearing from nowhere – I had assumed she was with my son - raced past me, fur and tail aggressively lifted and barking ferociously, forcing the young man across the pavement into the middle of the street. Unable to get hold of her, for in our quarantine she does not wear a collar, I screamed for her to come back, until my son came running in his underpants to help me get the situation under control. He vanished with Zaffy while I checked the state of the meter man, who was now standing on the other side of the street brushing off his pants. She hadn’t hurt him, as it turned out – she’s never bitten anyone – but had scared us both half to death. With my profuse apologies, he came into the garage and did his measuring, while I struggled to control my breathing and my racing heart. Afterwards I experienced a complete drop of energy, a wish to go to bed, or, at the very least not do anything anymore for the whole day. I wanted to be quiet and to try to get past this terrifying moment. The poor meter man and my overprotective dog had been in the middle of an otherwise busy street, where buses and vans hurtle down from around a curve in the road. Had one appeared at that moment, there would have been no time to stop. The implications were unthinkable.

Many years ago, I had a little fox terrier. She was my treasure, always with me, and yet, one day, when I opened the door to the street to receive a gift of flowers, she too shot by me and careened up the road towards the gigantic favela perched in the hills above our house. I was wearing an apron and still clutching the bouquet when I took off after her, screaming her name and crying, for my terror was overwhelming. People driving by hooted and laughed at the spectacle of this gringa with her apron coming undone, until a man driving a beat-up VW bus took pity on me and offered a ride up the hill. We stopped at the lower entrance of the favela and there, further up in the middle of the road, was my little dog, standing there pleased with herself and perhaps a little puzzled. She came to me when I called, and declining the offered ride we walked back home. I held her in my arms and repeated, “Bad dog, bad dog,” though my tears, smacking her bottom just a bit, until we reached the house where the gate was still open. 

 

When I later discussed this incident with the analyst I was seeing at the time, she said enigmatically, “When you open the gates, things happen.” I think of this now when the gates must remain firmly shut. For the foreseeable future there is no option but to stay inside. The isolation seems to cover us with a thin shell of normalcy. We continue our daily chores as if nothing is wrong, but whenever the shell is pierced, the plunge into dark thoughts is instantaneous and prolonged. The bad news trickle in - this friend hospitalized in serious condition, that friend left alone at home to comfort her dying dog to the end – and each time our composure takes a hit. We need the physical gates to protect us from the pandemic beyond, but also the psychological ones to see us through this uncertain period.