Top Ten Pandemic Emotions

10. Excitement. Be suspicious of anyone who denies that the onset of Covid-19 triggered a primal thrill. This does not mean it was welcomed, or that it didn't give way to horror, despair, loneliness, among other feelings that will be covered. When I first learned Covid reached America, it was personal. I knew Patient Zero. It was exciting to know Patient Zero. Am I awful? I prayed for his recovery and his family. But still, you know what I mean? You could see that glint in the eyes of reporters and of friends you met, when you could still see them in person. When they were all alive and well. That "well, this is extraordinary" feeling that melted into terror paralysis..

9. Terror Paralysis. To be fair, this was not just the next phase in the pandemic grieving cycle, but rather mellowed into a resting state from which you never recover. So far. It started about a half hour after I returned home from a business trip to DC, early March, 2020. I had found out about Patient Zero while in DC, but continued to attend meetings and even visit the Smithsonian Museum of Art. Union Station was packed. So was the subway, the railroad, Grand Central Station... It wasn't until I arrived home that it struck me that anyone I passed could have the infection. I could have brought it home. I could get sick and die. Someone in my family could, too. Or someone I did not know could have gotten it from me and die. Etc. Etc. This cascade of brick thoughts buried me and as I dig out another load drops like Medieval stink tossed out a Briton window. "Go shopping and buy everything you can," my husband, the calm one, said. "This is going to be bad." What does that mean? What do I need? The only answer I could think of was avocados.

8. Suspicion. The aisle of my local supermarket are wide, but still I would not cross by any shoppers headed my way. In these pre-mask days, I wrapped a scarf around my face, and through foggy glasses, I reached for non-perishable that I would never before purchased. Hey, unprecedented times call for unprecedented meals: Beans and grains of every variety. Tinned anything. Powdered milk. Unfiltered honey. If Covid-19 didn't kill us, we would be healthier than ever. Nevermind. I hit the baking aisle and decided that a few bags of high-gluten flour and white sugar were in order. I already had a 5 lb bag of yeast in the fridge, don't ask, so I unintentionally pre-gamed the bread baking phase. But as I piled my cart to comical heights, I was constantly aware of my surroundings, like a CIA operative. Is anyone coughing? Sweating? Hoarding Tylenol? Sneezing? Breathing? I became a human measuring rod. I sneered beneath my scarf at anyone reaching for the shelf the same time as me. I scurried around the store like Pacman avoiding the ghosts. At the checkout counter, instead of casually watching the register for accuracy, I faced my head down so the cashier and I would not share the same air. I flew to my car and Lysoled everything, including the Lysol. Drove home and asked my newly homebound family to help unload the car. That's when the anger began.

7.Anger. Can anyone please help me unload the car? LOL. Remember when this was the only ask and even then it had to be an ask on a loop? Unloading the pandemic stash, the first of many, just meant that all this stuff had to be, at some point, cooked, cleaned, saved, lather, rinse, repeat. Having my family home, all the grown kids, is a mother's dream. For a weekend. But when it is an around-the-clock Club-Mom vacation - HOLY $hit. Everyone had an excuse why he couldn't help. My husband was working from home. My son was working from home. Three other sons were learning from home. Well, guess what? I ALWAYS work from home and no one does my cooking, cleaning, and laundry. Am I Super Human and all this time, no one told me? Damn it, Kal-El. Also, it's been brought to me attention that my kids have been playing football at the local field. Yes, I followed them to make sure they were socially distancing themselves, playing FOOTBALL, which they assured me was "only tag." "Do you not know how this virus works?" "We're careful, mom," they said. I watched them be "careful" as I mentally prepared my funeral.

6. Rage. I did it. I smashed a glass on the floor after pouring out its contents, Calm Tea, on a pile of my kids clothes, collected from the floors in their rooms. Although I was fully aware that I had lost it, I still noted their side looks at one another, the "Mom's nuts but is this really happening?" glance that made me feel seen for the first time in months. I am not ashamed of this, nor will I be. As I explained to my kids when Daenerys incinerated King's Landing there's just SO MUCH a woman can take. They kept the glasses out of reach for a while. Good thing they don't know about my dragons.

5. Sadness. After The One About The Tea episode, I collapsed in grief. All the tears I had not cried over everything from the human loss: the individual stories and obituaries in the news; the people I knew who had passed, the state of the world in every conceivable way, to the personal: my imprisonment, my own self-doubt, my lack of gratitude, my self-pity, just exploded and left me deflated, as if the only thing that had kept me aloft were toxic fumes. All that was left was sorrow. Exhausting, empty, sorrow.

4. Strength. Who has time for sorrow and self pity when there's another load of laundry to be done? There's something to be said for being raised with Gloria Gaynor playing on the radio. I WILL survive. At least, for now. And as long as I am alive I have agency to make this better. I will write. I will reconnect with friends. I will use this time to learn a new skill. I will emerge (if I emerge) better, stronger, faster. As a first but meaningful step, I downloaded "Splits Training" because I never made it down to the floor in all my years in dance class. What better time? A few months and some pulled muscles later, I can get down about 1/8 of an inch more and everything hurts. But hey, I'm a work in progress.

3. Wonder. At some point, I started to feel like a caged creature, watching actual animals fly and crawl freely around the perimeter of my house. I've fed multiple cats, been visited by two possums, a giant raccoon, and watched a rainbow of birds perch on my maple tree. I ordered cat food and bird food and learned that they have to be given in different places or the bird food becomes unnecessary. Oof. But there is no Covid worry for animals. There was no industrial revolution. No war. No politics. There is just this moment.

2. Frustration. Being that my husband is an essential worker and my youngest son attends school, even though I'm a full-time hermit, I can't know that Covid won't find its way into my fortress. I also can't visit my mother, who lives alone. I have never met my 7 month old niece. My theatre company has not put on a live show in over a year. So when I see how other people treat Covid with a devil may care attitude, or politicize it, and it fuels me with frustration. We are all in this together - but some of us don't get it or worse, don't care. It is almost enough to want to crawl into bed and stay there, except for...

1.Hope. Welcome to the in-between-days, when the arms race between vaccine or virus is playing out in real time. Can you visualize it? Although so much is still uncertain, damn if the Pandora story doesn't resonate. Hope is a thing with Fauci, I mean Feathers. It is perched on a bust of Athena, who, in my mind's eye, is driving a chariot of chilled vaccines.