Years ago my younger son famously shouted to his brother from the other room, “Don’t ask her for help with your math. Mom’s more of a walking dictionary than a calculator.”
And don’t get me started on the religion major jokes around here.
But even I can do simple arithmetic. Way down in this very long post, this guy presents a word problem. I did not triple check to see if he’s legit, but I trust my source. Let’s assume he’s correct.
My county, with 26 confirmed COVID-19 cases yesterday, can expect to have, I’m not kidding, 29,000 cases in 30 days. And 15% of those folks would be about 3,000—and they will need hospitalization.
I don’t know how many beds we have in Pierce County, but the large hospital where I was treated during my own Mortal Peril has something like 380. The other large hospital in town, the one where that same number one son was born, and which he called “my hosisputtal,” has 374 beds.
So 754 beds, plus, let’s say a hundred more in the surrounding area plus 3,000 sick people equals… a lot of death.
I fervently hope the school closures and whatnot will be adequate to flatten that curve.
Now, I don’t love the term “social distancing.” I heard it suggested that we should call it “physical distancing,” because we need to be socially close, especially now. And, shoot, we already have more than enough social distancing in this country. I get that. But my preferred term is “hunkering.”
Although I saw a meme suggesting “saving the realm” or some such. Also good.
As of last Friday, the staff at my university are still expected to report to work, while students and faculty will continue classes virtually. “The message is clear about whose health matters.”
But I also heard on Friday from three decision-makers, in three different departments, that important decisions were, in fact, being made. I just had to be patient.
“You’ll hear something on Monday.”
Sure. Okay. We’ll all keep checking the website.
And, yes, of course I feel for all these people deliberating and having to make hard choices. But the uncertainty is difficult. The slow eking-out of information is difficult.
Years ago I was on some damn committee or other—and very bad at it, I might add—and I heard a lot of talk about mitigation and liability and emergency whatnots. I could be wrong, but my sense is that the university was prepared for a sudden disaster, but not this slowly unfolding apocalypse.
Are any of us ready?
Well, maybe the TP hoarders are. Maybe.
This much change in a short period of time is hard to metabolize. I notice odd thoughts crossing my mind.
I need to turn down the heat.
More hours in the house will mean a higher utility bill. That put me in mind of our homeschool days, when we all wore down vests and fingerless gloves inside, and I kept the thermostat at 62 degrees. Before homeschooling, I kept the temperature low enough that the boys would keep their clothes on, but not so low that their lips turned blue.
What is everyone doing with all those frozen vegetables?
My ex-husband called the other night just as I was falling asleep. He’d been to the grocery store that day, and all the frozen food bins were empty. My honorary daughter had just sent a photo earlier in the day documenting this. My mind drifted to the garden, where I still have some broccoli shoots and kale and chard. The next morning I took an inventory of seeds I’ve bought but not yet planted.
This will be the first springtime in twenty years that I do not have to work like a dog all through April. I’ve lost count of the cancellations, but typically we present eighty-some concerts in the spring semester. We’re currently down to four, with the possibility of one lecture. I’m not hopeful that these will happen.
The garden went all to heck in the last years, and, presumably, depending on what the university decides, I’ll have plenty of time to bring it back.
Yesterday on my run I met a car at an intersection, and the driver waved me across. I waved back to thank her, and just as I moved in front of her car, she began to roll forward. Very close, but I was not in danger.
She rolled down her window to say, “I’m so sorry! I haven’t had coffee yet today!”
“Coffee is important!”
“Have a great day!”
We laughed and went on our way.
It was a poignant moment, that small interaction. A good reminder that we are not alone, even in our empty houses, and that we can still take care of one another, even at a distance of six feet or more.