I’ve successfully avoided the tempting clutches of Facebook. I joined a couple of sewing/quilting groups but I didn’t have a profile picture, any bio details, or any friends. Until now …
But let’s back up a bit. Cedric has been working on a memoir of the first 20 years of his life, encompassing his early years in France, the family’s evacuation to England and their return to Paris after the Liberation. His memory of dates, names and addresses is spectacular. He asked me to look at the first draft – I was very impressed. If anyone would like a copy to read, let me know and I’ll send you a PDF. But it also got me thinking … we all have a story, even if it doesn’t include evading invading Germans. So, I looked up my old high school on Facebook, wondering if there was a dedicated group. Oh was there! Nearly 1,500 members. I asked to join.
And I’m hooked!
I went to the Kenya High School, a girls’ boarding school in Nairobi, Kenya, at the age of 11 in 1963, graduating in 1969. I was in Nightingale House. Each house had 50 girls of various ages and there were 12 houses. Belonging to a house was like being part of a tribe. I posted my maiden name and my house and the years I attended and went to bed. In the morning, there were dozens and dozens of comments from all over the world. Many girls had been looking for me for years! It’s been very emotional looking through photos and sending private messages to special friends who I haven’t seen for 50 years or more.
Now, I’ve got a profile picture, and even some friends. But I’m not turning on audible notifications and I won’t check the page more than once a day – I won’t, I won’t, I won’t … well, maybe twice a day!
All winter, I look forward to the warmer days when I don’t have to dress in layers for my sorties with Savannah. I anticipate being able to pop out in flip-flops and a T-shirt holding merely a poop bag and her leash. All winter, I hear myself whining that it takes me 10 minutes extra to don wooly hat, coat, scarf, gloves, socks and boots, plus another five minutes to loop Savannah’s coat round her legs and under her tummy. Yes, it gets that cold in Atlanta, contrary to what “they” told me when we first arrived in Georgia (but that’s a blog for another time.)
I’ve ditched the coat and scarf, but I’m still whining. On with the mask and gloves which just don’t match the flip-flops. And when I take off the gloves, my fingers are all wrinkly as if I’ve been in the bath too long. Life is no longer spontaneous. The sanitation station inside our front door holds a selection of alcohol wipes and anti-bacterial spray, as well as gloves and masks and piles of newspaper so that, heaven’s forbid, no package touches the floor before being sanitized. I’m adept at removing my gloves with nary a finger touching a clean surface, thanks to YouTube tutorials – you can learn anything from YouTube.
We are exhorted, daily, to find at least one positive, one sliver of silver lining: I only have to put sunscreen on my forehead.
When chemo had zapped my immune system, my medical team warned me to take extra care to avoid people with coughs and colds. The vicar of our church, Beth, even called to counsel me NOT to come to Sunday services because so many members of the congregation were coughing and hacking their way through the hymns. Beth had sat in the waiting room with Cedric during my surgery and joined us for my first chemo session, so she wasn’t taking any chances.
I recall one day at the office when I was in the elevator. It stopped and the person who got on was sniffling visibly. I held my breath all the way down, deciding that I would rather expire from asphyxiation than catch an infection with a compromised immune system. I feel the same way now. I wear a mask at all times when I leave the apartment. If I’m already waiting in the elevator lobby and a neighbor appears or if the elevator stops half-way up or down, I ask people if they can get the next one. Fortunately, our building only has four floors. Everyone is very understanding although sometimes it takes them a moment to process what I’m saying. The jury is out on whether germs can linger in the air in the enclosed elevator cab, but I’m not taking any chances and I’m practicing holding my breath on each elevator ride, which isn’t easy – it’s hard to take that first huge breath with a mask on. Catch-22 for sure.
Someone’s invented a cute rear view mirror ornament. Makes a change from the air freshener hangers. It’s in the shape of a mask … oh, never mind, it IS a mask.
Everyone knows the proverbial phrase that if life gives you lemons, make lemonade. I put my own spin on that today. My dear friend, Morgan, once again picked up some groceries for me. I’m not really fussy, but I do like certain brands, so of course I sent her a barrage of photos to show her precisely which reduced fat milk I wanted, the brand of unsweetened almond milk, the whole milk with the picture of the cow on the front. No, I’m really not that fussy. And I sent her a picture of the eggs that come from happy hens – at least that’s what the box assures me.
Morgan called me before leaving my groceries outside the door. Oops – she had dropped the bag with the eggs on the steps outside our building and some were broken. If life gives you broken eggs, you make a cake. Ten minutes later, a cake was in the oven. And yes, I’m giving a big piece to Morgan.
I know the date but I don’t know what time it is. It’s May 1, the anniversary of my mother’s death in 1986. I always know when May 1 is. It’s a bittersweet day, sad but with the promise of spring. But I don’t know the time because I’ve taken off my Apple Watch. I’ve been wearing it every day for more than three years and decided that in May, I can exist without knowing the precise time, the weather, the wind speed, the stock market index, my heart beat, a reminder to take a deep breath – and all before I even get out of bed.
I’m taking poetic license here because my laptop gives me the time, so I can either get a piece of masking tape and hide the clock, or just ignore it as best I can. In the bubble we are living in, we don’t need to know exactly what time it is – Savannah tells me when it’s time to go out, we know if we are hungry, if I see the mail truck, I know the mail’s arrived, but time has become so fluid that I’m sure I’ll get used to being without a watch for the month of May at least.
We are all getting used to a new normal – I’m using a new flavor of mouthwash as my regular brand is out of stock. Now that will take some adjustment.
April will forever be our first full month of social distancing and self-quarantining. On March 13, I attended a church workshop, but April has been 30 days of a very different lifestyle. I intended to blog for 30 days but fell off the wagon the last week. Somehow, there was no longer very much to say. Wisdom says if you blog, just one word suffices, but that’s so narrow a focus.
I’ve done a lot of waving in April. Every Zoom meeting starts with attendees waving madly – I’m here, I’m here! When I’m out with Savannah, I wave at most cars, especially when the driver slows down; I wave at other walkers, many of whom take a wide berth round Savannah and me. Sometimes, the other walker and I dance a few steps until it’s clear who is going to step off the curb. When I see a neighbor, I wave wildly, my gloved fingers doing a little dance, and from the balcony I can wave with both arms. There’s no Queen’s wave for me – you gotta wave like you really mean it.
Thank you, April – we were blessed.