猫咪社区

The following essays are reproduced in partnership with . Citizens 60 and older share their experiences and reflections related to the COVID-19 global pandemic. Illustrations are 猫咪社区! originals by Enkhbayar Munkh-Erdene, associate art director.

Jane Ganahl, Bay Area, California
Born 1952

With news that oldsters like me are most at risk for the virus, some youngsters have shrugged their shoulders and called COVID-19 the 鈥渂oomer remover.鈥� Some politicians even suggested that if we seniors really loved our country, we鈥檇 go back to work and keep the economy from tanking, damn the dangers. Call it a patriotic suicide.

I spent most of my professional life as a journalist, covering fires, murders, earthquakes, and other calamities. I did enough 鈥渧ictim鈥檚 family鈥� stories to turn my heart into the hardest obsidian. (I had to; it was the law of the newsroom to not let anything get to your emotions.) The hardening of the heart extended to my personal life, where I ended two marriages when they became too challenging, as well as every romantic relationship I鈥檇 ever been in鈥攁nd there were many. I lived my life selfishly, devoid of spiritual belief of any kind.

But like many who reach this age鈥攑erhaps because we wake up to the fact that our years on the planet are numbered鈥擨 began to question all this a few years ago when I stumbled upon a colony of stray cats near my home. They were starving, neglected, sick. As a longtime cat lover, I could not turn away, and started to help. This seemingly small development proved to be the one that would slowly drag me into a softer-hearted version of myself. To quote e.e. cummings, 鈥渢he eyes of my eyes鈥� were opened.

And when the granddaughter was born almost three years ago, the transformation was complete. Every movement of her tiny hand, every verbal utterance, seemed sacred: biblical code telling me my life鈥檚 direction, and reminding me that the iron doors to my heart could never again be closed.

So here I sit, aching from the pain of isolation and separation, tearful when I see the suffering of those in ICUs around the country, euphorically grateful that I am healthy, enchanted by the jade-green centers of the ranunculus flowers I bought myself for my birthday鈥� feeling everything so acutely. I sometimes wish I could shut those doors, even just a little.

But I can鈥檛, and that鈥檚 OK. This is me at 68. I rescue cats and earthworms, dote on the people I adore. Am I ready to die? Absolutely not. I love myself now. Wall Street will have to find another martyr.

Carol Davis, New York City
Born 1957

I鈥檓 talking to my 94-year-old father on FaceTime. I watch as his face moves on and off the screen because he doesn鈥檛 really understand FaceTime. Sometimes he reaches out and touches the screen, covering the camera with his index finger. His devoted caretaker, conscientiously masked and gloved, takes the finger away from the camera and holds the phone for him at the correct distance. Still, his eyes wander, as the technology is simply not intuitive to him. I wonder if he believes he鈥檚 really talking to me.

We can鈥檛 sit together in the same room, he casually squeezing my hand while he tells me the same stories I鈥檝e heard countless times. He鈥檚 an immigrant who fled Hungary with his family when he was a young boy and learned the language of tenacity and arrogance on the streets of the Bronx. He built an empire, traveled the world, collected vintage automobiles, each of which he can still name by make and model, better than he can remember my birthday. Now he sits in his living room, isolated from his family; we are his last remaining connection to his already shrinking world.

鈥淲here are you?鈥� he asks me.

I live directly across the park from him.

鈥淚鈥檓 home. Where I always am,鈥� I say in the same reassuring tone I used with my own kids when they were young.

鈥淗ow are you feeling today?鈥� I ask.

鈥淣ot bad for an old man,鈥� He says. He pauses, a faraway look in his eyes. 鈥淗ow old am I?鈥�

鈥淣inety-four,鈥� I say.

鈥淣inety-four,鈥� he repeats. 鈥淚 thought I was 80.鈥� He sounds disappointed.

鈥淗ow鈥檚 your mother?鈥� he asks. 鈥淚 haven鈥檛 heard from her in a while.鈥�

I don鈥檛 know whether I should remind him that she died over 40 years ago. Before I can answer, he begins a story I鈥檝e heard many times.

鈥淵ou know we met in the Catskills,鈥� he continues, 鈥渞ight after the war. I had no money. I got a job as a busboy at the Kiamesha Lodge. The pay was good. I鈥檇 just come back from Germany, assigned to work at a D.P. Camp [Displaced Persons Camp鈥擡d.], because I spoke Hungarian and German. They needed interpreters for all those people from the camps. I found my cousin and my aunt, and my mother was so happy I found them鈥︹��

He goes on for a while longer before trailing off, as if the gravity of his story suddenly tires him out.

鈥淗ow are you doing?鈥� I ask.

鈥淣ot so good,鈥� he replies.

鈥淲hat is it?鈥�

鈥淢y blond girlfriend told me she doesn鈥檛 want to see me anymore.鈥�

Robin Reif, New York City
Born 1951

Though I would never have uttered this aloud, I always believed myself invincible. My father, a doctor, lived to 99. His motto: Genetics overcomes all. I thought I鈥檇 won that lottery until this crisis punctured my delusion. I鈥檓 told each day that my age gives the virus the edge in any potential skirmish, a threat made painfully real when my generous and amiable neighbor, a retired dentist, died of the illness last week.

My daughter puts me back on track. I can鈥檛 think of a better way to spend precious days than with this child who I adopted as a single mom. She鈥檚 heading to college next fall, so staying home has gifted us time for a long goodbye. We鈥檝e been looking through old photographs, remembering what we鈥檝e been through as a family and having difficult conversations, the kind that might have gone unspoken without this strange cocoon created by quarantine. I鈥檝e had the chance to apologize for some terrible mistakes. She鈥檚 had the chance to be angry out loud and we鈥檝e embraced as tightly as we ever have.

We鈥檝e begun marking time with new rituals: heading out around 11 p.m. each night into the vibrant, unstoppable spring. We stroll empty streets, dark and fragrant with red maples and crabapple trees in bloom; magnolias too, their stiff, upturned beaks starting to crack open. She takes my arm. We chat, or we鈥檙e quiet. We improvise a dance in the middle of West 70th Street without a car in sight.

Finding freedom in confinement feels like the descending of grace.

Susan Ito, Oakland, California
Born in 1959

On day three of sheltering in place, we were getting accustomed to the new normal. My husband, me, our two adult daughters, and son-in-law were now all huddled at home. Our jobs were on hold or online. Five adults and three dogs had been thrust into a new intimacy.

On Sunday afternoon, a group text message on the 鈥渇amily channel鈥� spread through the house: Our elder daughter, living downstairs, was in early labor. Before the outbreak of coronavirus, she had planned on a home birth. Now, we were doubly relieved she wouldn鈥檛 be entering a hospital. A few hours later, the doula and midwife arrived and I heard my daughter鈥檚 voice break through the floorboards: a single, long roar of pain and effort.

The sound of her voice shattered me. I grabbed my puffy headphones to distract the sound of her suffering, and then I heard my husband and younger daughter鈥檚 voices. 鈥淚s that a baby?鈥� 鈥淚 hear a baby!鈥�

So soon? I joined them at the top of the steps. And then I heard it: the unmistakable cry of an infant, hoarse and insistent. The doula appeared, grinned and gave us a double-fisted thumbs-up. The midwife had arrived with just seconds to spare.

We were ushered into the dark room, heated to sauna temperature so that the transition from womb to earth would not be too abrupt. We knelt by the bed. A little black-haired creature snuggled against my daughter.

鈥淪he has a butt chin,鈥� murmured the new aunt. The tiny familial dot of a cleft. We sighed in recognition, and how she mirrored both her parents: her perfect nose, her flowering lips.

We baked a cake with limited ingredients. The flour was almost gone and we had no powdered sugar for frosting, so we made a flourless, mousse-like chocolate cake that called for eight eggs. How carefree we were, not realizing that the next time we went to the store, there would be no eggs. We found a blue and green candle shaped like the number one and stuck it into the cake topped with cocoa powder and sprinkles. We tiptoed into the darkened baby den, and softly sang 鈥淗appy first-day to you鈥� in the room lit by the single flickering candle.

Andrea Carlisle, Portland, Oregon
Born in 1944

I miss my little problems.

How did my favorite winter cap get so stretched out? Do I need to grow a larger head to wear it again?

Has the sea lion already left our river and returned to the ocean? I saw his cocoa-colored, big-as-a-basketball head bobbing up outside my riverside door only twice this winter.

Can I unclog the sink myself, or do I need a plumber?

The otters are back from wherever they go in winter, and here I am on the walkway without my camera.

Why is it impossible to lose 1 pound, 1 single, good-for-nothing (my mother鈥檚 phrase) pound?

I wish popcorn didn鈥檛 crack old teeth. I love popcorn. I suppose I love old teeth more.

Am I really going to try to read through all the letters I鈥檝e saved from my five aunts, my parents, various friends, and old professors over the years? How long would that take? But then again, how can I throw them away?

Will the train schedule ever change so that those five blasts don鈥檛 wake me from a dead sleep at 3 a.m.?

Is it too cold to go out on the upper deck and wave to the moon before I lay me down to sleep?

Mary Kay Jennings, Houston
Born in 1944

On March 12, three months after the unexpected death of my husband, I was in the early stages of trying to work my way through grief when my son texted me from LA suggesting I stay in the house because of the coronavirus. I had just had lunch with a friend and stopped by my local supermarket in Houston, where I found the zombie apocalypse in full force: no meat; no canned soup, beans, or vegetables; no paper goods of any kind; checkout lines 10 deep.

I was shocked, unsettled, and feeling vulnerable鈥攏ot from fear of the coronavirus so much as from the shoppers鈥� reaction. Selfishness, the most dangerous malady of our time, was on full display.

And this was in the early days. The virus had not been declared a pandemic, and states were not on lockdown. Yet shelves were bare, shoppers eyed their neighbors furtively, and baskets overflowed.

I left the store disheartened and thinking not about my generation with our race riots, moon shots, civil rights and anti-war demonstrations, but about my parents鈥� generation. I was thinking about the Great Depression and the Second World War, hardships Americans faced together. The Vietnam War, civil rights, the Gulf Wars, the war in Afghanistan鈥攖hese were faced by a country divided. Only briefly did we come together in the aftershock of 9/11, but soon the war on terror, like the war on drugs, was someone else鈥檚 problem.

Most of us, myself included, have never encountered the threat of homelessness or starvation or lost loved ones fighting for freedoms so ubiquitous we seldom give them a thought. We have become soft as a nation, our backbones bent, not straightened by adversity. Over the last half-century, our focus has turned inward, making ourselves the center of our own self-fashioned universes.

However, I think this coronavirus pandemic poses a threat that humans can handle. It presents a unique opportunity to inoculate us against self-centeredness, isolation, the loss of family ties, and camaraderie. This pandemic could bring together communities of all sizes, alert the collective 鈥渦s鈥� to certain dangers鈥攍ike pandemics and climate change鈥攖hat threaten our fragile existence if not faced responsibly.

If we humans are to survive and prosper, we must rediscover the inner strength, the selflessness鈥攖he collective responsibility鈥攅xhibited by my parents鈥� generation, the ingredients of a permanent vaccine to assure our planet鈥檚 habitability and our species鈥� survival.

Ann S. Sentilles, Dallas
Born in 1947

鈥淏eware the elderly.鈥� Or is it, 鈥淏eware, elderly鈥�? Or 鈥淓lderly beware鈥�?

In any case, I am increasingly distressed to find myself classified among the 鈥渆lderly.鈥�

Perhaps I am reacting to the 鈥渆lderly鈥� label self-protectively. It could be that the very idea of a deadly pandemic in my lifetime is so terrifying that I am choosing to focus instead on the term 鈥渆lderly,鈥� and the inexorable vicissitudes of aging it conjures in others and, clearly, in me.

Funny thing is, I felt just as strongly about eschewing 鈥渕iddle-aged鈥� as an identity when I was 45 (which is admittedly just about as middle-aged as one can hope to be). I guess I have this thing about ageism, and the thing about it is, my own response is textbook ageism. At its worst. I make assumptions about what it means to be a certain age, and I harbor prejudices against those assumptions without looking beyond them to each person as an individual.

Nevertheless, for health care purposes, it is beginning to make sense to come to terms with being 鈥渆lderly,鈥� even when I wish I were not. There are, of course, healthy elderly and frail elderly, folks older than 60 who are in shape and folks who are in terrible shape, people who take good care of themselves and those who are not able to, and across all demographics, but especially ours, many who have legitimately concerning 鈥渦nderlying conditions,鈥� all of which make each of us more鈥攐r less鈥攙ulnerable to disease and viral infections. The basic biological fact I am forcing myself to come to terms with is that my immune system is probably just as flabby as my upper arms, and for the same singular reason鈥攎y age.

The shallow, vain part of me is stomping my feet and shouting, 鈥淒on鈥檛 call me old!鈥� But my deeper concern is more philosophical, even existential. If I am, if we are, broadly labeled and officially identified as 鈥渆lderly,鈥� for public health purposes, what does that mean for our access to and our level of care? Might we be triaged, as reportedly happened in Italy, to the end of the line say, for respirators, no matter how sick we become, if someone has tacit permission to calculate that we鈥檝e lived long enough, or that we don鈥檛 have enough years left to be worth saving?

We become a problem in search of a solution, an 鈥渙ther鈥� whose worth and value is summarily diminished because of only one identifying factor of who we are, our age. This happens with all 鈥渙thers鈥� who are so classified: the poor, for example, migrants, women, children, racial minorities, gays, and people who are trans. And thus, I resist.

Don鈥檛 call me elderly. My name is Ann.

Chris Kreussling, Flatbush, New York
Born in 1958

For the second time in my life, I am at the epicenter of an epidemic.

I moved to NYC, to the East Village, in 1979. Just in time for the AIDS epidemic. We endured as the numbers went from a handful, to scores, hundreds, thousands, hundreds of thousands.

We lived and loved in fear for ourselves, our community, our way of life. We worried about every little cough, every slight fever, every blemish, every lump or swelling, both in ourselves, and others. We lived and loved in anger at the cruelty and incompetence of a federal administration that cared nothing about us, and killed us through their indifference and inaction.

It鈥檚 all so familiar. It feels the same now, but the pace and scale have been multiplied exponentially.

The NYC Department of Health reported days ago that my Brooklyn neighborhood of Flatbush has the highest positive testing rate for COVID-19 in the city. The epicenter, of the epicenter, of the epicenter of the epidemic is here.

Endurance trauma is real. I survived a dark 15 years of AIDS as a death sentence. That trauma is reactivated, living in NYC, the middle of the worst of COVID-19. For the moment.

Those of us who have survived past epidemics have experience and knowledge we all need to get through what鈥檚 coming. This is real. And it鈥檚 scary. Do not deny what you feel. That鈥檚 how we get through this: by feeling it. Leave room for yourself and others to feel what they need, to grieve, to rage, to despair.

That鈥檚 how we keep going: together.

Robert Skollar, New York City
Born in 1949

I open my eyes, and all I hear is quiet.

Is it middle of the night? Early Sunday morning? Midday Tuesday?
Days, dates, and hours have lost their relevancy.
I find myself asleep in the afternoon, wide awake at 3 a.m. 鈥�
But now鈥�
it鈥檚 all one long day.

I live on NYC鈥檚 Upper East Side. 3rd floor.
It鈥檚 loud. 
The morning overture begins with garbage trucks, construction work, Ubers, Vias, and the vanishing yellow taxis honking.
Then the Brearly girls start screaming. And I curse them.
But now鈥�
I long to hear those shrill screams.

The world keeps on spinning.
So there is another day to face.
Beginning with me unhappily acknowledging my intense pain.
Chronic bad back.
In the years BC, (before coronavirus), there were shots administered by the ever-so-willing Dr. Schottenstein (aka 鈥淒r. Shot-in-the ass鈥�).  
Now there are no shots, not when I won鈥檛 leave my house.
So, I must acknowledge and accept the pain that cannot be addressed for months.
But now鈥�
Considering all else, it鈥檚 merely a 鈥渕inor annoyance.鈥�

I pray.
This is not new.
I pray everyday.
Nothing from a book. Certainly not in Hebrew. 
Just talking to God.
First thanks for my blessed life.
Then asking for 鈥渟tuff.鈥�
No material wish list, just health and happiness for my loved ones.
Who gets the 鈥渓ead ask鈥� is dependent upon the magnitude of the issue
they鈥檙e currently facing.
But now鈥�
I pray for the world.

Then, to bring some order to a world of chaos鈥� a daily schedule.
Listing anything and everything from 鈥渢ake shower鈥� to 鈥渨rite scene for screenplay鈥� to 鈥渨atch Better Call Saul.鈥�&苍产蝉辫;
Hardly my usual schedule.
But now鈥�
there is no 鈥渦sual.鈥�

Next with equal amounts of trepidation, I check the Times鈥� Morning Briefing, my email, my horoscope, and the stock market.

I skim internet articles鈥�
鈥淭en great lockdown books,鈥� 鈥淣etflix binges,鈥� 鈥淏est on-line classes,鈥�&苍产蝉辫;
鈥淗ow to throw a social-distanced Luau.鈥�
I applaud those who partake.
But now鈥�
I鈥檓 too worried about never seeing my grandchildren again.

Through strange circumstances, and, I believe, God鈥檚 鈥渕aster plan,鈥�&苍产蝉辫;
my grown kids are living with us during this surreal time.
They are stepping up big-time.
Cautiously optimistic.
Projecting a rational calm.
Believing I am overreacting, but remaining respectful of my beliefs.
My wife fulfills her mom-caretaker role without interruption.
We gather for nightly Jeopardy.
Me? I should be the leader of the family.
But now鈥�
I am the weakest link. 
I鈥檝e lost my usual 鈥渉alf-full鈥� attitude. 
I seriously consider the end of the world.
I need to step up my game.

The other day I assessed my life of 70 years鈥�
Pretty damned good!
If I died today, I鈥檇 have to say, 鈥淚 won life.鈥�
But now鈥�
I think about Charlie, almost 4, and Wes, just turned 2.
They must have their lives.
Full of all the good, happy days that make life what it is.
And I want to be part of it.

But now鈥�
I just have to wait.

Linda Jackson, Cody, Wyoming
Born in 1941

I am having two specific and strong feelings in response to the pandemic, but more specifically to the changes that have happened so rapidly in the past one to two weeks.

One of the feelings has to do with the realization of the life of privilege that I have led. This is, of course, not the first time I鈥檝e thought about it, but is the first time I have had to consider, as well as implement, a change of lifestyle dictated by a force outside myself. In just the past two weeks I have had to cancel a major surgery because it was elective, had medical appointments canceled, been unable to buy groceries that heretofore have been so abundant that I am sometimes overwhelmed by the choices, and had to make conscious decisions to not greet friends and acquaintances with a hug! All those things are insignificant in the grander scheme, which makes me all the more embarrassed that I take it all for granted.

The other thought that keeps coming back to me concerns my wondering how my parents dealt with the major events in their life that were comparable, if not more frightening, to this pandemic. I know my mother lost a sibling to the Spanish flu of 1918. I know that both parents鈥� families struggled in different ways during the Great Depression. I was born one week after the bombing of Pearl Harbor and my father was in the Navy. Because my parents were not the kind of people who shared feelings easily, I never knew if they were scared or lost hope, or if they just kept going one day at a time.