Quarantine Fog
A recent conversation between my husband and me went a little like this:
Him: So, think you’ll take a shower today?
Me: (annoyed) I took a shower Tuesday.
Him: Today’s Tuesday.
Me:
Him:
Me: I’m gonna just go jump in the shower…
I’ve only been in isolation for a couple of weeks and I’m already losing track of time. It’s unusual because I am totally suited to being alone and working from home. Nothing makes me happier than being solitarily ensconced in my home office, working on my books and essays and pursuing gainful employment as a writer. I’m an introvert; working from home is like a lullaby for me. I mean, I could go out, but I choose not to.
But since the coronavirus swept the world and forced everyone indoors, working from home has had the affect of making it hard to concentrate. I’m in a sort of quarantine fog. It’s like when my daughter first went to Kindergarten and I sat around with my infant son wondering what to do. There were things I had to do…like keep him alive. Feed, change, nap…built in tasks that kept me somewhat focused.
And, actually, I have the same requirement now as I did back then: I’m the primary caretaker for my Dad, who’s lived with us for the last three years and my job is to keep him alive. With many of the same tasks: Feed, change, nap. I have the time to be in my office, but my day is broken up by meals, snacks and the occasional loud noise from downstairs that needs investigating (was it a body? A cell phone? A full glass of diet soda?). My workload consists of eking out some essays and submitting proposals from time to time. For some me-time, I teach a couple of writing classes, meet up with my writers’ group and running out to the grocery for dad’s supplies. (Yes, sadly, grocery shopping is now a self-care activity.)
Now, with all those little activities gone, I’m a teeny bit on edge. I think the choosing to stay home has something to do with it. I was fine with the choice until I didn’t have one. I jump from task to task like a bee looking for pollen. Sometimes, I stray so far away from the reason I planted my bottom in the chair, I simply wander off in search of — something. More than likely, it’s a snack. I probably need more work to do, to which you’d respond, “You should work on your book!” And you’d be right. It’s a great idea and I think of it nearly every day, until the fog descends and I find myself on Amazon looking for forehead thermometers.
And speaking of fogs, my dad thinks the virus is swirling outside like a cloud and wonders if we should take refuge in the basement. “Did you seal the doors and windows?”
No wonder I forgot to shower.