Notes Towards a Virtual Lockdown
By Susana Medina. Pictures: Derek Ogbourne.
Looking at exponential graphs, at data, numbers, statistics, every day.
First Italy.
Then, Spain.
Thinking about my friends, old neighbours in Spain, and that Italy has warned us what to expect: I’m filled with sorrow for you, Italy, a country I lived in for a year. Spain, the country where I grew up. Daily, the numbers are horrific, and sorrow cannot be exponential.
Knowing that in two or three weeks, Corona will reach the UK.
Then checking on Germany, where the death toll is unusually low: mass testing and a prepared, robust health care system seem to make a difference. Or is the death rate calculated in a different way?
And our government in the UK … What can I say?
The brutal lessons are there, from Wuhan, South Korea, Italy, Spain, and yet, sovereignly unheeded. Herd immunity is going ahead. That’s what all the staggering incompetence, dithering and delayed lockdown spell out.
This is an unexpected epic tragedy within a well-known and foretold epic catastrophe which remains largely ignored: the climate and ecological emergency. The Covid-19 pandemic is a drill for it. Hopefully, it will be a catalyst for transformation. Covid-19 affects everything. It’s pandemonic. And so will be the climate emergency. We’ve been re-imagining our society for a long time now. We know that we have to reinvent our societies. We do in all the ways we can. Now the questions remain: how to alter the political will that is poisoning us? How to turn fear into hope? I’m talking about large swathes of voters here. The task is never-ending. We have to keep on marching, doing, undoing, hoping, speaking out.
‘We should do our wills, you know?’ I said to Derek during the first days of British Corona. Not that we have much. But our mothers own a house each. On 2 April, I went to Tesco, wearing a mask, and gloves. On leaving, with unwittingly unconvincing tone, I said to the black security guard: ‘Have a lovely day’. He looked at me, and there was fear in his eyes. And I feared for him. And all the doctors, nurses, cleaners, factory workers and bus drivers on the frontline, risking their lives, came to the forefront. Not that they haven’t been in my mind, having closely followed the dance of death in Italy and Spain.
Why isn’t everyone wearing masks? And why the lack of pandemic protection to those exposed to the public and those who risk their lives day after day to protect us?
Neoliberalism: So many countries casting the vulnerable to their deaths, key workers being collateral damage.
Faceless and nameless numbers. At some point, there will be some faces and names.
At first, fear for family and friends. Will I lose a friend? A relative? An acquaintance? Real fear. For everyone. And panic, an inner tantrum, when a beloved high-risk friend, living in a remote place without doctors, doesn’t answer an email for a few hours, not knowing he has to walk to an internet hotspot.
Before the plague, I used to go for a walk every day, around my pretty deserted block. Now, is now and again, always with a mask and gloves, crossing the road when I see a human looming a mile away. On my walks, I would meet Andrew, the postman, with whom I’m on chatty terms. Will he be here after lockdown? I would also meet and chat with William, an old Irish gardener, who walks his dogs every day. I’ve talked to him from three metres away, begging him to get in touch with the local association who’s helping high-risk people. Will he be fine?
So instead of walks, it’s long spells in the garden, which is more like a meadow, a lush profusion of ivy, wildflowers and interesting weeds: lilacs, daffodils, dandelions, speedwell, lesser celandine, brambles, nettle, sticky plants and creepers running up the trees. So privileged to have a garden, to be with my loved ones, my cats and the blessings I can’t go into here, which remind me that one of my main inner narratives makes me smile and remains partly unchanged, except for the thought: what does tomorrow hold? Privileged to have a roof above my head, be able to wash my hands, and no worries about food or bills, so far. Working in the garden is de-stressing and handling soil is good for the immune system. On the first gardening day, a memory strikes me: the months after my dad parted, and, unexpectedly, in January and February, I spent long spells tidying up the garden. I am grieving, I tell myself, except there is also now the urgent need for fresh air. In the garden, my cats self-isolate.
This spring is both dystopian and glorious. If I rewind the Corona tape, 11th March was the last day I went out. To a poetry Shearman Books launch. Being a part-time carer for my high-risk mum, I was already physical distancing, people seemed surprised, and it took them a few seconds to understand. And that’s the last people I met. I stopped going swimming. A couple of readings were cancelled. Then, a barrage of work, and editing. Continuity. I work from home. I teach online for the Open University. Lots of marking. All the windows in my flat face the garden, and with the exception of birdsong, the quiet is absolute. Nothing has changed, and everything has changed. It’s home, sweet home, except for a few trips to the shop: One day, I had to go to six supermarkets to find toilet paper! It reminded me of a picture of me Derek altered a few years ago with toilet paper to make me look like a mummy. He probably made it after returning from the Middle East. What the hell was he thinking? It’s a kind of Corona picture. Shall I change my profile pic to this one? It’s inappropriate. Is it?
And then, the last edits, more home, sweet home, though one day we cycled to Hampstead Heath, and another one, to a nearby reservoir. And there is some good news: at long last, I have finished Spinning Days of Night, a long novel I started to write back in 1247 AD, with many interruptions, as I lost my dad, and became a carer for my mum who has a chronic illness, suffers from mild dementia and is now in a wheelchair. While I was writing my novel, I also published and promoted two books and a half, and last year, I became increasingly involved with Extinction Rebellion. In the devastating company of Total Cases, New Cases, Total Deaths, New Deaths, Total Recovered, Active Cases, I wasn’t happy the day I finished my novel, so many years in the making. There was supposed to be a before and after with my novel. On finishing it, I was planning seeing more of my friends, read their books, start collaborations and be more visible on social media. Instead, there is a before and after Corona. There will be time, there will be time, I told myself as more work came my way.
Sooner or later the UK would have to go on lockdown. But it wasn’t happening. Those were the days of supreme angst and a non-capisco-verdaderamente-no entiendo feeling, when seeing mega-mass gatherings, such as the Liverpool-Atl ético Madrid football, the Chelteham Festival, the Bath Marathon, and pictures of crammed pubs, trains and airports. Of being angry, livid, and scared when the government shamelessly announced its ‘herd immunity’ strategy. After participating in the 24h yum-yum banquet Les Éph émères, a virtual lockdown global gathering of 24 inspiring prize-winning writers, I felt immensely relieved when lockdown was finally announced, inexplicably late, on 23rd March.
In lockdown, life continues. Love, humour, beauty continues. Prompted by some images of Bruno Ganz on Twitter, I thought the time had come for the most special of treats: I watched Wings of Desire. Years ago, I used to watch it every so often. It’s my favourite film.
I look at exponential graphs, at data, numbers, statistics, every day. It is both very real and remote. There is one regret: I wish I could make a difference. I’d love to volunteer, if I wasn’t caring for my demanding, high-risk mum. The UK has such a great tradition of volunteering. In fact, so many things are run by volunteers. At some point, I think: lockdown suits me fine. How many days since self-isolating? Today is 10th April. One month! And I haven’t gone mad yet! A little voice tells me: That may be because you already are!
In lockdown, laughter and tragedy go hand in hand on social media, while yoga classes and funerals are conducted on zoom. Like most of us in lockdown, I have developed a new type of agoraphobia, and as I process these new realities, and soap and water and 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, 11, 12, 13, 14, 15, 16, 17, 18, 19, 20, and disinfect the post and the shopping, listen to and comfort paranoid relatives, and conjure up necessary distractions, I feel waves of sympathy towards those who have lost loved ones, great admiration for those working to save lives, and sympathise with those self-isolating by themselves and all the families, friends, lovers, tragically separated by Corona.
These days the weather is splendid, and online we get to see wild animals exploring the city. In these strange sunny days of loss and isolation, I think about the economic reverberations, and that universal basic income is essential. I also think of failures, inconsistencies, and clear blue skies caused by the sudden drop in carbon emissions. There must be a measurable drop in the deaths caused by air pollution, which causes 64,000 early deaths in the UK every year, and worldwide, 8.8 million early deaths. As of today, almost four months since the first Corona death, there are 103,000 fatalities worldwide. How is this different from the 8.8 million early deaths caused by air pollution? Are they lesser deaths? Is it because the Spanish Flu in 1918 caused more than 50.000.000 deaths and there is panic Corona could come near to this? Or is it because the will to seriously and urgently transition to a free fossil fuel world is lacking?
The air pollution death toll is a permitted catastrophe I have written about, and whilst it’s not as intense, dramatic and unexpected as Corona, imagine a world where we had daily shivering data about it on the news. The big silence shouts about an unforgivable complicity and betrayal on the part of our governments, economy and media bought up by fossil fuels. We do not have a cure for Corona yet, but we do know what we have to do to prevent deaths from pollution, which are one current devastating dimension of the manifold tragedies unfolding from the climate and ecological emergency.
It is early spring, nature singing its well-known song. Does it have notes of irony, this time round? Can we afford to despair at this stage of lockdown, when this is just the beginning? We are mired in it for the long haul, and this is the beginning of a double crisis. But it can also be a beginning, which means hard work, resilience, empathy and fostering the spirit of cooperation and community born of these crises. To cherish life like there is no tomorrow, while caring about our uncertain future. It is something we have to do. Always. In the face of mass death, we have to redouble our efforts. Let’s invent a new carpe diem, which is about celebrating and respecting life. End with a positive note, I tell myself as the UK records the highest single-day coronavirus death toll: 980. Spread hope, write something positive, something like: ‘An admirable example to follow is New Zealand, where only four deaths have been recorded, thanks to the ever-wonderful Prime Minister Jacinda Ardern, who has led a vigorous elimination strategy.’ Or something light-hearted: ‘Let’s not tell some people when lockdown is over!’ Maybe something deeper? ‘Dearest Reader, during the days ahead, I wish you moments of quiescent perceptiveness.’
@SusanaMedina_
