Column: Longing for an overdue return to normalcy

A friend recently wondered how there can be anybody left in Maine who could get sick with Covid-19.

And this was before the staggering 2,148 cases announced on Dec. 10. Before Gov. Janet Mills called out the National Guard to help with the crisis hospitals are facing due to the surges in Covid numbers.

I have taken up her comment as a kind of mantra when I see the latest numbers. An incredulous voice inside my head: says: “We’re such a small state. How long can this go on?”

In my darker moments, I think, “Forever.”

I’d like to be more optimistic, but this is our second pandemic holiday season. Thanksgiving brought that Dec. 10 spike in cases; what will Christmas deliver?

I’ve seen bright spots on the horizon before, but right now I can’t even imagine closure. I can’t picture the day when I don’t have to wear a mask for my job as a school librarian.

I’m angry, too. We didn’t have to be in this position. The virus is running rampant here because too many Mainers are still unvaccinated. The situation we’re in is mind boggling.

The pandemic is a public health issue, obviously. But I also see its effects on education. And, of course, we are all experiencing our personal journeys.

When the vaccines first became available last year, there was great excitement. I was ecstatic when appointments were opened up to those over 60, like me. But my mood quickly fell when, before I could schedule a shot, educators and other frontline workers were added to the eligibility list, regardless of age.

I panicked, convinced I’d have to wait for weeks. People were proudly posting their appointments on social media, but I hadn’t managed to find an opening. Then my husband, Paul, got up very early in the morning and found me a slot at Walmart. 

I am troubled by the thought that this country is so divided that we have some people who couldn’t wait to get their vaccines in March and others who refuse to so in December, even when they (or a loved one) are on a ventilator. They harbor their crazy conspiracy theories while others are frantic to secure a booster appointment.

Mutual concern is a bedrock of democracy. Retirees are expected to support the school budget at town meeting even though their children are long past their classroom days. Though self-determination is also a major tenet, we have always acknowledged that “your right to swing your fist ends where my nose begins.”

Today, too many don’t care about their neighbors’ well-being. All they think about is their “rights.” But no one’s rights are being violated. The vaccine is a choice—for the greater good.

I’ve given up trying to understand those who oppose vaccines and masks. From my perspective, masks enable schools to stay in session. I hate wearing a mask all day, but I know it works. There’s little (if any) transmission in schools when a mask policy is strictly followed. My district is participating in pool testing, which also allows more students to remain in school when they are close contacts of infected people.

It’s not perfect. There always are students who have to quarantine. That puts added stress on both them and their teachers, as their school work has to be done during their absence. Parents have to arrange for child care, although now they do have the option of having their elementary-aged offspring vaccinated.

Many students were dealing with mental health issues before the pandemic; case numbers have now skyrocketed. Educators are struggling as well. I find the uncertainty of life during the pandemic to be extremely stressful. Teaching and interacting with students while wearing a mask is challenging. 

Most of all, I have a sense that nothing is the way it’s supposed to be. And it’s been that way for way too long now.

I remember the fear I felt in the spring of 2020, not knowing how bad things would get, how long it would last. I worried less about the actual illness than about being quarantined. Having my life totally disrupted for two weeks seemed unimaginable.

I missed going to the movies and eating out. But once the weather broke, Paul and I went on many outdoor adventures. I even packed a bag with paper plates, utensils, a tablecloth and napkins to keep in the car for our picnic lunches.

I’ve adapted to this new lifestyle—which includes routinely wearing a mask indoors in public places—but I’m not happy about it.

Still, I was grateful that we were able to say goodbye to our Chocolate Lab, Aquinnah, in late February, 2020. A few weeks later and we would not have been able to share his final moments at the veterinary hospital.

Although it turned out to be an ordeal, I say thanks that I was able to undergo surgery at the end of October. It was a necessary procedure, but I bet it would have been delayed for weeks if I was trying to schedule it now.

To wit: Maine Medical Center recently closed six operating rooms. This move frees up staff and made room for—you guessed it — more Covid patients.

My ability, and willingness, to find silver linings only goes so far. All I want for Christmas is my old life back.

Column: First, anger, then a glimmer of happiness, and hope

I recently found myself in the critical care unit with a nasogastric tube in my nose. I was hooked to an IV pole and my lower legs were encased in compression wraps, to prevent blood clots.

Not only was I stuck there for at least a week, I couldn’t have anything to eat or drink for the duration.

I  might have reacted to this news with fear. Or sadness. I might have simply resigned myself to my fate.

Nope. I was mad. What the heck? I may have played the role of nice girl most of my life, but this was too much. There was no way I could say, “Oh, okay,” or “Sounds like a plan.”

I didn’t growl, or shout, or cry. I was speechless, which in my personal rulebook of civility is just as bad.

It was at that moment that I realized I had the potential to be a bad patient. A very bad patient.

I’d come to the hospital the previous day for surgery. I’d expected to stay overnight in a regular unit and to be out of work for a week, maybe two.

But there were complications. A second, emergency surgery was required. When I awoke, my world had shifted on its axis.

No food or drink for a week!

I’d had some day surgery in the past but I’d never spent a night in the hospital. Although I was apprehensive about the operation and my recovery, the idea of an overnight stay didn’t worry me. I calmly made a list of what to stow in my backpack, based on internet research. I knew I’d probably be on a liquid diet for the day, but that wouldn’t be so bad.

Now, no food or drink for a week!

Visions of smoothies were racing through my head. How was I going to make it through the week? I’d have to pass a swallowing test before they let me go home, before they let me drink a glass of cranberry juice. My overactive imagination and hyperactive thought processes were not going to handle this well. Or a week without eating?

Oh, angry didn’t begin to describe how I felt.

I quickly discovered, however, that I didn’t have time to stew in the meager juices I had left. Though I wasn’t in critical condition, I needed to be kept under a close eye. On the CCU, that means having your vital signs checked every two hours. Every time I closed my eyes, somebody wanted to put a thermometer in my mouth.

When there was a lull in the action, I contemplated escape. But between the NG tube, the IV and a catheter, I was going nowhere.

I was trapped. I quickly grew tired of people asking me how I was. I was extremely tired, in fact, and couldn’t sleep. It was time for a bath. The IV antibiotics bag needed to be changed. A machine started beeping and I had to call for help.

I had drains coming out of either side of my abdomen. And did I mention I couldn’t eat or drink?

Oh, Bad Patient was very unhappy, but she managed to keep it under the covers, so to speak.

Still, I knew that my negative attitude was not helping me to recover. After all, what was my goal? Home.

So I looked at the bright side. It was not fun having a tube in my nose, but I couldn’t call it painful. I was not, in fact, in any pain at all. And if I was, I had a button to push that would deliver meds straight to my bloodstream.

I actually used it so sparingly they took it away from me after a few days.

I could sit up and read, or stream shows on my iPad. Friends and family were calling and texting me. My husband, Paul, came to visit twice a day. After a few days, the catheter came out. I could spend some time sitting in the chair by the window.

I found I could be grateful and angry at the same time. Well, maybe not in the same moment, but definitely in the same hour.

Then I had an epiphany. I realized, on Day Three, that I was so far out of my ordinary existence, I didn’t care about eating anymore. Early morning meant a visit from the lab technician, who would draw blood. Noontime meant a visit from Paul. He’d return around dinner time as well. 

I did dream about food. Amusingly, I always realized at the last minute that I couldn’t eat it. Even my subconscious had accepted my fate.

Once I was able to stop grizzling and throwing silent tantrums, I realized I was serving a purpose. Many patients who need critical care are non-communicative. They may be unconscious, or on respirators. They are truly bedridden.

I was not only lucid (sometimes even garrulous), but eventually I could even get myself in and out of bed. A visit to Room 10 was a tiny respite for the hardworking critical care staff.

There it was—a glimmer of happiness. I still had a tube up my nose. I really needed to wash my hair. But with my anger gone, with that crack in my darkness, I could finally see better days ahead.

Column: Reading my way through a hospital stay, and beyond

The book was sitting on a bed tray in a hospital room, where I was recuperating from surgery. My husband, Paul, had come to visit, and one of the first things I’d asked him to do was to get my current reading out of my backpack.

Now a nurse came through and spotted it. “Look at you, with a real book. And a library book, when no one goes to the library anymore.”

I am proud to say that, despite my debilitation I was able to retort, “Oh, I’m a school librarian, and actually, the library is busier than ever this year.”

This particular nurse turned out to be not only knowledgeable and efficient, but quite pleasant. Still, it was discouraging to me that she was surprised to see a patient with a book. It was the second thing I’d packed—after underwear.

My furious pandemic reading has continued unabated, as much as the virus has. Even a weeklong hospital visit didn’t slow my pace. Books have always been my refuge and solace.

I finally finished “Grant,” by Ron Chernow, the weekend before my surgery. I try to read a biography each summer, when I have more time for what tend to be thick and (sometimes) dense tomes. I believe I began “Grant” in June, and took time away from it for our week at the coast, because it was too heavy to tote along. So, five months.

Whew.

Now, I always have a fiction and a nonfiction book going at the same time. Mystery is my favorite genre, and I often finish a novel in a week. Fiction provides an escape, while nonfiction broadens my mind.

I enjoyed “Grant” and found it quite illuminating. The great general and not-so-great president was a complex man. His courage in his final years, when he endured excruciating pain from throat cancer, was inspiring. Grant was determined to finish his memoirs in order to provide financial security for his family, and he did.

Chernow’s descriptions of Reconstruction reminded me that today’s political climate has deep roots. The violence against black people (truly horrific), the usurpation of their voting rights, the idea that various laws or elected officials were illegitimate; these were all on full display in the years following the Civil War.

One of the joys of my autumn reading was the second in Richard Osman’s series, “The Thursday Murder Club.” These delightful mysteries feature a quartet of friends who live in an upscale British retirement community and who get themselves involved in real-life cases. Each has their special skills: Elizabeth is former MI5 (or is it 6?); Joyce is a retired nurse; Ibrahim a psychotherapist; while Ron was a union activist. Their latest outing finds them going deep into Elizabeth’s espionage background. The aches, pains and heartbreaks of aging aren’t glossed over, but these septuagenarians have fun.

Following “Grant,” my next nonfiction selection was “Peril,” by Bob Woodward and Robert Costa. I am finding the story of President Donald Trump’s last year in office, and the election of Joe Biden, to be intensely readable. I didn’t bring it to the hospital because I didn’t think politics would aid in my recovery, so I am still reading it.

I actually found that a “real” book was a challenge to hold up in a hospital bed, and also required me to have more lighting than I wanted. Luckily, I had my iPad, with its Kindle app. On it, I had two perfect selections for a prolonged hospital stay. (There were complications; I ended up in critical care for a week.)

My mystery choice was “The Long Call,” by Ann Cleeves. I’d read Cleeves’ earliest books, before she became famous as the creator of Detective Chief Inspector Vera Stanhope. But while a fan of her “Vera” and “Shetland” TV series, I’d not read any of those books. “The Long Call” is the first in a new series featuring police detective Matthew Venn. He’s a complex character who grew up in a restrictive religious sect, broke free, and later married his beloved Jonathan. The North Devon (southwest England) setting is vividly described and the mystery is timely and absorbing.

For nonfiction, I realized I’d never finished “Wintering,” by Katherine May, which came out last year. It was the perfect pandemic book. May writes about the times in our lives when we may have to step back and do nothing—not quite hibernate, but take a hiatus from striving. She visits Iceland and Norway (above the Arctic Circle) and explores the cold weather lives of dormice, honey bees and wolves. 

May’s words struck home as I endured my wintry week. I couldn’t eat or drink. My only goal was to recover. My usual life was behind me; I could only hope it was waiting for me on the other side.

I’m home now, and still reading. I’ve returned to “Peril” and read the second Matthew Venn, “The Heron’s Cry.” And the first in Cleeve’s Shetland series, “Raven Black.” Now I’m onto the second, “White Nights.”

I’ve got a ways to go yet, health wise. Books will get me there.

Column: The fine art of supermarket pivoting

I knew the supply chain disruption had reached a crisis point when I called to order takeout fish and chips and was told—there was no fish.

I was speechless for a second, then regained my composure and said I’d have to figure out what I wanted to do.

Months of dealing with unexpectedly empty shelves at the supermarket and long delays in shipments have convinced me that the dictionary people have got to choose “pivot” as the word of the year.

The introduction to a New York Times podcast on the subject sums up the issue succinctly: “Consumers have been confronted with an experience rare in modern times: no stock available, and no idea when it will come in.”

In the early days of the pandemic, toilet paper, antiseptic cleaners and hand sanitizer were hard to find. That was distressing, but at least it was related to a specific event. People were clearly hoarding, which created an unexpected demand and supply problem.

Now the shortages seem random, because, I guess, they are. One day there were no organic blueberries. I would have bought organic strawberries, but there weren’t any of those either. Were they stuck on a container ship off San Francisco?

Since I can’t find at least one item on my list each time I shop, I’ve discovered that there are several ways to react to the problem.

The first is to remind myself that on my own, personal, level, this is a first-world problem. (It’s a worldwide debacle in the wider sense.) I am not going to starve if I can’t get organic blueberries. I am only going to pout. I may want to make a tuna casserole with cream of mushroom soup, but if the shelf is bare (which it was last week), I do know how to make a white sauce from scratch. Or maybe I’ll make something completely different, like tacos.

Yes, I can react by pivoting, that hateful pandemic-era word. I am frankly tired of pivoting. I do it under duress, and because I have no alternative.

That said, the supermarket is no place to pivot. If I have to rethink my dinner plans in the middle of the store, say, due to a lack of chicken wings, I may have to go back to the produce section. Since my goal is to complete my shopping as quickly as I can, the thought of going all the way back to the front of the store involves significant pouting.

Once when this happened, I was able to think quickly enough to realize I could get frozen roasted potatoes without having to retrace my steps. It was a grand pivot.

I try not to react to the sight of empty shelves by hoarding. However, the canned dog food area has been pretty bare lately. Dogs’ digestive systems don’t pivot well; or perhaps I should say they pivot catastrophically if consistency is not maintained. So I have bought two cans at a time instead of my usual one—just in case.

Shortages give me a chance to reflect on my purchases. There was about a month-long period when I couldn’t buy my greatest indulgence: Kettle brand salt and vinegar potato chips. It’s cheaper to buy the “sharing” size, which is 13 ounces. (Only in America do manufacturers feel the need to suggest that customers not down a huge bag of chips at one sitting.)

Anyway, first there was only the smaller bag available. Then no salt and vinegar. I was stuck with plain. But there were big bags. The next week, only small bags of plain. Finally, the sharing size of salt and vinegar was back. It kind of made my day.

My angst in the snack foods aisle hits all the buttons. It is a first-world problem; I can pivot easily when my choice is limited to the other varieties of chips; and I can say, “Do I really need chips?”

The last question is easily answered. We are all going through an extremely stressful time. I do need my chips.

I also try to enter the supermarket with a sense of adventure and humor. What won’t I find today? Last week, I couldn’t find a bag of frozen mixed vegetables. This was for that tuna casserole and I had, happily, secured a can of cream of mushroom soup. I was ready to buy organic, store-brand or Birds Eye. Nothing. I ended up with individual bags of peas, corn and green beans.

The mixed vegetables had returned on my most recent visit, although the rest of the frozen vegetable section had what I would term bald spots. You can bet I scooped up a package to be ready for my next casserole.

Faced with a decision on what to do about the lack of fish for Friday dinner, I remembered the leftovers that had been destined for Saturday lunch. It was that tuna casserole.

At least, I reflected, as I watched it spin in the microwave, my family won’t be bereft of chips for the foreseeable future. We have a crate of potatoes in the basement. 

And that, of course, is the ultimate pivot: Grow your own.

Column: A "crazy good" senior dog is finally living her best life

At nearly 13 years old, Martha has come into her own.

Until last year, this 39-pound lab/pit bull mix had lived all her life as the goofy little sis of the noble chocolate lab Aquinnah. She took his death hard in February, 2020, as did my husband, Paul, and I.

A silver lining is that I’ve been given a chance to see that Martha is a more interesting dog than I had thought.

Quinn, as we called Aquinnah, came into our lives in 2007, after we lost our dog Jack in a horrible and mysterious way. Quinn rescued me from my grief. He was the dog I needed, loving but aloof. If I cried into his fur, he just slept on.

I was convinced back then that we needed a second dog, a few years younger than Quinn. Being without a dog had not been a good situation for me.

In late 2008, the Kennebec Valley Humane Society had a litter of puppies available for adoption. We chose “Olivia.”

And promptly changed her name to Martha. Since Aquinnah was named for a town on Martha’s Vineyard, Martha seemed appropriate.

She was tiny. We stopped at the pet store on the way home to buy supplies. We placed her in the seat of the carriage and she fell right through. I was horrified but she was unhurt.

Martha immediately attached herself to Quinn and began sleeping on top of him when he slept on the couch. Quinn tolerated her possum-like behavior for long stretches, but then would shake her off and head to his dog bed.

He never lost patience with her, though, even when she grew into a medium-sized dog.

She was a handful. Martha has a lot of energy. Even as a senior dog, she gets up on her hind legs as we carry her food bowl across the kitchen. When she was a pup, I’d have to take her out in the yard every evening to let her run in circles around me until she was tired. Well, sort of tired.

Her veterinarian called her “crazy good,” manic but not aggressive. A typical vet visit (pre-pandemic) involved Martha dragging me across the lobby. The recent months of curbside drop-off actually came as a relief. One time Paul and I, waiting in the car, could see her running around the examining room.

We looked at each other and smiled. Glad we’re not in there.

Martha is my eighth dog, yet all my attempts to train her to behave in public have failed.

Luckily, she has always been well-behaved at home. I don’t even remember her having a major chewing incident as a puppy.

Martha’s combination of frantic energy and general silliness stood in stark contrast to Quinn’s solidness. This was true even physically. Quinn had light green eyes, a shiny brown coat and an intelligent, narrow face. Martha is cute, while he was handsome. She has improbably skinny legs and tiny paws. Sometimes, instead of walking, she prances.

Martha’s role as the clown of the family has not changed completely since Quinn’s passing. But she is more of a watchdog now. She’d been content to let him take charge of scaring away the mail carrier. Now she will go into the downstairs bathroom, where she can push the curtains aside to keep an eye on the street.

She also fancies herself as the warden of our four cats. She has become friends of a sort with Ted, a friendly Maine coon. Ted sleeps with Martha in the living room when Paul and I go out. She also will gently nudge Annie, a sweet gray ball of fur, and sometimes lick her head.

Quinn was a strict follower of routine. If he headed to his dog bed after dinner one day, he headed there every day. Martha always followed his lead, but there was one thing she did differently. Every day, the dogs practiced a variety of “tricks” that were rewarded with treats. First, give one paw; next, two paws. Quinn, without fail, used his right paw. Martha sometimes used her right, sometimes her left, and sometimes her right and then her left. Or vice versa.

I always found this interesting. Now I notice that she chooses where she is going to sleep. For example, if on a weekend afternoon I go out to the family room to read, she does not always go to the same place in that room to sleep. Sometimes she chooses her blanket on the couch; sometimes the dog bed; other times the floor pillow.

She also learns very quickly (when she wants to). One day, Paul brought her along to pick me up from work. That was it. The next day, just before it was time for him to leave the house, she was ready to go.

This was cute until the weekend, when she decided she needed to go for a ride. It was pouring rain and we had no intention of going anywhere.

She whined. She wouldn’t settle. Martha was such a brat that day that she’s temporarily grounded. But it won’t last. She’s so crazy good I can’t say no to her for long.

Column: Even as the pandemic rages, our humanity reasserts itself

I was in line at the grocery store checkout behind a man in a Korean War veteran’s cap. He had some questions about his credit or debit cards, which the cashier was answering. He selected a card and tried but failed to get it into the reader.

Since the hat was a clue that this veteran was at least in his late 80s, I felt there was only one thing to do. “I can try that for you, sir,” I said.

People have been nice to me all summer. It was time to pay it back.

I have been amazed and delighted by pleasant encounters I’ve had on day trips to coastal towns and state parks, the Kennebec River Rail Trail and doctors’ offices. Last summer we were still keeping our distance outside. I was putting off all medical appointments.

Yet the predominant mood in this country is hatred. Bumper stickers featuring the f-word have become popular. Angry drivers abound. Screeching parents threaten school board members over mask mandates.

January 6th. Need I say more?

And yet, a woman stopped on the rail trail and said to me, “Your hair is lovely. If I thought my gray would come in like that, I’d stop coloring.”

Male readers: Take my word for it. That is the highest compliment one woman can give another. She made my day.

I discovered this summer that I have several items of clothing and accessories that people will comment on favorably: A jersey top patterned with pink cheetahs; a simple blue T-shirt adorned with the motif of a white starfish; a pair of Keen water sandals in pink and purple; and my Pura Vida cord bracelets.

For example, I was at a Dunkin’s in Augusta in my cheetah shirt (and a skirt), waiting for my iced coffee when one of the associates suddenly called out, “I love your dress!” A random stranger on Main Street in Belfast: “I love your big cats!”  A receptionist at my doctor’s office: “That is the best shirt!”

I leaned forward and said, “Reny’s.” That produced an even bigger smile.

I’m shy, so it would take a lot for me to compliment a stranger, or even someone I just don’t know very well. So I applaud these people for their bravery and joie de vivre.

My husband, Paul, and I enjoy day-tripping. In June, we were up on Mount Battie in Camden. Just for fun, I like to post a picture of myself from each excursion on Facebook. Paul was using my camera to snap a photo when a woman said, “Would you like me to take one of both of you?”

Now, last year a man had asked the same thing in Belgrade Lakes. I had said “No, thanks,” because I didn’t want anyone touching my phone. This time I said “Sure.”

We then got into a prolonged conversation with the woman and her husband, who were from Connecticut. They were retired and thought they might like to move to Maine. They would be among several strangers this summer who asked us, “What are the winters like here?”

It’s an amusing question, because there’s not that much difference in the weather between central Connecticut and southern and central Maine. But as a native of southern New England, I know how to answer that question: “I was surprised to see the rivers freeze over.” That’s an eyebrow raiser.

Shortly thereafter we were engaged in a discussion with a couple from Georgia. Coming to Maine was a bucket list item for her, and she had an itinerary that hit all the tourist hot spots from Kennebunkport to Bar Harbor. 

I thought of last summer, of walking on the beach at Popham, my mask slipped up on my arm, in case I couldn’t avoid being near someone other than Paul. Outside. On the beach. In the fresh, blustery sea air.

As we sat on a log back then and wiped our sandy feet, a family with two adorable boys, perhaps three and five, were gathering their things together near us. The smaller of the children came up to me, too close for comfort. I stood up, alarmed and even said, “Please don’t come any closer.”

We are by no means out of the woods yet, but at least I don’t run from tiny tots anymore.

Last year, I would not have offered to handle a stranger’s credit card. This year, I didn’t think twice. And was amply rewarded. The card went through. The veteran thanked me several times. The cashier thanked me several times.

She sent him off with a hearty, “And you have a wonderful day.” 

When it was my turn, she thanked me yet again, and shared part of her life story. Then she  complimented me on my shirt. It was the starfish tee. Finally, she pointed to her wrist. She was wearing a couple of Pura Vida bracelets too.

“I guess we have the same tastes,” she said.

Haters are going to hate. But I am gratified that so many people are reacting to the months of social isolation by connecting with others—striking up conversations, complimenting, just saying “Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

Whenever somebody tells me they “love my big cats,” it truly is.