five stages
They say the five stages of grief are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and finally, acceptance. Based on my unofficial survey of friends on FaceTime, people on social media, colleagues on conference calls, and television news, Americans are still working their way through the first four stages. I’m not sure anybody has come to accept this yet.
Based on his performance Friday at the White House briefing, the President is making the shift from denial to anger. He lashed out at NBC White House correspondent Peter Alexander, who asked the utter softball, "What do you say to Americans who are scared?"
As a former news reporter, please allow me to translate that question so it’s clear how that should have been the easiest, kindest exchange of the day. The question he really asked, is: “You are obviously well prepared on this because you and your team will have briefed together on messaging intended to keep the people calm and on their best behavior in this time of great anxiety. I work for a television station that wants to play, and replay — and then replay again — a clip of you saying something reassuring so that people who are freaking out have a little something to lean on today. Can you do that for me please? What do you say?”
Trump responded: “I say you’re a terrible reporter, that’s what I say... I think it’s a very nasty question and a very bad signal you’re putting out there to the American people. The American people are looking for answers and they’re looking for hope and you’re doing sensationalism.”
So, that didn’t work out as planned for NBC. But I take it as a positive sign. At least if America’s president has passed through the denial stage and is now angry, he might start throwing his weight around and doing something that stops this thing. Although... is it too late?
Based on my own experience, I’d surmise that where you fall on the grief spectrum today largely depends how serious your local restrictions are. We all see the world through our own particular filter. My world in California, right now, is filtered through an anxiety provoking statewide lockdown. Illinois, New York state and Connecticut joined us Friday, putting 75 million people across this country basically on pause. Elsewhere, various municipalities are implementing their own patchwork of actions.
My own emotional response to the crisis has gone from bemused two weeks ago, when the barista at a cafe didn’t want to touch my personal cup, to vaguely concerned last week when my office gave us one day’s notice to clear out and start practicing “social distancing” by working from home on a “week-long trial,” to seriously uneasy Friday when the state put us on notice that we should try to avoid leaving our residences unless strictly necessary. I’m definitely grieving now. I’m certainly past denial. I’ve been a little angry that the government isn’t dealing with this very well. I’m trying to stay positive. I might be bargaining?
Despite the new measures, I was able to make a reassuring visit to my regular routine on Friday. Farmers’ markets are considered an essential business under the rules of this lockdown, in the same category as drugstores and groceries. So, my fresh-air excursion took me on my ritual weekly stroll to the tiny Venice Farmer’s Market. I’ve been to other farmer’s markets in California that are more like county fairs, with live music, prepared foods and children with painted faces. This is not that kind of market. It’s a collection of maybe 20 vendors selling fresh produce and locally sourced meat and fish from beneath a collection of 10x10 E-Z Up tents in a parking lot.
I let out a huge sigh when I rounded the corner and saw the white tent tops. I realized I had been holding my breath because I was worried it might not be there, and I needed something normal.
As a contact-limiting precaution, I skipped my usual stop at the coffee truck and just picked up the half-dozen farm fresh eggs I needed, plus a handful of tulips — my favorite. I was glad to see the flower vendor, because the bouquet is a little treat I give myself every Friday in springtime for as long as tulips are available, and last week’s flowers had gone through their familiar cycle of turning toward the light, opening wide, and then dropping all their petals. After the last silky orange cup hit the kitchen sill on Wednesday, I indulged in a little self-pity and let it sit there most of the day before I cleared it into the trash with the stems. I couldn’t help but imagine a dystopian future absent even the small indulgence of a few pretty flowers in the window.
Today, I got word of two people in the outer reaches of my professional ambit who have the virus. One was tested out of an abundance of caution after hearing guests at a wedding she had attended became ill. She’s virtually asymptomatic, but her results came back positive and she is now under hospital quarantine in a foreign country with no idea when she’ll be able to return home. The other is very sick at her home in the UK and, although she doesn’t have her formal test results yet, her doctor has told her she fits all the diagnostic criteria. It’s worth noting these are both healthy women under 40. Neither is a close friend, but this global crisis is edging closer to my personal circle.
Knowing that isn’t helping the creeping sense of paranoia I’m feeling. A mild headache yesterday sent me into a personal lock-up, from which I emerged only to drop off for my neighbor downstairs a frozen meal I cooked weeks ago. I left it at her door and texted her to be sure to wash the outside of the container to get my germs off of it before she thawed out the food inside. On a call later with a friend, I coughed the tiniest of throat-clearing coughs, and my friend stopped mid-sentence, eyes wide, and said, “You coughed!” sending a little chill down my spine — which I then wondered about maybe being the first sign of a fever. I know it isn’t just me. One of my colleagues admitted to having spent part of her day researching symptoms and running a personal body scan for any signs of the disease every time she loaded up a new web page. The Stallion has been second-guessing himself every time he clears his throat. I mean, people get itchy when they hear somebody talking about fleas. A killer virus is bound to provoke the imagination.
Today in the USA: 19,393 cases, 256 deaths. Up 198% since Wednesday.
In the face of that staggering statistic, I fear I may be sliding toward the stage of depression. Acceptance, next. What’s that going to feel like?
Friday’s market tulips on the kitchen window sill.