Three people I know have had panic attacks lately. They all thought they were having heart attacks.
I may be next. No, not really. But I do feel the stress. A number of people have said, “Being locked down isn’t that different from my life before.” They live in comfortable homes, have access to limitless entertainment, and have the means to get whatever they need delivered to their door. They haven’t been impacted financially. They don’t live near the protests.
“It’s psychological,” a friend said yesterday as we were socializing on his deck. “I’m playing pickle ball in a Covid-19 ‘pod’ of six guys. I’m an introvert anyway. I’m retired, so staying home shouldn’t bother me. I Skype with my mom, but I won’t be visiting her any time soon.”
His mother, in India. Her short-term memory is gone, but her face lights up when she sees her son. He was visiting every two months. It’s a grueling trip with long flights and ground transport. I thought he would be relieved to have an excuse not to go, but no. He’s a good son.
“In the UK, they talked about BAME people dying at much higher rates from Covid.” I said. BAME is black, Asian, and minority ethnic. And by Asian they mean Pakistani, Bangladeshi, and Indian.
My friends looked a bit thrown. Should I not have said anything? “They don’t know what the causes are. It’s doctors dying, not just poor people.”
“So it might be genetic,” my friend said.
“Or something to do with darker skin blocking Vitamin D absorption, which supports immunity? Or that Asian families tend to live in multigenerational housing in densely populated areas?”
“It’ll probably turn out to be a complex set of factors,” he said.
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I am still doing contract work from home. My duplex is comfortable and the weather has been great so I can get out and walk at a distance from a friend or ride my bike.
I am going to have my granddaughters and nephews once a week (separately). I want them to have a wonderful summer. There’s no reason they shouldn’t as long as we can be outside or in the car with windows rolled down.
I took the girls on an unintentional tour of Minneapolis due to a detour. Every storefront is boarded up or charred. On the plus side, there is a lot of great street art. I explained what had happened in very simple terms. The nine-year old said, “But that’s not right. That’s like what we learned in school last year, about Martin Luther King.” I thought it went over the head of the four year old, but days later she said, out of nowhere, “Cops killed a guy.”
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I’ve decided to move. Again.
My neighborhood was dodgy before Covid and the unrest caused by the murder of George Floyd. Many houses have been bought by investors and filled with registered sex offenders, including one kitty corner from me which must have 5-6 guys in it. It must be very lucrative.
Then there’s the noise—in spring, the punks tear up and down the streets in their extremely loud hot rods. You would think my neighbors who lived through the Vietnam War wouldn’t be fond of fireworks, but you would be wrong. Several nights a week, the BOOOM, Booom, Boom goes on until one or two in the morning. I’m not talking firecrackers; I’m talking industrial grade fireworks.
Then Covid came, and an area with lots of people in low-wage jobs became an area with lots of people with no jobs. The uprisings began. I’ve seen numerous cars without license plates, this one was abandoned at the end of my alley for days, even after I called it in to the police.
There was the incident of the cops with assault rifles surrounding my house. Finally, two nights ago, I woke to the sound of a dozen gun shots. Sirens and a high speed chase ensued, then a CRASH in front of my house, then the police shouting through megaphones, “Come out with your hands up!”
Seriously? This does not align with my brand.
I’ve got a lead on a condo-sitting gig near the Mississippi in St. Paul. Fingers crossed.
Breaking Free 