Sunday - April 26, 2020

This post was shared on Facebook.
It’s not mine, but I copied because I want to remember it, too.


Today is Sunday, April 26, 2020.

- We are at 44 days of social isolation.

- Libraries have been closed since Mar
16 - some libraries (including mine) are doing curbside pickup only
- Schools have been closed since March 16 and are teaching remotely on-line. This will continue for the rest of the school year.
- colleges and universities are closed and online also. Summer classes will all be online. No one knows if there will be fall classes.
- There are lines / tapes inside the stores on the floors to keep people 6 feet apart.
- Bars and restaurants are open only for takeout, home delivery & pick-up.
- Playgrounds, beaches, hiking trails and walk-in places are not accessible to the public.
- All major and minor league sports competitions have been cancelled as well as kid's sports.
- All festivals and entertainment events have been banned. Most have been canceled for the summer.
- Weddings, family celebrations and birthdays have been cancelled. Funerals limited to 10-20 people.
- People are doing drive-by parades to celebrate birthdays!
- Young kids can’t understand why they can only see grandparents & other extended family and friends on a screen or thru a window
- Hugs and kisses are not exchanged.
- The churches are closed or online.
- We have to stay away from each other more than six feet.
- Shortage of disposable masks and gloves in hospitals. People are sewing homemade masks for themselves...sewing machines, fabric, and elastic are in short supply. People are also sewing masks for sale or donation to medical facilities.
- There are fewer ventilators than there should and need to be.
- People are wearing masks, some places even require that you wear them to enter.
- Toilet paper, hand sanitizer, hand soap, bleach, antibacterial wipes and anything Lysol or Clorox is in short supply and limited per person.... IF you can even find them!
- Stores are closing early to disinfect everything. (24 hour stores are even closing by 9pm)
- Store check outs, pharmacies, and even fast food drive thru windows have added plexiglass between the employee and the customer. Have to reach around or under to pay!
- You can't find isopropyl alcohol easily. .. the supply per person is limited.
- Australia, USA, Canada and Europe have closed their borders.
- No one is traveling for leisure. Airports empty. Tourism has the worst crisis in history.
Why do I post this?
Next year & then every year after, this status will appear in my Facebook memories feed. It will be an annual reminder that life is precious & that nothing should be taken for granted. We are where we are with what we have. Let's be grateful.

A conversation between a child and their Grandad in 2095

In web searching, the earliest I could locate this was April 12, 2020.
It was shared this way on a web site in the United Kingdom.
The version I read was from April 23, 2020 and it was a more Americanized version, obviously NOT the author’s original words.
The sites where I have seen the earliest posts seem to be school sites, so
I am wondering if it was written by a teacher. ???

The BEST take away is.... Make Good Memories with children in
these awful of times. Take the time to document it for the future.

So for now April 26, 2020........ Author not known. -------------------------------------------------------------------

A conversation between a child and their Grandad in 2095...

Child - How old are you Grandad?
Grandad - I'm 81 Kid.
Child - So does that mean you were alive during the Coronavirus?
Grandad - Yes kid I was.
Child - Wow. That must have been horrible Grandad. We were learning about that at school this week.

They told us about how all the schools had closed. And mums and dads couldn't go to work so didn't have as much money to do nice things. They said that u weren't allowed to go and visit your friends and family and couldn't go out anywhere. They told us that the shops ran out of lots of things so you didn't have much bread, and flour, and toilet roll 'child giggles'. They said that summer holidays were cancelled. And they told us about all those thousands of people that got very poorly and who died. They explained about the NHS and how hard all the doctors and nurses and all NHS workers worked, and that lots of them died too.

That must have been so horrible Grandad.

Grandad - Well kid, that is all correct. And I know that because I read about it when I was older.

But to tell you the truth I remember it differently...

I remember playing in the garden for hours with mum and dad and having picnics outside and lots of bbqs. I remember making things with my Dad and baking with my Mum. I remember making dens with my little brother and teaching him how to do hand stands and back flips. I remember having quality time with my family. I remember mum's favorite words becoming 'Hey, I've got an idea...' Rather than 'Maybe later or tomorrow im a bit busy'. I remember making our own bread and pastry. I remember having film night 3 or 4 times a week instead of just one.

It was a horrible time for lots of people you are right. But I remember it differently.

Remember how our children will remember these times. Be in control of the memories they are creating right now, so that through all the awful headlines and emotional stories for so many that they will come to read in future years, they can remember the happy times.

The New Normal April 2020

Today is....  Tuesday April 21, 2020

This message was shared by someone who I have recently 'met' on
Facebook.

Zelda Christine Wilkes-White

A little perspective, take as you like....
After D’s accident and through determining the extent of permanent brain damage/brain injury? It was on auto-loop from docs, therapists, social workers, etc. that this is a marathon, not a sprint, and this is your New Normal, your new life. Life as you knew it is over, this is what you got. Good luck!

The way life has changed for everyone with COVID-19 and how you’re feeling now? New Normal. It’s a window to what our last 3 years have been like.
Everything you know has come to a screeching halt.

You don’t want to believe any of it, because it’s so incredulous that it’s beyond normal comprehension.
Some things, you can’t do anymore. Some things, you can do but with a whole different effort and plan. Nothing is fast. You wait. A LOT.
You’re isolated. You’ve lost contact with the “outside” world.
You’re washing your hands non-stop, wearing gloves, wiping surfaces in hopes to prevent an infection that’ll send you spiraling backwards.
The what-ifs are crippling and the unknown is absolutely terrifying. Headaches from not even realizing you’re clenching your jaws are a thing. Fight-or-flight mode is DEFINITELY a thing because you don’t know from minute to minute which one you’re going to have to do to survive, not to mention the constant focus on health/financial recovery.
You have to rely on others to do what’s right so it doesn’t knock you back to the beginning.
People that don’t know you are telling you what to do and how to do it, and no matter what you do? You’re wrong. And did I mention pissed off? You stay pissed.
Everyone has an opinion about what has happened, but only few take into consideration what stating them sounds like to the recipient.

You’re tired and frustrated, scared, pissed-off, depressed, outraged, furious, defeated, etc. because why you? What did you do wrong?

You didn’t ask for this, but yet here you are- life as you knew it is over, and now you have this “New Normal” that is complete and utter unfair HORSESHIT and
you don’t really give a flying f@ck to do ANY OF IT.

But....    You do.      You adapt.
Oh you’ll fight it for awhile. Believe that.

You’ll mourn consistently for a long while, then it’ll slack off to occasionally.

You’ll eventually appreciate what you can do.

You’ll never forget your Old Normal, but after awhile? You’ll stop comparing and complaining.

You’ll realize one day that the slowing down isn’t so bad, and that some things you felt like you lost were actually a gain in perspective.
You’ll find you’ll still be able to do a lot of what you used to, but in a different way. But- you still get to do it. Eye on the prize.
So yeah. Welcome to the New Normal. It’s a marathon, not a sprint, to resume some type of regular life again. Until then? Be kind to yourself and others because IT TOTALLY SUCKS.
At least this experience affects everyone in some way/shape/form/fashion and you don’t have to watch a world of normalcy continue on without you. Strength in numbers, conquer with compassion.
You’ll adapt.
And you’ll be okay.💗

I left this message in response....
YOUR ..... 'perspective' is in perfect focus !!!

I would imagine, that some folks who have never adapted well to....
GOING WITH THE FLOW, have been like...
'Fish out of water'. Over my decades of living, I have
learned going WITH the flow makes life much easier.

Every time that some BS comes to mind over the past few
weeks.... I keep calling my monkey mind back to a very
important point....
"I have 'met' some interesting NEW friends along the way"

YOU Zelda Christine Wilkes-White  are one of them. <3 span="">
You are a ~breath of fresh air~.
I have also 'met' several ladies around the world from
a watercolor FB page.
AND.......... an amazing photographer who is in
NORTHERN Italy. :)

AND.... my FAV new page....
The World Needs More Love Letters. 

I've sent out letters of LOVE  to strangers.

In a Nurse's Words

From .... Look For The Helpers - FB page.....

Of ALL that I have seen or read in the past weeks,
this is young man's words are etched in my heart. 

I made this comment and shared this graphic....

KP.... for you 💙
For your family 💙
For ALL of those in your care 💙
For ALL of those who have passed
and their families 💙
For ALL of your co-workers 💙
For ALL care givers 💙



April 14, 2020


KP Mendoza
updated his profile picture.

TL;DR - I am no hero. I am not ready to die.
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Yesterday, I considered writing a will.
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I am 24 years old. I am an ICU nurse in New York City. I am in good health at this time, so I should have no reason to even think about writing a will. But yesterday, I resigned myself to the fact that my likelihood of dying is statistically more plausible than I had previously imagined.
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When I graduated from my nursing program in 2018, I never thought this would be my future with barely two years in the field. I thought I was prepared to see death; I had seen enough of it within my first year in the ICU. Yet, in the last two weeks, I have seen more people die than most people see in their entire lives. Now, I am not so sure if death is something I am prepared to see anymore.
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Death is different now. Death could pick me.
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Last week, a daughter called asking about her mother. She thought her mother’s condition was stable. I realized no one had updated her; things are vastly different now that family is not allowed in the hospital. So, I reluctantly but gently told her that if I stopped the IV pump right now, her mother would die. I had to be blunt - why lie or sugarcoat what is happening? Uncontrollably and expectedly, she began to weep.
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I have auscultated the sounds of a dying heart. But, never before have I heard a dying heart through the phone.
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And, I stood there awkwardly clutching everything I needed before entering the room, hoping I didn’t forget anything while she was sobbing on the phone: medications, tubes, vials, needles, syringes…my mind races through what I need to do while also attempting to listen to what she might have to say.
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Every time you go in to a COVID patient’s room, you expose yourself, so I tell myself, “Anything you forget that forces you to come back into the room is something that might kill you.” I struggle to focus on being human as I stand there in the middle of the hallway, unsure of what to say back, my mask half on and a trickle of sweat forming under the multiple layers of PPE. (personal protective equipment)
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How do you apologize for not being enough?
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I have been told I am on the frontline, but the truth is, I am the final recourse. I am one of the few who are the last people you want to see, because after us is death. Outside of the pandemic, the ratio in the ICU is two patients to one nurse, maximum. Now, the expectation is three patients to one nurse. In other ICUs and in other hospitals, particularly those in the outer boroughs, that ratio is even higher. I am privileged to have just three patients some days.
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Those days break me.
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ICU nurses are trained to be precise: we medicate, we titrate, we sedate, we paralyze, we intubate. We wash your body, clothe you, feed you, and make you comfortable. We enter that room more than anyone else. People have lauded me as a hero, a superhero to some, an angel even - that my patients are lucky to have me. Most days, I feel far from that. Now more than ever, I am lucky if I even have time to put ointment on your chapped lips as you lay comatose, moments before I FaceTime your family and they see you for the first time since leaving for the hospital, breathing tube now in your mouth, feeding tube in your nose, a slight drool, and maybe some blood here and there that I just can’t seem to stifle. And who am I to steal that sacred moment away from you and your family? Who am I to be privy to the sanctity of that final reunion? It feels like a sin. I am ashamed.
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But I stand there nonetheless, stricken with shame and bereft of energy, because I am the only link you have to your family in this moment.
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Sometimes, I get so busy that patients lie in their own stool longer than I would like to admit. How do you find time to clean your patient when your other patient’s heart rate just reached 0 next door? Even when I leave the hospital, I can't escape this plague. The Coronavirus follows me home literally and metaphorically. It's on the soles of my shoes, on my clothes as I strip at the door, and on my hands as I scrub them red and raw to rid myself of the feelings of filth and decay. It's in the sirens I hear outside wondering if that's the next victim of this virus, in the ping of a text from a coworker who is informing me that our colleague's father just died, and it's in the ventilator alarms that go off in my mind even when my apartment is desolately silent.
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Until now, I never knew the scourge of isolating alone; how the sound of silence could be so deafening.
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On my off days, I spend hours reading articles, new studies released about side effects of this repurposed medication, benefits of this new trial; the plethora of information is interminable and overwhelming. Yet every day, I walk in to work feeling like I still don’t know enough about this disease, and every day, I leave work feeling like I failed, like I could have done so much more. It never feels like enough. I don't feel like I am nearly enough.
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That is why I tell people to not call me a hero. To me, it feels like a lie. I am a disgrace.
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I wear guilt like a body wears a shroud. I run around for twelve hours a day, sometimes more if it was particularly busy that shift. Nowadays, I consider myself lucky if I have time to eat, blessed if I have time to pee more than once a shift. I conflate my blessings with my luck; I don’t know what to be thankful for anymore - the fact that I was able to eat a full meal unhurried or the fact that it isn’t me on that ICU bed right now.
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I want people to know that this is beyond difficult. This isn’t the world of healthcare I expected to enter; none of us did. I studied to save lives. I signed up to care for the sick and dying, and yes, I acknowledge that this is all at the risk of my own health. But, do not miscontrue my choice of profession for a diminished sense of self-worth; I did not sign up to die. I want the country to know that if I end up on that ICU bed, it is because I was not given a hazmat suit or enough PPE to protect me. I want the country to know that America has failed its people, most especially those it deems “essential” - that, I truly believe. We claim to be the best, the freest, the richest country in the world - that no one else compares to our liberties. So, why is it that when my shift ends, I peel off the same N-95 mask that I have worn for 12+ hours straight? I have breathed in stale air all day on a unit rife with the dying, and at the end of those twelve hours, I flinch and wipe my unprotected neck with a bleach wipe, hoping that the thin, easily torn, permeable yellow gown I wear as “protection” did just enough to stop the virus from seeping into my scrubs and settling under my skin.
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Until there is a cure or a treatment, people will continue to die indiscriminately from this disease. Even after social isolation measures are lifted, everyone is always at risk. Even after a peak, there is still a plateau and a downhill journey, and people will continue to die along the way. For a long, long time, the ICUs will still be overwhelmed and the Emergency Departments filled beyond capacity. I want people to know that healthcare in America is broken. We did not prepare enough; New York is a sore example of that.
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I believe this pandemic is so poignantly and painfully demonstrating the faults of our system.
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I am still so young. I have dreams, and I hope to have a full life ahead of me. I want to see my four year old nephew grow up. I want to get married. I want to have kids. So, I ask that you do not pity me, that you do not call me a hero. I do not wish to be made into a martyr. All I ask is that, after all this is over, that you *never* forget what it was like to be trapped in your home under quarantine. I ask you to never forget the morgue ice trucks, the absurd lack of toilet paper, and the frantic scramble for masks. I want you to remember the fear that gripped your body when someone coughed beside you or when you got that phone call from your loved one saying they had spiked a fever.
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Clap for me and other healthcare workers at seven o’clock if it makes this pandemic feel more bearable. I concede, your cheers help us trudge on. Just know that cheers and hollering don’t change the outcome. This is my fervent plea - that we change what we can after all this is over.
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This should never happen again.

Lives in New York, New York  

From Bloomingdale Illinois