by Robin Abcarian
Has it really been two years since life as we knew it came to a screeching halt?
In the third week of March 2020, I stood on a friend’s porch, speculating that “this thing” would probably be over in a month or two.
“I think it’s going to last at least until September,” he said.
“Oh, God, I hope you’re wrong,” I answered.
Unfortunately, he was.
Now here we are, despite extraordinary advances in our understanding of the coronavirus and the development of new vaccines to fight it, still battling COVID-19, with no end in sight.
Our worldwide emotional roller-coaster ride has taken us to many highs and lows and given us a new lexicon: “social distancing,” “flatten the curve,” “the Great Resignation,” “pandemic puppies.” It has also taught us that the public spiritedness we naively believed to be an American virtue was nothing more than a myth.
President Donald Trump’s shocking mishandling of the pandemic’s early days, his initial refusal to take it seriously, led to unnecessary death and infection. How many lives might have been saved had he reacted with more urgency? This question will likely be debated for years.
His racist rhetoric about China and the source of the virus unleashed a wave of violence against Asian immigrants and Americans of Asian descent that continues to this day.
During daily televised press conferences, Trump riffed inanely, while public health officials in the background visibly winced. He undermined science at nearly every turn and demonized his own experts.
In the early days, before we understood that the virus was transmitted by airborne particles and droplets, we washed down our groceries with disinfectant. We washed our hands so much our skin chafed. We stopped shaking hands, stopped hugging, stopped kissing.
The astonishing, entirely un-American sight of empty grocery shelves taught us that we take our comforts for granted at our peril.
One minute Costco had mountains of toilet paper; the next minute we were studying up on medieval hygiene routines.
One minute we were rushing around the house in clothes with waistbands and zippers, hustling to get the kids to school and make it to the office on time. The next, we were locked inside with the family, dressed in dirty sweats, listening to Ms. Johnson teach fourth grade and wondering why we looked like a cat on Zoom.
A new genre of video blossomed on social media: the pandemic freakout. Anti-mask Americans demanded their right to bare their faces in grocery stores and restaurants, wailing about bogus medical conditions. They accused school boards that imposed mask mandates of child abuse.
Now that Russia has launched its brutal invasion of Ukraine, we are reminded of what true suffering and real sacrifice look like. Perhaps personal-liberty extremists in our midst can calm down about the sensible things our public health officials have asked of us.
The past two years have not been all bleak. Voters kicked the Trumps out of Washington. The despicable rioters of Jan. 6, 2021, are facing justice.
In many cities, neighbors took to banging pots and pans or playing music each evening to support the legions of health care and other essential workers who risked their well-being every day to do their jobs.
My fondest pandemic memory was born of the claustrophobia we felt in the early days of lockdown. I was stuck inside with my 90-year-old father and my 10-year-old niece. Frankly, my niece was handling the isolation better than my father, who was in the grip of mild dementia and was easily frustrated.
“How long is this going to go on?” he’d complain. “Are they trying to kill me?!”
One sunny afternoon, to relieve the tedium, I decided we should hop in the car and drive north on Pacific Coast Highway. With the wide open ocean on our left, we felt liberated.
Near the Malibu Pier, we pulled into a Jack in the Box. We ordered the chain’s famous tacos, mystery meat wrapped in a tortilla, deep fried, garnished with lettuce, hot sauce and American cheese.
As we headed back home on PCH, my father took his first bite.
“Wow,” he said. “These are delicious! I can’t believe I’ve lived 90 years and have never had one!”
He died a few months later, of a massive stroke, which I am certain had nothing to do with his continuing consumption of Jack in the Box tacos.
I know this sounds a bit crazy, but when I think about that moment with him, and about our multigenerational little threesome, it makes me wistful for the lockdown. We had some really great times together, back in those days of tedium and tacos.
