The Last Word On Nothing

 A merry heart goes all the day,

Your sad tires in a mile.

-Shakespeare, The Winters Tale

I still am learning how to behave during a pandemic. Some things are simple: I know that I should wash my hands frequently with soap for at least 20 seconds. I know that I should cancel my social engagements for the foreseeable future. In hindsight, I now realize that it was wrong — badly done, indeed! — to go see Emma with my mom earlier this month, even though the costumes were gorgeous.

Other lessons are more painful. Last week, I’m afraid I had to be reminded that knowing all of the very latest COVID-19 news isn’t the same as doing good. Blindingly obvious as this is, it took two uncomfortable interactions to remind me that the ability to gather and transmit accurate information is not the only skill that’s needed right now.

I haven’t been covering COVID-19, but I’ve still felt it’s my responsibility to read and share the excellent reporting my colleagues at Science are producing, stories by writers like Erin Ross at Oregon Public Broadcasting and Wudan Yan for the New York Times, and the Washington Post’s great explainers, like this fabulous interactive on flattening the curve.

Much of this coverage is being provided for free, and I am inexpressibly grateful to the journalists working to make sure people understand what’s going on, and what precautions they should take. In addition to donating to organizations that are helping vulnerable people, I hope every person who has read a news article about COVID-19 will recognize the work that goes into these stories, and subscribe to at least one newspaper or magazine.

When I’m scared, however, I’ve discovered that I have an unpleasant tendency to bludgeon people with information. Nearly every day last week, Pete came home from work to find me hollow-eyed from hours spent scrolling Twitter and refreshing news sites. I refused to talk about anything but the latest COVID-19 update and interpreted his lack of participation in these conversations as a sign that he was failing to take the pandemic seriously. Eventually, I managed to hector him so relentlessly that he broke down in frustration and told me that yes, he was scared, but that he couldn’t let that interfere with his ability to do his job, which is to teach hundreds of high school students with, at best, questionable hygiene. (Rumor has it that the school may shut down this week.)

Badly done indeed, Em. The second interaction that shook me out of my self-absorption was a conversation with a friend who works nearby as a trauma nurse. I asked her how she was handling the outbreak. Characteristically chipper, she laughed and joked that she hadn’t had much time to worry about it, because she was too busy “cleaning up COVID poo and suctioning COVID mucus.”

That shut me up. Since our conversation, I’ve turned the phrase “suctioning COVID mucus” over and over, to keep foremost in my mind the people who are shouldering the greatest risks right now: health care providers, teachers, social workers, people working in restaurants, reporters in the field.

I’m also holding the phrase as a talisman against the notion that my anxiety does anyone any actual good. It’s my responsibility to be cautious and do everything within my power to reduce the burden on our healthcare system in the months to come. It’s also my duty, whenever possible*, to be cheerful.

*Update, March 18: Two days later I’ve realized that trying to be cheerful can actually made things worse. I spilled tea all over my laptop, I cried, I ate all the Wheat Thins. Things only improved when I went for a run and worked up the first sweat I haven’t interpreted as a fever. I’m doing better now, for the moment. But yeah, this is, uh, hard.