Heights First Person

Maybe like many of you, I went through many emotional stages during this pandemic. It started with disbelief; then, disbelief turned to shock. Shock gave way to cautious optimism last spring and summer and fall, when we understood that we could be outside with others in a socially distanced kind of way. Cold weather and social isolation turned that optimism to a gray kind of emotion and lethargy. News of the vaccine brought equal parts hope and frustration. That’s where this story starts.

The vaccine, our way out of this mess, was an absolute blessing this winter. But the supply was limited, and the process of scheduling an appointment was fractured. With no central appointment system, senior citizens had to use many different websites to find an elusive appointment. For those with limited computer access or skills, it was difficult.

I feel like I’m slipping around on a slick surface that’s covering over reality. On this surface are many familiar things. I wash the dishes, I do laundry, I read, I cook, I pet the dog. These activities are comfortingly mundane. Emptying the dishwasher and setting the table provide an illusion of normalcy. Everything’s okay right now, right in this moment. 

But then, at any given time, I become conscious merely of my hands: When did I wash them last? What if my hands are infecting the plastic bag holding the apples? Do I wash my hands before I open the bag and touch the apple, or do I wash them after I open the bag and touch the apple, but before I actually eat the apple?

Collected here is a sampling of the countless moments, large and small, that I, my friends and our children are missing at this time of social distancing:

"You know what I miss? Thursday night baseball at Forest Hills, with four games in the meadow and four more games in the square, and people I know with kids playing all over the park and my own boys on back-to-back fields so I can watch them both at once. Then afterwards, heading to TavCo where we get an outdoor table right away because it's already after 9 and when we walk out onto the patio, my kids in their dusty uniforms and untied cleats, we see three different tables of friends who get up to hug us and pat the boys on the head (or shake their hands because they look sort of like men) and ask how their games went and then drag their chairs over to our table for another drink while we wait for our dinner. That's what I miss."

—Krissy Dietrich Gallagher, Cleveland Heights