HOW TO BE . . . SANE IN A CRISIS IN AMERICA

The epicenter. 

Every day brings a new headline informing me that, in New York City, I am where it’s all happening in relation to the Coronavirus pandemic. More cases, more deaths, more fear as the cries for ventilators and help are drowned out by too much misinformation and the hunger for political gain.

   

We are lucky in New York state having an extraordinary governor in Andrew Cuomo; our Mayor Bill de Blasio is also doing a terrific job of keeping us up to date with regular TV appearances, stressing the seriousness of the situation and yet strangely calming in his delivery of facts rather than speculation. 

And we all have to be grateful to the physician, immunologist and the country’s leading infectious diseases expert, Dr Anthony Fauci, whose analysis of the situation is the one I am taking on board, rather than that of deluded optimists who think we will all be licking each other’s Lindt chocolate bunnies, come April 12^th.

   

I have lived in NYC for six years and feel safer here than anywhere I have ever lived; there is security in crowds, particularly late at night. True, you run the risk of the odd manhole cover blowing off and decapitating you, not to mention debris falling from one of many construction sites and slicing you in two, but for the most part, for me, it feels safer than the UK cities of Bath or Cardiff ever did – places in which I had friends raped, mugged, burgled (I was burgled in both cities) and attacked by drunks in bars. 

I am not saying there are not incidents in NYC, but by the end of the 90s violent crime had dropped by 56%, most of the credit being given to Mayor Rudy Giulani for the clean-up.

   

September 11^th 2001was the day New Yorkers felt vulnerable once more, falling victims to an act of terrorism that continues to cast a shadow, both emotionally and physically, over the lives of so many today. The city came together, and, in the current crisis, comparisons are constantly made about the spirit of the place as it faces unprecedented difficulties. 

We are not alone, but we are, at this moment (and it could all change by the time I finish writing this), the most vulnerable. The city that never sleeps isn’t so much having a nap; it feels in an advanced state of rigor mortis.

   

We, like the rest of the world, have no control over the situation and when humans lose control, they enter panic mode. But while we have lost control of the bigger picture, there are still aspects of our lives over which we still have influence and that can at least dispel fear, even though not eradicate it entirely.

   

My friends have always laughed at my having enough food and supplies as if I am preparing for war. They’re not laughing now. I have always had a pathological fear of running out of toilet paper and so, at present, I could keep the backsides of a barracks in pristine health for at least two months. I have enough dried pasta to open a couple of Italian restaurants (I wouldn’t be allowed any customers, but hey ho, you can’t have everything); likewise, enough rice to set up a “Write your name on a grain of rice” sideshow (don’t laugh – it’s big business on Santa Monica pier) that would give me an income for life.

   

My fridge is full of fresh food; my freezer packed to the gills with home-made dishes – Quorn Bolognese, ratatouille, lentil curry, bœuf Bourguignon (see what I did there?), chicken gravy, banana bread, plus the usual frozen staples: blackberries, blueberries, peas, edamame and fava beans. My wardrobe is an orchestra of Evian water and wine bottles, competing for attention.

   

Every morning, I do my meditation (I’ve been an on-off Transcendental fan practitioner for decades), then go for my morning run around the pier. I live in Hell’s Kitchen, and Pier 84, which is never very crowded now that there are no boats sailing from there is a godsend when I need to exercise. Funnily enough, I used to have to drag myself to the gym right next to it, but I have found I am much more disciplined now that option is denied.

   

Outside, I have discovered all sorts of stones and steps on which I can do my stretches. I also live 31 floors up in my apartment block and take advantage of what has become an in-built gym of sorts, running up and down the stairwell (okay, running down, dragging myself back up). I have my own sets of arm and leg weights anyway (I told you I was prepared), so use those every day, in addition to doing a few yoga exercises I learned many years ago. 

Oh, the joy of doing Downward Facing Dog and not having the person in front farting in your face – the reason I gave up yoga classes in the first place.

   

I am reading more than I have in years. I subscribed to the Paris Review and this week re-read Goodbye, Columbus, the Philip Roth novella that began his career when the periodical published it. I’m a big Roth fan and am hugely enjoying The Plot Against America on TV, too.

   

I’m reading Woody Allen’s autobiography Apropos of Nothing (Don’t judge; I’ve always had my doubts about The Plot Against Woody Allen, for reasons I won’t go into here). It’s a fabulous, easy read and beautifully captures New York at a time and place long gone.  

   

I’m watching classical music concerts online (though I gave the Met’s Wagner operas a miss this week – every port in a storm and all that, but not where Wagner’s concerned). The divine violinist Andre Rieu had a NYC concert in Radio City and it’s been intercut with black and white footage of the first hopefuls arriving in the city, full of hope and excitement; it feels especially poignant at this time.

   

So far, my health is good and, while I was sick over two weeks ago, I self-isolated, just in case. I’m less stressed than I’ve been in years and I’m sleeping better, too. 

My bedtime treat is a glass of hot oat milk with a shot of brandy. If, one day, I don’t wake up, you’ll know I went contentedly.

   

Stay safe, everyone. Stay sane. 

This is New York, New York. 

We’ll make it here.

     

     

MOTHER'S DAY - WITHOUT MUM

Every Mother’s Day with Mum became an argument. 

Although a bit like the annual Christmas argument over the Royals when Mum wanted to watch the Queen’s Speech and I didn’t, the Mother’s Day one was relatively new.

   

About five years ago, Mum started to call it Mothering Sunday and made a big deal of my continuing to call it what it had always been throughout my childhood. We didn’t know then that this was the American version and that Mum’s new affectation was the correct one for the UK, nor will I ever know what precipitated the change; it was just another thing to add to the list of her increasing contrariness that, basically, was the opposite of whatever I thought or said.

   

It was always a special day growing up. The day before, we would go as a family on our usual trip into Newport town and have ice cream in the Kardomah café, where Mum chose two different types of coffee beans and had them ground and securely packed in brown paper bags. I hated the smell almost as much as I hated the smell of hops from the brewery when we ventured into Cardiff; to this day, I cannot bear to be around the smell of coffee.

   

Usually, this was followed by Mum parking Dad, Nigel and me in Howells’ make-up department while she went off exploring for three hours. The day before Mother’s Day, however, was always different because we got to disappear with Dad to buy the “secret” presents for the next morning. I specifically remember a grey smoked glass vase, not least because Mum dropped it and broke it a week after. She couldn’t stop crying. Nor could I. It had cost me five shillings, which must have been a year’s saved pocket money back then.

   

After that, we always played it safe and she had a purple potted hydrangea every year. During the past few years, if I have been out of the country, I sent her a hamper of smoked salmon goods. How she loved her fresh smoked salmon. When she was in hospital for what would turn out to be one of the last times, she nagged and nagged me about what I’d done with the salmon that was in the fridge.

Was it still there? Had the carers thrown it out? Why hadn’t I put it in the freezer? I told her I’d send her another hamper of flamin’ salmon, enough for her to have it every day; but no: she wanted that particular piece of salmon. She went on about it so much, I swear she’d probably even given the dead creature a name.

   

I used to take a long time choosing her card. She read the verses over and over, invariably crying at seeing how much she was loved actually written down. Little did I know that on March 31^st last year, she had just 17 days to live. I had sent her the proverbial salmon hamper that she never even got to open because she was admitted to hospital for what would be the last time.

   

Inevitably, thoughts of Mum are uppermost in my mind as the first one without her arrives. A few weeks ago, I was in Poundland in Cardiff, excited that I’d found a pack of two Dove soaps for just £1. Pondering my cache, I turned a corner and there was a whacking great Mother’s Day display. I burst into tears, just as I had done in a store in December as I faced my first Christmas without her, Have Yourselves a Merry Little Christmas blaring out and making me sick with the sense of loss. 

   

Mum enjoyed being a mother. She told me many times that when I was born, she just wanted to be alone with me and she was distraught when the nurses took me away when they needed to show the other mothers how to bath a baby; apparently, it was because I was so well behaved. I suspect herein lies the root of my obsessive-compulsive disorder about cleanliness.

   

We had a happy childhood. Trips to the seaside, ballroom dancing lessons and competitions (as a family, we all danced), cooking on a Saturday morning (all of us except Dad were pretty good cooks), late night “treats” when Mum suddenly decided to make toffee or Cornish pasties. My parents could not bear to leave us out of anything, and on the rare occasions they treated themselves to a Chinese takeaway, they would put a small amount on two saucers and deliver it to Nigel and me in bed. No food ever tasted so good as that late-night feast.

   

When one parent dies, the relationship with the other inevitably changes and although Mum was fiercely independent to the end (much to the physios’ consternation as she refused treatment when Emmerdale was on – which was often, and in the end, they sacked her), when Dad died in 1990 I felt the roles reverse.

   

I moved to Bath to be closer to Mum just six miles away and saw her several times a week. In recent years, as she became increasingly frail, she became more dependent not just on me but on other friends, and she hated growing old and being what she perceived as being a “burden”.

   

But she was still Mum. She didn’t know much about the minutiae of my life, but she knew me better than anyone. With a mother’s instinct, she knew when I was sad or hiding my emotions, and with that same instinct she knew not to pry; that I would tell all when the time was right.

   

She had a big heart, an enormous capacity for love and always said that her greatest fear was something happening to her children. 

   

On her last day, I sat at the hospital bed, smoothing her always fine hair and talked to her as Mum. I told her I loved her and thanked her for being my mother and for everything she had done and been. 

   

And, so comes to pass another “first” among the many others that accompany the first year of grief.

   

Happy Mothering Sunday, Mum.