I’m learning again.
I used to think that sixty-year-old people didn’t need to keep learning. Now that I’m there, I find that the world is changing faster and I need to work harder to keep up.
But I am in the business of learning. This week, my homework involved
the use of meeting and file-sharing software,
the large-scale properties of a novel influenza virus,
the moment-to-moment thought process of an OCD germaphobe,
the multiple definitions of the word ‘novel,’ especially in the area of infectious diseases,
the interpretation of logarithmic graphs, especially in the area of global pandemic,
the gratitude of gregarious people with dogs who are glad you’re willing to even talk to them,
and the most effective method of washing your hands.
That feels like a lot of learning.
Dammit! I just touched my face. Are you finally aware of just how many times you touch your own face? I hate having to worry about that, and what surfaces I’ve just touched, and who I just touched.
My nose has never been itchier than it’s been this past week. It drives me nuts. I need a little nose scratcher. But I would keep it in my pocket and it even feels like everything in there reinfect my hands when I do what I always do. I love my pockets. I have things I carry. When I’m nervous, I shove my hands deep. I like to touch a rock I keep in my pocket. It may be time to disinfect the rock.
Governor Inslee has closed our schools. The rest of you in our country will be able to watch what happens here to see how ready we are. We have good hospitals. We have a medical system that, like the rest of the country, is stretched.
When I read about Italy, I was afraid. Doctors there have to triage, as if at war. Anyone who is older than sixty-five is not treated because the effort won’t be as productive as if they chose to care for someone who is younger, more likely to survive. Think about that, all those seemingly youngish 65 year old people that you know and love.
I’m afraid.
I keep thinking about a room full of one hundred friends who I know. I know that my hundred people shouldn’t congregate in a room right now. But in an imaginary room, twenty of them will need to be hospitalized for this virus. How many will need to go to the hospital because they have a kidney stone or appendicitis? That’s not part of the statistics here.
Can you say Puerto Rico? Remember all the extra deaths that occurred as a secondary effect of the hurricane after federal help was not sent?
So, let’s just assume that of the one hundred friends in my imaginary room, at least half are going to fight COVID-19. Some estimates are 70%. At least seven of them will need to be hospitalized. Experts now believe that millions of people in the US will need hospitalization to care for COVID-19. We only have about a million hospital beds available and about three-quarters of them are occupied most of the time. So of those twenty of my friends, doctors will need to triage who to treat, who could die without treatment. That’s seven of my friends who face that dilemma. Then, if the global statistics stay consistent, and they have been consistent or worse, 3.8% of those who are infected will die. That means that, of my hundred friends in a virtual room, at least two will die even if they can get treatment at a hospital.
Can you tell I’ve been thinking about these numbers? These are not good numbers. When they throw out these numbers and percentages, it seems vague, but when I put one hundred of my favorite people in an imaginary room, I don’t want to think about which two or three or four people I’ll lose by this time next year. And if I’m honest, I’m in that room as well.
It makes me want to send out letters, to call people, to send hugging GIFs on my phone to people I love. Social media has never been more important. It makes me wonder, during my self-quarantine to protect my immediate family, who I will never see again.
I can’t quite get my mind around all of this. I keep going over the numbers in despair. My message to you, from the middle of King County, Washington, is to wash your hands thoroughly and to send out messages of love.
Thank you for listening, jules