The Second Wave

How do sunsets get so effortlessly stunning? They are the same phenomenon each time, yet we're all seduced by any half-decent dip of the fiery ball. Here's a quick snap from my phone, doing it no justice whatsoever. 

Our attic looks to the far South West horizon, towards Arran and Islay. As I poked my head out the skylight tonight (careful not to let my glasses plummet), I watched an ambulance scramble in silence, blue lights flashing hypnotically. A plane ascended into the orange sky, floating like a dragonfly. 

Was the ambulance  Covid-related? The ambulance and the plane and the proverbial butterfly's wing. I thought: we'll never get to 'Zero Covid' if we allow planes to fly in and out without strict quarantines. ScotGov please sort that out. 

In earlier blog posts in March, I talked about the, 'Oh my God' moment, that hit us all at the beginning of the pandemic. I felt like today was a second, 'Oh my God.' 

A second wave. Scotland's highest testing numbers since the pandemic began. Six months of winter ahead.

I confess, I am somewhat frozen in horror. I've resorted to picking up old self-help books, like The Power Of Now! I wish. Although, the book does try to teach living 'in the moment' to lessen anxiety. I'm trying.

Tess's cough has relapsed. Sigh. She is on anti-reflux medication and I don't know if the effects are wearing thin, or if the body is just following its own mysterious fluctuations. I have emailed the GP, (who is probably crazy-busy).

There is so much to talk about right now. So many ways that the mind can run rampant. I get a 'system overload' sensation sometimes and just want to stare out the window, or eat too many raisin bagels. 

Luckily, I have a terrified dog that needs walking through autumn leaves.

She hasn't got to the chapter about not barking at the postman, or eating toast from the kitchen table. All in good time, Sita. We're here for a while, and we've all got a lot to learn. 

The Moment versus The Abyss

 Recently, I watched Spider-Man: Into the Spider-Verse with Hugh.  Spoiler, there are lots of Spidermen. And even a Spider-woman. It was great film, actually. I surprised myself.

In a tense escape, one Spiderman tries to pass on wisdom to a younger Spiderman. He says,

Let Go! Be in the moment!

The young Spiderman yells back-

I am in the moment! It's a TERRIBLE moment!

In my head, things are back to where they were in March. I would enjoy watching a film or TV programme, and when it was over, I felt the sad rush of remembering the pandemic. It would hit me in the solar plexus, a kind of semi-grief. 

But we could hide from the virus in lockdown. We are lucky enough not to have key-worker jobs, interacting with the public.

Now, I wake at 6am with the dread. The virus IS in my son's school. One case and counting. It's in my nieces's school nearby, and a handful of local schools. 

Everybody KNOWS that kids and teenagers are rubbish at social distancing. They're just kids and teenagers. It's not their fault. 

This is the reality. I know I can't spend hours worrying about it, looking into 'the abyss' of Covid; and whoops, there's another wee abyss called the Climate Emergency. 

 This helps nobody. So, I need to try to learn to use the distracted moments as stepping stones. To 'float forward'. 

The white paws are my comfort. In the half-light of the night time kitchen, I rub them like worry dolls, like 'lucky' rabbit feet.

It sure feels like autumn. Like no other autumn we have known. Float forward, if you can -I know it sounds like a new-age hippy line- one moment at a time. 

PS - Download the Protect Scotland App here. 

What Did You Do Today, Mum?

 

After teaching the dog to sit like an accountant, I tried to take her a walk. She was having one of her scaredy-cat days, so the 'walk' involved carrying her in both arms, up a hill, like a kangaroo on a leash. Scooby Doo into Shaggy's arms.

I decided to go home again for a suburban Soya Latte and a decent Panic About Rising Covid Cases. Who doesn't enjoy one of those?

I'm being facetious (3 attempts at spelling facetious), but flippancy aside, this feels different from March. There are fewer escape routes. 

Hugh is at secondary school and Tess at primary. That's a  pool of over 1000 kids. I'm not buying into this 'bubble' talk - after a fortnight back, both of my children were off with colds. This appeared to be the case with tens of thousands of Scottish School kids. Stuff spreads, despite all the measures taken. 

I find myself thinking things like this:

If we get it, will we get it severely? Will we get Long Covid? Will we be 'mild' or even asymptomatic? Will the dog get it? Am I tempting fate by even voicing this? Will I write a told-you-so blog post? Are there any upsides? Relief at getting it 'over with?' Could we go on an idyllic Spanish holiday *after* we recover? But what about the dug? 

Every day, I check for new schools with positive cases. 

Every day, there are 2 or 3 more schools added to the list. 

And it's only September! Winter looks like a national crisis in Poundshop Christmas wrapping paper. 

In poetry news, I have 2 poems in this anthology by Neu Reekie

T'was an honour to be included with big-hitters like Jackie Kay and Jean 'Binta' Breeze. There was supposed to be a launch at Edinburgh Book Festival, but hey ho, it's 2020. 

Time for school pick up soon. Hand gel, masks and croissants at the ready. Isn't life strange? Happy Monday, folks. 

3am at The Small Animal Hospital

 It's 3am and I'm sitting in my car, outside the Small Animal Hospital, staring at the moon.

As is usual in my life, I don't know if I have over-reacted. 

Earlier in the evening, the dog, aka Sita, aka 'Bum Cheek,' had suddenly looked very ill - coughing, retching and - the clincher - she seemed to be struggling to breathe - a rapid, nostril rasp. When I tried to open her eyes, she looked like she was 'slipping off' somewhere. 

I cacked it. Francis joined in. The kids were asleep, thank goodness. 

The Small Animal Hospital - somewhere I had never been (is the hospital small or are the animals small?) was a 7 minute drive according to Google Maps. 

They offer to 'triage' Sita, so I drive off at midnight, down velvety-dark city roads, past free-flowing foxes and hand in my poor baby dog to masked vet-nurses in scrubs. 

They throw out a few scary phrases like 'heartworm' (!) and 'lungworm' (!) and cart her off to do 'bloodwork'. 

I sit alone in the empty car park and mentally rehearse how I might tell the kids that the dog is seriously ill. Or worse. Don't be daft, I tell myself. It won't come to that. 

It's late, but I send off a Facebook message to the Rescue Charity chat group. The co-ordinators say I have done the right thing by taking her to the emergency vet. This makes me feel momentarily better. 

Finally, the female vet phones me from inside the lit building. The tests have ruled out a few nasties, but 'she has a temperature and is not acting like a normal puppy'. I can take her home and follow up tomorrow.

The vet brings Sita out on a lead - Sita is skulking and nervy. I pick her up in my arms and feel her doggy heart tremble. I smell her fur, a hint of wet sand. She is the size of a small child. I drive her home and she wags her tail and is revived enough to eat a Weetabix and soya milk. 

I have joined the gang of people who have 'dog dramas'. Give me a rosette and a chew stick.

Earlier in the evening, we were playing Scrabble. With kind sincerity, I  heard Tess explain to the pup, - Sorry you can't play Scrabble, Sita! -you don't have thumbs. 

Yup, our pup is only a dog thumb away from a few triple word scores. Here's a selfie she took earlier. If she had thumbs, she'd be Annie Leibovitz or David Bailey. 

We adore her, that's for sure.