Here in Illinois we’re nine weeks into the COVID-19 mandated shutdown, and by all objective measures, I am doing well. I’ve had disappointments and frustrations. I’ve felt restless and bored. I miss many features of my pre-virus life. But I am not suffering—not even close. I’ve been buffered from the worst effects of the pandemic. Which got me thinking about buffers—the things that absorb the blow and thereby offer some protection.
More than 22 million Americans filed for unemployment in April alone. That unprecedented number will rise. Whole sectors of the economy have abruptly gone dark, and I know people who are suddenly without a paycheck. The value of a financial buffer is evident. Many of us had grandparents who never splurged, who saved the vegetable scraps to make soup stock, who darned socks (“Grandma, you can buy six pairs of socks for $10 at Target! Enough with the darning!”), who ironed and reused wrapping paper, and who without fail set aside money for when “times got tough”. It doesn’t seem so eccentric anymore. They’d seen this movie; it just took 90 years for the re-runs to be released.
Then there’s the buffer of space. Six feet. Gather round, my children, and let me tell you stories of the days when we used to cram three people into a six-foot airplane row. Believe it or not, we used to join 40,000 people at Wrigley Field—and then enthusiastically yell and chant and sing without any regard to the viral particles we were spewing. At church, we would hug other people (and sometimes we barely even knew them). I live in a single-family dwelling with a yard on a quiet street. I can go outside without being a risk to anybody else. But those who live in apartments, shelters, or nursing homes have to worry about other people every time they go out in the hall, or into the elevator. Has anyone else occasionally fantasized about the open prairie or the Northwoods during the last few weeks?
We don’t understand why some people’s immune systems handle this novel coronavirus betters than others, and it certainly seems that anyone can catch it. But as we’ve been told umpteen times, those with underlying conditions are statistically more likely to succumb to COVID-19. To have good health—to not have any known underlying health issues—is to have, if not a cloak of invincibility, certainly a buffer. I don’t have heart disease, or diabetes, or an auto-immune disorder, for examples, so I get to start the race a few meters ahead of the starting line. There’s no guarantee I won’t stumble, but I’ve got a head start.
Each day since this began, I’ve studied the COVID dashboards, read the newspapers, and consulted a variety of commentary. I sift all that information, plan to the extent possible, and act accordingly. My subscriptions to different media, and my knowledge of the language and customs of the United States, provide me with a buffer. I’m not operating in the dark. By contrast, I’ve been thinking a lot about two refugee families I know. One is from Syria and one is from Afghanistan. Both resettled in Illinois about four years ago. In each family, the school-age children have a much better command of English than their mothers. How difficult it must be to navigate this pandemic when you have to rely on information relayed to you through your young children—information that can quite literally get lost in translation.
Finally, my friends and family have protected me from the worst effects of loneliness. In the early weeks, when it was cold, damp and dreary in northern Illinois, the texts, emails, and phone calls brightened the days. Then I got a monthly Zoom subscription! It was such a relief to virtually gather friends over evening cocktails and commiserate our pandemic plight. With the milder weather and lengthening days of late May, my husband and I have cautiously socialized in person—outdoors at a bit of a distance. How great is the joy of a shared laugh in the company of friends or family? All of these friendships and relationships existed before the pandemic. Years of shared experiences, correspondence, and mutual concerns built and strengthened ties and networks that now serve as a safety net.
My husband and I are fortunate. We are buffered by a savings account, physical space, good health, easy access to information, and wonderful family and friends. In some cases, we made deliberate decisions to build or enhance these buffers—not necessarily with this virus in mind, but in the event of some future unforeseen setback. In other cases, we just got lucky.
Someday there will be a vaccine or a treatment, or COVID-19 will mysteriously disappear. This too shall pass. Yet things will not be the same. I wonder…will we remember that setbacks, while unexpected in the particular, are a given in the general? Will we consciously build and intentionally maintain any buffers over which we have control, so that when the next shock comes we will have some protection from the blow?
