We form a book club of two. She lives in NYC. I live in Portland, Oregon. The distances between us are magnified by the pandemic. We did not see each other this past year, as travel is severely limited by the ongoing global pandemic. We decided to share readings about pandemics of times past while staying in touch via the internet and phone. Each of us brought books and articles to the table and our first reading list looks like this.
The Great Influenza, by John Barry; The Plague, by Camus; Year of Wonders by Geraldine Books; Pale Horse, Pale Rider by Katherine Anne Porter.
The books we choose tell stories of pandemics occurring in the last 400 years. We read of plagues and pandemics between the years 1660 and 1918, seeking to understand the one in 2020. The stories we read might just as well have been written about the plague we confront today. Reading them is proving cathartic. It is somehow reassuring to learn of other pandemics, of plagues past, and how lives were lost. Yet eventually, the incidence of illnesses and deaths subsided and things went back to normal. That is, if you can call enormous loss and experience with paralyzing fear, normal.
Previous plagues did not subside without stress, tragedy, conflict, pubic protest, political in-fighting, devastating illness and untimely death, family upheaval, lonely migration treks, escape attempts and economic loss.
It is clear from these stories that there are ways to prevent or reduce the numbers of deaths and illness even under the direst of circumstances. But it requires community cohesion, respect for the rights of others and acknowledgement of one’s community and family responsibilities.
During one of our discussions, I asked her, “Did you ever study the history of any pandemic while you were in high school or college?.”
She said, “No I did not.” I agreed with her that I did not either.
We both remembered references being made by teachers to a “plague” of some time or place, but what was missing was an historical description or analysis of what happened. We remember no required readings in our coursework of historical or fictional accounts about pandemics. Perhaps there were some readings and we did not take note of it, figuring such horrible experiences were all behind us?
Thus, it would seem that when our global pandemic was officially announced on March 11, 2020, we were not prepared. One would have thought that it was the first pandemic humans had ever experienced.
“It is happening over there, not over here.”
“It is their fault.”
“It will never get to us.”
“It will be brief”
“It will take a while”.
“It looks like it is increasing but it really isn’t.”
“It will be resolve quickly by medical technology.”
“It cannot be managed unless we all participate in this together”
“Data are being repressed”.
“Do you know anyone who has had it?”
“Do you know anyone who died from it?
“No need to change our behavior.”
“Our rights are being taken away.”
“Our responsibilities are too many.”
“I am so sorry for your loss.”
“Glad that you are feeling better.”
“Will it ever end?”
“It feels like it is coming to an end, but how can I be sure?”
“We have a vaccination, now.
“When will I get it?”
“For how long must wear masks and stay socially isolated?”
As time marches on, the seriousness of what is happening cannot be ignored.
What can we learn from reading books about pandemics? I would say, just about everything. Through books and book discussions we can start to come to grips with what happened. Reading these stories offers a better understanding of how we might cope. It offers a way to imagine our future during these bleak hopeless times. It suggests the healing process that we must go through when the pandemic subsides.
Below is a Poem from the Irish Times sent to me by a friend of mine.
When, by John O’Donnell
And when this ends we will emerge, shyly
and then all at once, dazed, longhaired as we embrace
loved ones the shadow spared, and weep for those
it gathered in its shroud. A kind of rapture, this longed-for
laying on of hands, high cries as we nuzzle, leaning in
to kiss, and whisper that now things will be different,
although a time will come when we’ll forget
the curve’s approaching wave, the hiss and sigh
of ventilators, the crowded, makeshift morgues;
a time when we may even miss the old-world
arm’s-length courtesy, small kindnesses left on doorsteps,
the drifting, idle days, and nights when we flung open
all the windows to arias in the darkness, our voices
reaching out, holding each other till this passes.
It isn’t over yet, the pandemic still rages in parts of the world. Many of us have only shyly begun to return to our former selves.
Or at least what we think is our former selves.
I wonder, once this global pandemic subsides even further, what will we remember?
Photo taken during “Stay at Home” measures, November 2020.
marysgardens 
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