Rigid isolation at home forced by coronavirus yields way to her ‘Happy Days’ memories

I woke up thirsty at 3:30 in the morning with the soundtrack of “Happy days are here again” playing full volume in my head, admittedly comforted by the thought of Barbra Streisand and Judy Garland singing me their iconic duet.

Taking a few sips of water, returning to bed, I slept in till 8. Grateful to see the sun shining, I began my mental to-do list on yet another tabula rasa kind of day absent any mandates beyond cleaning household surfaces, washing hands and singing “Happy Birthday” countless times.

I am at least 150 years old based on these new standards and rules of living. The skin covering my hands has wrinkled with the repetition of washings — revealing blue veins of uncharted, untraveled highways, cracks, brown spots — resembling my mother’s hands near the end of her life. Repeatedly through this unthinkable period of sheltering-in and self-isolating, I have selfishly thanked the gods for sparing her this angst. She would be fearful. Scared. Angry. Lonely. Anxiety-ridden. Knowing her spirit resides somewhere in a virus-free, parallel universe brings a spark of relief on this Sunday morning.

Walking outside to fetch my newspapers, the severity of quiet leaves an eerie aftertaste in my mouth, one I’m afraid even toothpaste and mouthwash cannot remedy. Tiptoeing on cold concrete, grabbing my papers (The Fresno Bee and The New York Times), I scurry back inside to this place once my safe haven, sanctuary, and now my jail.

Like the rest of the world, we are on lockdown. Against the advice of my physician sister and even Dr. Sanjay Gupta, I do not Clorox or wet wipe the wrappers, do not wash my hands after touching newsprint. Instead, in a moment now considered defiant and rebellious, I pour myself a cup of French roast and return to bed, contaminated newspapers in hand, soon-to-be sprawled atop the comforter — my Sunday morning ritual untarnished by this new chapter of life. Later in the morning, I scold myself endlessly for such social irresponsibility.

I read an editorial penned by Maureen Dowd in The New York Times titled, “Thank God the Doctor Is In,” an essay singing the praises of Dr. Tony Fauci. When my husband stirs I confess my crush on this man several years my senior. He reminds me of Robert Young, the actor I watched growing up on “Father Knows Best.” Drifting back in time, a sense of melancholy arrives — days passed when life was simple and less complicated. Less contagious. I get up and wash my hands. Self-sanitize. Two verses of “Happy Birthday.” Hot soapy water.

A few minutes later, deciding to shower — the hot water both calms and cleanses, a veritable balm to my weary spirit. I practice a yoga pose known as Anjali Mudra — a posture of composure, of returning to one’s heart, a gesture of prayer. I do this pose standing on one leg — looking much like a flamingo, I suspect.

“Breathe, baby, breathe,” I whisper to myself — a trio of words, the mantra I often resort to during troubled and uncertain times.

This Sunday, like every other one before it, my husband, Dan and I break Armenian lahvosh bread, wetting it, placing it between kitchen towels to soften its texture. I scramble four eggs and fry six slices of bacon. The aroma of family life, of ethnic traditions, of wellness and abundance permeate my kitchen.

After breakfast, I group text my sisters, daughter and niece. We are sewn together, especially now, much like one of my mother’s handmade quilts. I miss my mother, my grandkids, my daughter — our close-knit tribe. The social distancing and self-quarantining from them is by far the hardest part of this pandemic.

As the world turns, our focus shifts to basic needs.

Taking care of each other.

Staying healthy.

Being kind.

Generosity of spirit.

Later today my husband and I will take a walk and admire the blue sky, new blooms, a bird perched and chirping on the neighbor’s treetop. Tonight we dust off the Scrabble board that, for years, has patiently awaited our touch and attention. Together we will spell out the words that matter most: hope and home, life and love, family and friends.

I remember a few months ago making a declaration that 2020 was to be the “clarity of vision” year in our lives. As priorities shift, as we shelter-in and reassess our humanity, I have a funny feeling that’s exactly where we’re headed.

Simple abundance.

The extravagance of less.

As my head hits the pillow the duet lyrics return.

“Forget your troubles

Come on get happy

You’d better chase all your cares away

Shout hallelujah come on get happy

Get ready for the judgment day.

Happy days are here again

The skies above are clear again

So let’s sing a song of cheer again

Happy days are here again…”

This story was originally published March 27, 2020 at 11:52 AM.