A Blur

A Blur: Pausing to look, hoping to see.

I remember when life was a blur, when it felt there was so much happening that I couldn’t keep track of it all. In the flurry of all the family’s activities and daily doings and getting the necessary things done, life felt I was standing in the middle of blurred world. In those moments I couldn’t quite focus. And I was always relieved, but happy, by the end of the day when everyone was finally asleep.

Today, this morning, life is a blur, but for different reasons. One of which is that I did not detour well. I paused to remind myself what the detour was about.

There are some moments when I am overwhelmed by trying to comprehend more than our brains were designed to process at once. That could be true of earlier years, too, but today its all about numbers. As of this morning, 5/5/2020, 70,115 persons have died of COVID19 in the U.S. alone, nearly 25,000 of those in New York alone. Currently, it is estimated (a low estimate due too poor testing) that 1,192,000+ cases are confirmed in the U.S. That is 3% +/- of our population. We’re told that 60% +/- of the population needs to be infected and recovered before herd immunity kicks in. The implication of these numbers staggers my ability to comprehend. That almost 197,000,000 people. Who knows what percent of those people will die? Or suffer the aftereffects of the virus?

In 1918-19, the U.S. population was 103,000,000 people. It is estimated that approximately 500,000 to 675,000 people died in the U.S. alone of influenza. In fifteen months. In three waves. The number of American soldiers who died in WWI was a mere 116,516 or about 20-25% of the number of people who died of influenza at home in the U.S. Some of those WWI soldiers died of the flu in Europe as that pandemic ravaged the world. As a teenager I was stunned to imagine more than 100,000 soldiers had died in a war, in WWI, because I learned this during middle of the VietNam War. Living through the VietNam War made it real.

When passing by the detour signs, we hear that small voice within that says, Look away, look away, move on, but we can’t. I can’t. So I pause for a moment and think about the heroes, the medical teams giving selflessly, those who have stopped their lives to manufacture medical supplies, the police, EMTs, morticians, janitors, the chefs and cooks and thousands and thousands of others who care, of the millions and millions who stay home because they care. It’s good to pause. I pause to allow gratitude to settle in, as I move on, move back to these four walls.

It’s too much. It’s still early. Only four months in. Governors are opening up states. But who will venture outside? And for how long before the numbers rise again? Moments like today are beyond my comprehension. They are a blur.

So, I’ll turn away for a while and find something else to focus on.