|Staying sane while quarantining|
Thoughts in real time:
Should I call Sophie's neurologist tomorrow and ask him whether I might get a nebulizer and/or steroid inhaler, in case Sophie gets The Virus? I worry that Sophie will (1) not be treated in a hospital should things get bad or (2) she will be treated but I won't be able to be with her. Number 2 is as hideous as number 1 so many minutes of anxiety ensue, but I eventually go back to sleep.
I think I'll make a Dutch Baby and use apples in it. I make a Dutch Baby.
I think I'll send the recipe to Henry up in Spokane as he's feeling bored and lonely and probably terrified down deep, behind his near-Darwinian comments. I send the recipe and he texts back, Sweet.
The Virus doesn't care about our moods, about our cycling through anger, grief, terror, contentment, resignation, resolve, dark humor. The Virus just IS.
I forgot to tell Dear Readers to watch the documentary Crip Camp, pronto. Dear Readers, watch Crip Camp, pronto. It's fantastic. It's on Netflix. It's testament to people doing hard things -- hard, hard things for decades.
I suppose if I were into Twitter, I could do this there, but I prefer the blogging platform. I'll end here, and I'll see you later.