Day #123 Writing Through COVID-19: COVID Alert, Masks, and Journals

I woke up with a tiny sniffle on one side of my nose.

COVID ALERT!

I decided to wear a mask and face shield while delivering my parents' meals today and forgo any Bridge lessons or conversation under 6' or longer than 15 minutes.

I figured it would be good practice for going back to school. Teacher in-service begins one month from tomorrow.
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For the past ten weeks, I have been wearing a mask for 30-40 minutes a day when practicing accordion with my 91-year-old mother-in-law who lives a mile from us. One of the things I love about our accordion duet time is that it's impossible to fret (or even THINK) about anything else while pushing buttons with one hand, keys with the other, huffing the bellows, and reading sheet music. Even a facemask disappears when the mind and body are so fully engaged.

I've also been wearing a mask during all of my town errands.

But when school starts, my masking will go to another level. I know healthcare and many factory workers get used to masking. I can too. But I will be practicing in the weeks to come. I don't want my first day back to be the first time I've tried to use PPE for an extended length of time.

I won't say today was great. I had to repeat myself when my words were muffled by the barriers. And I had to exert my voice. Communicating masked will be tiring. But it wasn't impossible.
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When I made my breakfast visit downstairs this morning, my mom was writing in her journal. "I need to know my address," she said, "or they'll move me to another building."

She was worried about the cognitive test and evidently had forgotten she'd already taken it. (And passed?)
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I want to read my mother's journal. I know bits of what she writes because she tells me, and I'll admit that when it's open my eyes do a bit of wandering. But it is her personal book. She never invites me to read it.

I journal too.

She has journaled for years, but she does it only for her own exploration of thought, never with the intent to share. She's told me that she journals when she's angry or worried. I think she also journals simply to make sense of her days--which is what I do here with blogging.

I think her journal--as a woman experiencing increasing dementia--would be fascinating to read. She has always been uncompromising in her candor and dexterous in her language choices.

I'm a proponent of writing, whether that be letters, blogs, emails, or more formal essays and books. Writers give the world windows and mirrors, while giving themselves a reason to live richly, examining feelings and experiences at a micro-level.

My mother's journals likely provide a record of her mental decline. I might ask her if I can read them. If she says no, I think I'll ask her to will them to me.
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My grandbaby is one week old today (in NZ), tomorrow here. This is confusing. Max said Wolf will grow up understanding timezones better than any of us.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Wolf is ready for his first jaunt around the paddock.

Bundled up--It's winter in NZ.