Quick recap:
From mid-March to August, my parents lived in my basement. It's a walkout, not a dungeon. They were isolated from nearly the entire world, except for me, who scrubbed diligently and minimized my own contact with our low-COVID community.
It was safe and, with access to a wide farm lawn, they were not horribly constricted.
August: I returned to school and could no longer maintain the barrier of protection around my folks, so we re-homed them to the care center in Ft. Dodge.
The rules required my parents to quarantine with twice-a-day temperature checks for 14 days after arriving. We dropped Vern at Critter Camp because they couldn't leave their room even to walk their dog. They were miserable, but we got through it.
After two weeks, they could, if masked, walk down the hall and go outside. They could even host pre-scheduled 30-minute outdoor visits from family.
But then.
Their care center experienced a water-damage event (something about sprinklers, I think) that rendered one of their independent-living buildings inhabitable. As they scrambled to find spaces for the displaced residents, they opened up my parents' "protected" building. That is, my parents could now come and go as they pleased.
This delighted them, while horrifying their children.
When my sister took my parents to my dad's sisters' funerals two weeks ago, she threw herself--pop-up armor!--in front of my dad when well-wishing relatives tried to swoop in and hug him. Like a mother bear, she protected her elderly cubs.
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Nestled in my basement, my parents knew all was not right out there in the COVID world; however, they also weren't learning the new ways to move about in public if you want to be safe. Many of us have learned to eye a six-foot radius around ourselves. We carry hand-sanitizer, wipe the grocery cart, honor the plexiglass shields that greet us at places of business.
Sending my parents out into the community of Ft. Dodge (14-day rolling positivity rate of 9.6%) is like sending three-year-olds into a candy shop, alone, reminding them not to touch anything.
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At the end of last Saturday's phone call with my dad, I told him I'd call at 8:15 on Sunday to hook him up to ZOOM for Sunday School, which is our routine.
On Sunday, 7:45 a.m., he called me to say he and my mom were attending church in person and wouldn't need to zoom. They would take a taxi.
I hung up, called my sister. We shrieked and wailed (something like that) before I frantically called my dad back, hoping they hadn't already left.
"Do you have hand sanitizer?" No.
"It's important you not touch your face or mask after you get into the taxi. Sanitize your hands as soon as you get into church. Do not touch anyone. Don't shake hands. Don't hug. Stay six feet away from everyone."
As I rattled off my directives, flinging little prayers, the futility of it all hung in the air like...those COVID aerosol droplets the CDC is warnining (now not warning) about.
My dad can't remember the three steps to open his computer, open his Gmail, and open Zoom without me talking him through it. My mom spent her two weeks in quarantine angry at "the people" who weren't letting her out of her room.
I can't expect them to self-monitor their safety in public. I can't seem to elevate their concern to the level of mine. Part of me doesn't want to because living with my level of concern is not fun.
Today the Cass County rolling positivity rate is back up to 5% after tallying 10 new cases since Friday.
I'll be back to wearing scrubs again today.
Enough.
Be well.
Write.
Allison
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| Sleep tight, Wolf. |
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