Mixed bag

Seeing as how we don't expect to be working in the office any time soon, my employer is encouraging us to go in and pick up any personal items that we may want/need at home. As a safety precaution, we have to schedule our visit. Mine was today.

I don't know which emotion was prevalent; there were several all jumbled up together in a mildly unsettling stew. The parking lot was virtually empty. The only cars parked around my building were those belonging to the landscapers. Guess I may as well park in the convenient Handicapped spot, since no one is here! Grabbed a box from the pile that was thoughtfully placed outside our department's door, and went in. Lights were off, as expected, no weirdness yet. That changed as soon as the lights came on.

Seeing everyone's work area, with everyone's personal touches, immediately made me homesick. I work with a great group of people, we enjoy each other's company, and work very well together. I miss our face-to-face conversations, brainstorming a work issue, comparing notes from the weekend, laughing about something silly. It's going to be a long time before we enjoy each other in person again. Damn.

Birthday streamers still hang from the ceiling, pens and papers are still scattered on people's desks, pictures are still tacked up, the group jigsaw puzzle is still on a desk in an unclaimed cube, the dishtowel is still draped over the counter like someone just finished up their lunch dishes. Is this the zombie apocalypse? The little things are now intimate glimpses of absent humanity. Disconcerting.

Of course, my work area was still a pigsty. I cleared out my food supply (oops! guess the crows will enjoy all these stale snacks!) and threw away some stuff. The oranges on my desk continue to dehydrate nicely, and quite impressively.

It hit me when I found the mummified teabag in my coffee cup. The memory of my last day working there was as fresh as ever.

I remember flying out of there, stress levels through the roof, terrified by the events of that day. That morning, March 3, Paula's sister had awakened with a fever, struggling to breathe. By the time I left, around 2pm, Marianne had been ventilated, isolated, and heavily sedated. The day had been a flurry of constant text message updates, each one worse than the previous. The COVID storm was in its early stages, steadily brewing, but wasn't completely taking over our lives just yet. Here in Seattle, there was obvious concern over the outbreak at a nursing home in Kirkland, but none of us work in healthcare, and none of us are in a nursing home, so no need to worry, right?

That Tuesday, the brewing uneasiness became a full-on body-slam of concern, dread, fear, and apprehension of possible impending loss. As Marianne's story continued to parallel the COVID story, we all realized that we needed to take ourselves out of circulation and quarantine until we got her test results. Friday afternoon we were notified she was negative. Saturday she passed a little before 4pm, and a splendid rainbow appeared just out her hospital window. (Looking back, we are all highly suspicious of her test results. Many false negatives were occurring then, and her trajectory was a classic case. Thankfully, none of us got sick. Who knows.)

By the next week, businesses were shutting down. Offices like ours are now full of abandoned detritus, the silly stuff we all cart in to make the place a bit more comfortable and personal. I left some things, brought some things home, threw away some things. The orange mummification project? Stayed at work. The medals from all the races I had completed since starting that job? Those came home.

I look forward to starting a new collection of medals and dried produce. Meanwhile, I'm gonna find out if crows like stale wasabi peas.