Nikki

Nikki is the author of the award-winning Sam Tate Mystery series, as well as a stand-alone thriller and two non-fiction books. Check out the rest of the site, and please subscribe. It's easy and free. New projects in the works include an ebook of short stories, a YA novel, and a new Sam Tate mystery.

In the Time of the Pandemic

Mar 302020
 

It started with a plan, because isn’t that how most of us try to start our days now? The overcrowded households, filled with socially isolated children of all ages, a few pets, and the odd grandparent—those households must enact plans that keep everyone occupied and engaged while navigating a physical space never meant for as many as are now occupying it.

Solo households have a different, less immediately challenging task: How to creatively or productively fill time, coupled with attending to mundane tasks. I gave up cleaning my small house a few years ago, but darn if that hasn’t been added to my plate. I just have to handle it in smaller bites. Cooking and small sewing repairs aren’t my jam either—my sister excelled at both—but I’ve been practicing both since she passed away.

Grocery shopping isn’t something I thought I’d need help with, even in the time of the pandemic. I have two masks, courtesy of my neighbors. I’d made up lists and visualized the store I wanted to go into and factored in the timing so it was at the end of “senior” time on a rainy weekday. I had a plan. I was ready.

My plan didn’t include getting hit with anxiety about going into a store I shopped just ten days—and several terrifying news stories—ago.

I postponed, told myself I’d try again tomorrow. I decided to tackle another project and bring out my warmer weather clothes. A shirt I bought for my trip to Canada last summer with my sister came out of the spare closet and went right back in. Her death is too fresh.

I texted a neighbor friend, who let me know that her beloved dog had to be put down two days earlier. Scarlett, born a month after my dog, was the first puppy Molly ever met. They shared a genuine affection. I could always get Molly to walk the neighborhood by saying, “Let’s go see your girlfriend Scarlett.”

Then I read a note from a dear friend who has been sick and alone in her apartment for a month. She lives on the other coast, although in the time of pandemic, she could be in the next city. She is scared. I want to help. I can’t figure out how to help.

So: fear of shopping, memories brought up by a shirt, loss of a neighborhood dog, a frightened friend. I didn’t need any other excuses to have a good cry.

Another luxury of solo living, I suppose: the freedom to wail at will.

And then what? This is our new normal, both informed and exacerbated by the availability of information. Some of it is true, some of it is false, some of it is unverified because this damned pandemic is, to a large extent, difficult to verify. Without a doubt, death and illness are underreported but would more testing and more identified cases bring more relief? I don’t know. Like hundreds of thousands, even millions of others, I both depend on and have limited faith in my government, at least at the federal level.

But I have good neighbors and good friends and access to information. The support on the ground is amazing. I can click on my growing list of resources to take a virtual tour, listen to soothing music, follow a stress-relieving class, or bake. Then I hug my dog, work on my novel, watch a little TV, engage in a bit of social activism, wave at neighbors from a safe distance, and plan to do it again tomorrow.

You all know what books to read or shows to watch. Below are a couple of other resources (by no means a complete list) for you to check out:

• Twelve museums to visit virtually.
• Wonderful music by Frederick Aragón. Sure to soothe the soul.
• Stress relief yoga with birds!
• Recipe for blueberry muffins. Anyone can do this!

Silly

Mar 032020
 

I got my laugh back.

I first noticed when I was watching something silly— probably an SNL skit or maybe an episode of “The Voice”—I like how the judges banter with one another. Anyway, it was a full-throated kind of thing, almost a bark. Didn’t last long, couldn’t sustain it, but there it was.

I’ve had two major tragedies in my life and each time, I found it hard to believe I would laugh again. I knew intellectually I would; I just didn’t feel it.

But here it was, not a small chuckle or a slight snigger but an honest to god laugh. And the next week, something even more amazing happened. I got silly.

For me, silly is what happens when two people (or more but usually two) free associate. Some inconsequential statement or incident triggers a thought and suddenly you’re off on all sorts of tangents and down all sorts of rabbit holes. Free association can send you and your dialogue partner into strange new worlds that no one else can see. If you’re really letting go, everything you’re coming up with is unbelievably funny and no one else gets it but you two and who cares?

My sister and I used to engage in this silly sort of bantering on road trips. I could make her laugh so hard she was left gasping for air. I admit I loved that. It absolutely helps to know someone well. You have hundreds of frames of reference and can take in as many directions as possible. The very best kinds of these riffs end up with both parties seized by laughter—ow, my stomach hurts, I-can’t-catch my breath paroxysms.

I had the same kind of experience the other day with my physical therapist. I’ve known him for more than a decade, but we’re not best buddies. Yet somehow, we share enough history and have enough cultural touchstones in common to set the stage for an epic riff. A simple, off-the-cuff statement— “I have to go to the Social Security office tomorrow”—turned into an extended skit on all the things I could do while waiting, which included all the questions I could ask the clerk once I got called on that had absolutely nothing to do with the reason I was there. Utter nonsense that made no sense. It built and built unto the two of us were cackling like demented patients at an institute. My stomach hurt, I could barely catch my breath.

It felt good.

I still cry. It’s to be expected. I miss my sister/best friend terribly. It’s only been a few months. I have to go through the seasons without her. Summer, which is when we traveled, will be hard.

But I’m all about laughing now and I don’t care how it happens. My older dog with the oversized personality can make me laugh. So can a clip from late night television host or a line in a book or a sign in a window or a puppy. Or a physical therapist, the guy who sees you at your worst and has the clearest insight into how much you hurt, at least physically.

Maybe that seems silly, but I’ll take it.

Heel/Heal

Jan 292020
 

“Heel” is a simple word. A body part, or a part of a shoe. As a verb, the act of repairing a shoe or a command instructing a leashed animal (usually a dog) to follow closely behind its owner.

Then there’s “heal,” which is a more complicated verb. When it comes to physical injury, the definition is “to cause (a wound, an injury, or a person) to become sound or healthy again.” The implication is that the thing or person being treated will be somehow restored. Sample sentence? “He would wait until his knee had healed.”

Then there is the second definition: “to alleviate (distress or anguish)” What it suggests is a lessening, an accommodation of sorts but not a restoration. Sample sentence? “Time can heal the pain of grief.”

Which is to say, the griever becomes far better at coping, more adept at getting through a day, open to the idea of living, laughing, loving. Never wholly repaired. Ever. Like an aging body, it will always hurt.

I’m surprised more people don’t seem to understand this about grief. Hasn’t loss touched a great number of us? Any episode of “This is Us” or the myriad doctor shows revisit the subject time after time. True, the passing of the elderly may cause less pain, though that is also fungible. Lives cut short are always a shock to the system.

Yet most people are supremely awkward around grievers. Some feel compelled to share their grief stories. Others want to flee. I get it. Listening, just listening, is hard. Being around people in pain is a colossal downer.

Writers are natural grievers. In the effort to tell stories that resonate, we must tap into universal experiences that include joy and hope but also pain and loss. We are required to feel what our narrators feel. Further, we are by nature somewhat solitary. Isolated at times by our own unruly emotions, we must rely on whatever words we have at our disposal, so that we may reach out, connect and find the truth in our own one-of-a-kind process. Such efforts may benefit others. It definitely benefits us.

As does IRL (in real life) contact. Americans may be bad with words but they are terrific huggers. Hugging isn’t for everybody and hugging everybody isn’t for me. I’m squirmy in the embrace of strangers. My family wasn’t overtly physical, although they were never at a loss for words. I’ve been a widow for eighteen years. My sister didn’t hug until the very end of her life. Being folded into an embrace is still a novelty for me.

I don’t mind it, though. It feels as if I’m connecting to something. To another being. To life.

Speaking of connecting, I know far more people now than I did when my husband was killed. Although many of these people remain virtual, others do not. They’ve stepped up. Not only are they reaching out to me, some are determined to get me out of the house. I have (what is for me) a crowded social calendar. It’s exhausting but it’s not a bad thing. I try to accept as many of these connections as possible. I’ve even done my own outreach, making dates and planning to fly off to see distant friends. That’s some sort of record.

Still, I try not to get ahead of myself. Grief drains me. I am often tired. I do practice what my friends call self-care. Less wine, less sugar, more protein, lots of exercise and the aforementioned social engagements. I am lucky to be able to do so and I don’t take that advantage for granted. I’m even grateful to keep busy with the paperwork that arises when one is solely responsible for packing up another’s life.

I’m not a patient person and age has only aggravated my impatience. I want to get on with things. Grief has other ideas about the how and the when, confounding the best laid plans.

I don’t entirely control my broken heart’s repair. For the foreseeable future, grief is the master. Where it leads, I follow. I heel, so that I can heal.

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