I've had the flu for the past week-plus. If you're anything like me, when you read "I've had the flu" you kind of roll your eyes and assume this means I felt a little sniffly so I canceled plans and ordered takeout. But no, this was The Flu—a serious thing that knocked me, a fairly fit and able-bodied person, on her ass. 101-degree fevers, chills, aches in every joint, hacking up green gunk and sneezing out blood. Did I humble myself by trying to take myself for a walk during a lull on Day Five, and then coughing so hard I peed myself a little on the street? Great question let’s move on!
The worst part wasn’t any of the actual pain, but the loneliness. I live solo and without human contact in days, I was stir-crazy in no time. But I felt like a genius when I figured out a kind of cheat code to get around it. I posted on Instagram about how I was sick and feeling isolated, and I asked explicitly: would you send me a voice memo? About anything. As long as it's your voice, right now.
It was a gift, every single one I received was a gift. I got one about a theory of anarchism and attachment style. One about my friend creeping out her studiomates by running music boxes nonstop for an installation she’s working on. One from a friend whose job is to do maintenance on the City Hall clocktower, who taught me that there’s a part of a clock called a flirt. A friend headed to the mall to shop for a suit to attend the Grammys, two friends on their drunk walk home from their anniversary dinner, two friends on their walk out to the sex club.
I was alone in my house, but I was surrounded by conversation.
This week when I was tending to my own sickbed, I had this memory of a woman I used to work with when I was just out of college, an executive assistant with a grade-school son. She would tell me things about her life in a way that felt matter-of-fact instead of invitational. I remember very few of the details, except two that stood out because they were related. Once, she told me about having been out of work recently because she had gotten very ill. "I was such a wreck," she said. "My husband had to do everything for me, including help me in and out of the shower. Thank god I have the husband I do."
Six months later, she told me about another forced absence from work to manage some things in her home life. "I'm getting divorced. Turns out my husband is a total liar. He was running around on me with a secret girlfriend."
I was young and newly in love with the man who would eventually become my own husband, and I couldn't square the things she told me. How could the man who had been so tender with her also be capable of hurting her so badly? And then, of course, my marriage ended and I knew: it's not as easy as whether a person can hurt you or not. Or rather, it's always that easy, in that if they love you, there’s no question they’re able to hurt you. The variance is in what ways they're willing to hurt you, and in what capacity you're willing to forgive.
When my marriage ended, and likewise with my later long-term relationship, it was a question for me: sure, I was drawing a line in the sand for what I would no longer tolerate. But was I cutting off my nose to spite my face?
I could take care of myself for the most part, for sure: pay my own bills, run my own household, make my own choices. But no one has their full faculties at all times. Even when I was “independent,” for years I'd had either a live-in or otherwise default partner to take care of me when I needed help.
Living single meant forgoing that. Ending those relationships meant consciously giving up that built-in support for the times when I needed to give over control. And I won’t lie that the past week has been easy. I still feel a little desperate, lonely and isolated.
I do, however, think on the fact that having someone around for presence's sake doesn't necessarily make them a good partner; I think of my old coworker and her husband's betrayal. And I also look back at the past week and try not to, I guess, miss the trees for the forest—maybe I didn't have one person there in every moment, but I had a full community of people who showed up for me.
Marshall made me Thai-spiced butternut squash soup with shrimp from scratch, and stood out on the curb for a distanced hello. Sarah, worried I wasn't hydrating myself, biked over unbidden to leave various flavored waters on my stoop and elected not to ring the bell so she wouldn't disturb my rest. Adam picked up my prescriptions, tidied my dishes and lifted locks of my hair from under the strap of my KF94 mask, and came to sit with me once I was beyond the contagion window. And a small army of friends kept asking if there was anything else they could do.
It helps to take a broader view of social fabric and community, and how much it has been a comfort this past week while I’ve felt otherwise on my own. I don’t have the same consistent presence as I once did, but the fact that there ARE people HAS been consistent. That’s a choice we make, to be there for each other, to meet each others’ vulnerabilities not because it’s our role but because it’s our pleasure. To contribute our voices to pad the silences with comfort, and remind the people we love that they’re never alone.
Yours in survival,
Arielle
Three Things Bringing Me Joy
Sophie Hunter.
You may have heard her on TikTok—that’s how I got into her a few years ago. She’s a curvy tiny powerhouse with Merida hair who used to post absolutely bomb freestyles, dueting whoever posted beats on the app and blowing them out of the water. But she ALSO has a killer, smoky voice and a Vantablack sense of humor, and she’s been releasing more highly produced tracks recently that have been making me wonder when the LP will drop. It does not seem to be forthcoming, BUT: she’s opening for Sleigh Bells on their tour this summer, and I scored tickets. Can’t wait to see her spit bars like “Dimples in my cheeks you can see when I bend over / Didn’t meet on Hinge, you know I met that dog on Rover.”Squeaky wheeling.
I wrote about Kentucky Route Zero last week and how much I loved it—and I still do—but I had purchased it for $24.99, and when I went to tell you about it not 18 hours afterward, when I went to fetch the URL to share the game, I saw that it was suddenly on sale for $9.99. Listen, I often let things slide to my own peril, but like: WHY NOT. Writing a white-lady email was not going to do me any harm. And sure enough, after a few rounds with a customer service rep, they agreed to honor the sale price. That’s $15 I could then spend on flu meds!The timing of the universe working itself out.
Buying Kentucky Route Zero wound up being perfect timing because I purchased it on a Monday night, and the next afternoon I started to feel sick with what wound up being a flu that would keep me home for a week. Similarly: Sunday, while adhering (as I do, daily!) to the Do’s and Don’ts in my Co—Star app, I saw that one of the “Do’s” was “Fresh flowers” so I treated myself to barely-opened tulips from Trader Joe’s. Sure enough, they wound up being a really welcome addition to a week’s worth of being confined to the couch.
What I’m Reading
At least there was Eve. At least Eve knew how to be angry out loud. As the firstborn, it was her job to be the icebreaker ship, plowing through her mother’s good intentions. Fifteen was old enough to brew stronger, higher-value anger. Vera’s version, at thirteen, was only a mixer.
“I do not love you,” Eve said to their mother.
“You do love me and I know it. This is exactly, exactly, what love feels like.”
—The Last Animal by Ramona Ausubel