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plague journaling
Apr. 16th, 2020 06:41 pmOnce again, podcast reactions! I listen to the Says Who podcast by Dan Sinker and Maureen Johnson (tagline: "it's not a podcast—it's a coping strategy"), which started as a sort of chat/comedy/political analysis show in the lead-up to the 2016 election. I know of Maureen from her YA mystery fiction; I saw her in person at the LA Times Festival of Books once years ago. It's been a delight.
In this week's episode, Maureen mentioned a couple times that "Trump took her meds." She's talked extensively about the weird health blow-up she had several years ago, which still causes her a lot of fatigue and other nonsense. She doesn't actually say her medicine is (hydroxy)chloroquine, but that's the only one I know of that's experiencing plague-related shortages. She talks about going to pick up a refill and discovering it consists of...nine pills.
It's funny, the things that make a catastrophe feel real. Because there I was, driving home from work and listening to podcasts, and I was hit by such a wave of mourning. Because an author and broadcaster I like was hurting.
I've already talked about the considerable stress of knowing my own supply of the drug is probably going to run out eventually, depending on how long things go on in this particularly intense vein. Those stresses are largely about the practicalities of it, though. I'm stressed about what going off my meds will mean for my ability to work. I'm stressed about figuring out a regimen for weaning myself off/extending my supply. Problem-solving.
I can do nothing to solve Maureen's problems. I can only feel this yawning void of sorrow, that the world has come to this point. It's somehow right at that perfect intersection of relevant to my personal experiences and outside my immediate sphere of potential losses. Somehow, that makes it emotionally accessible in a way that more intimate suffering is not.
I guess that's why this is the night I'm crying about everything for the first time. Because Maureen Johnson went all the way out to a pharmacy and only got nine pills and is having a flare.
In this week's episode, Maureen mentioned a couple times that "Trump took her meds." She's talked extensively about the weird health blow-up she had several years ago, which still causes her a lot of fatigue and other nonsense. She doesn't actually say her medicine is (hydroxy)chloroquine, but that's the only one I know of that's experiencing plague-related shortages. She talks about going to pick up a refill and discovering it consists of...nine pills.
It's funny, the things that make a catastrophe feel real. Because there I was, driving home from work and listening to podcasts, and I was hit by such a wave of mourning. Because an author and broadcaster I like was hurting.
I've already talked about the considerable stress of knowing my own supply of the drug is probably going to run out eventually, depending on how long things go on in this particularly intense vein. Those stresses are largely about the practicalities of it, though. I'm stressed about what going off my meds will mean for my ability to work. I'm stressed about figuring out a regimen for weaning myself off/extending my supply. Problem-solving.
I can do nothing to solve Maureen's problems. I can only feel this yawning void of sorrow, that the world has come to this point. It's somehow right at that perfect intersection of relevant to my personal experiences and outside my immediate sphere of potential losses. Somehow, that makes it emotionally accessible in a way that more intimate suffering is not.
I guess that's why this is the night I'm crying about everything for the first time. Because Maureen Johnson went all the way out to a pharmacy and only got nine pills and is having a flare.
