Diary of 72 Hours During an Unfolding Catastrophe

Thursday night, March 12

Dear blog,

The world completely changed since I last wrote here.

Two weeks ago, I was enjoying a three-day ski camp with women who traveled to Telluride from all over, and my greatest source of anxiety was learning to ski down the black-diamond Plunge run. (Did it!) Last week, I ran around trails for two days for a paid photo shoot while modeling a new product for an outdoor retailer. I worked on a couple of freelance articles and coached my clients. I ran 21 miles at the start of the week as a final long run before a 50K next weekend. Livin’ the good life.

Midway through Monday’s long run.

And then the virus and its ripple effects gained momentum like a tsunami approaching land. Everyone is canceling plans for travel and gatherings, so tourists in Telluride are melting away like the snow. I wonder how all the locals who work at restaurants and shops will weather the economic paralysis. Mostly I worry about the small number of heroic health care workers who staff our tiny regional medical center, a facility that would feel crowded if ten people stood in the waiting room. You’ve gotta drive to Montrose or Grand Junction, a couple of hours away, for a regular hospital with a ventilator. Our town would be (will be?) overwhelmed by ill residents.

Today I went into the bathroom of Clark’s market to wash my hands, because I’d been to the post office and drove from the post office to the market telling myself repeatedly, “Don’t touch your face.” In the bathroom, I was glad to see a big bottle of hand sanitizer, in addition to soap, but I thought to myself, “Some asshole is going to steal that.”

I left it on the counter and wondered how many hours it’d last. In the market, of course, all the hand disinfectants and toilet paper have disappeared from the shelves. I admired the fresh produce, the seafood and all the other perishables and wondered how soon the supply-chain disruptions will lead to bare shelves. I’ve heard people say we’re about ten days behind Italy, where hospitals are overwhelmed and grocery stores are empty.

Thankfully, I’m fine. I’m healthy. But some people I care about are not. Some unexpected and awful things happened in the past ten days to extended family.

My nephew in Nashville was working as a bartender downtown when the tornado hit last week; he survived while hunkered down in the restaurant (which was heavily damaged, putting him out of work for a while), but his good friend and the friend’s girlfriend died, and my nephew was the one who found them dying outside in the destruction and ran for help. Then a relative on my husband’s side, who’s been struggling with cancer, became ill with virus-like symptoms and had to be in a Seattle hospital that’s strained from handling COVID cases. It turns out he also has a heart condition that needs more medical intervention, and he has two teenagers home from school because their school has been put on hold. He wanted to get tested for coronavirus but couldn’t because tests weren’t available. Then, last night, another nephew who lives in Brooklyn with his wife and baby came down with a significant fever and shortness of breath. He went to the ER and was told he couldn’t get tested for the virus because tests were not available and he didn’t meet criteria. He’s feeling better now, but he doesn’t know what made him sick and if he’s contagious.

What we’re witnessing is unprecedented. And perhaps the most unsettling thing is the asinine, dangerous president. If only we had a leader like Angela Merkel, who a couple of nights ago gave the hard truth and scientific facts to Germans—that about two-thirds of the population will get sick with this virus that has no treatment or vaccine, so the best we can do is slow the spread and take emergency measures for the sake of public health and the economy. But America is going the way of Iran and Italy, facing exponential growth of undiagnosed and untreated victims.

So I’m going to put my head down and do what I can to stay healthy and take care of those around me.

Thankfully, Colly and Kyle are OK physically, but stressed. Both kids’ colleges are suspending in-person classes and starting to teach online next week (we’ll see if that actually works—Colly’s college, the Rhode Island School of Design, can’t really do “online learning” because it’s an art and design school, all about hands-on projects), so they’re transitioning home.

I leave Saturday to go to Boulder to pack up Kyle and bring him back. He’s upset because he wants to go live for a while in the Bay Area near his high school friends, in the Oakland apartment Morgan still rents for work trips, but we told him he can’t. We also told Colly she and her friends can’t spend their spring break as planned in the Bay Area—too risky to travel and socialize in a place where they might get sick, unknowingly spread the virus, and perhaps get stuck there without accessible care. We have to do our part to be socially responsible and not burden health care services or spread the virus. Because we told the kids this, I canceled my trip to the Bay Area in April; I won’t travel there to do the Lake Sonoma 50 as planned (assuming the race still happens, which is unlikely).

We’re helping Colly figure out how to move out of her rental and get her car, her cat and all her stuff here from the East Coast. She is so sad that her senior year at RISD is ending this way—the sudden goodbyes to friends, the likelihood they won’t get a graduation ceremony, the cancellation of the show she’s been choreographing and rehearsing, the uncertainty about her post-grad job offer, and the realization she’s adulting into a recession. I understand why the colleges are doing this, and I support the school shutdowns, but my heart breaks for the disruption to all these kids’ lives.

Leave it to Colly to find a creative outlet. One bright, bizarre spot in the past week: she decided to start a TikTok account. (A week ago, I didn’t understand TikTok, now I do.) She posted some videos, and they are so funny and original, they went viral. One got over 10 million views in a couple of days, because of her take on the #shykids trend (explained in this article, with the video by Colly aka “@hummus_daddy” spotlighted). Go figure.

This is one of her videos (using a giant joke flask that Kyle gave her for her 21st birthday):

Morgan feels growing anxiety about his business and how to manage his staff of some 30 who work in Oakland and Sacramento. Clients are telling him to hold off on work because everything is being postponed indefinitely and courts are closing. Like business owners everywhere, he wonders how to take care of his employees and make payroll.

Oh, and as if it matters, my races are getting canceled. I shouldn’t be so flippant—it does matter to the thousands of runners, and to the race directors, who worked so hard to train for and put on these events. But I personally don’t feel too upset about it. First the Moab 50K that was supposed to be March 21 got canceled; now the news is breaking that the Boston Marathon will be rescheduled (I’m glad about that—something to look forward to this September). I’m pulling out of the Lake Sonoma 50 in April. The Mauna to Mauna Ultra self-supported stage race in Hawaii in May is up in the air. I feel so sorry for those race directors, who’ve spent the past three years planning this complicated race. But the field of competitors is mostly international, many from Asian and European countries. The idea of all of us flying to Hawaii and camping together during the stage race seems far-fetched in the sudden reality of today’s pandemic.

My heart doesn’t feel into training for a race at all right now. I’m running for health, stress relief and for escape. I run and leave my phone behind, to get away from the news for an hour and to appreciate this changing landscape, where the snow is receding and spring runoff flowing.

I do, however, still care about the High Lonesome 100 on my calendar at the end of July, and the Hardrock 100 two weeks before that (where I plan to pace a friend). Life has to be back to normal by summer, right? I’m going to channel my athletic energy for training into that ultra that’s four-and-a-half months from now.

The other day, I read an article on coping with stress that advised using positive affirmations. If you find yourself saying anxiety-fueled negative statements in your head, such as, “I can’t get sick,” “we won’t be able to get help” or, “we can’t afford this,” try to turn those statements into a positive affirmation, such as, “I am healthy.” I’ve literally been repeating in my head during my runs, like a mantra, “I am healthy, I am strong; I am healthy, I am safe.” It kind of helps.

I’m proud of myself, I’m not drinking to cope with stress. Since Dry January, as I wrote about last time, I rarely drink wine and only occasionally have a lower-alcohol beer. One drink a night max, only a few times per week. That’s my new normal, thankfully, and no food or drink post-dinner. I bet I’d be getting shitfaced if I were still in the mode I reached before new year’s, downing three or more a night while fixated on watching CNN or reading the news on my phone. Now, I’m coping by being even more health conscious, as if that’s something I can control, as if eating more dark leafy greens, blueberries and sleeping extra will keep me healthy in the event I have to take care of sick family and neighbors.

Morgan has a different way of coping with stress and feeling “cooped up.” While juggling calls and emails, he’s thrown himself into building a chicken coop. I love him for it.

Morgan building a chicken coop from scratch this week.

We’re getting baby chicks for eggs (we’ll keep them year round, not kill them for meat). I’m thinking more about how to live off our land. We’ve got solar, plenty of fire wood, water from a well. This spring, I should plant and grow some vegetables, maybe get a pig to raise and then “harvest” (the euphemism hunters use), or maybe a goat or sheep for milk. We have frozen elk meat that our neighbor kindly gave us from an elk he harvested last fall, and I have new appreciation for that meat and where it came from. We have stocked up on food for the coming month, especially with the kids moving back home.

Two weeks ago, I wasn’t thinking about any of these things.

Friday, March 13

I worked on a PowerPoint with the topic “Life Lessons from Trail Running,” because I’ve been asked to speak next week at an event with a couple of other female mountain athletes. I scripted what I’m going to say and chose all the photos. Then the email came saying the event is postponed to a to-be-determined later day. I’m not surprised, and it’s OK. I liked working on it anyway, to think about how these lessons and traits cultivated on the trail—things like patience, toughness, adaptability, self-care, optimism, humility, “use your crew,” etc.—are tested by the current circumstances, and how they can help.

A stronger-than-expected snow storm blew in, dropping a hearty 7 inches on the ski resort, so from my office window in the loft I watched the big heavy flakes drift down and heard the thump of snow sliding off our roof. It’s funny to think that last summer I feared my first real winter—I wondered if the California me could adapt—and now I love it and am grateful for another snow extending the season and covering up the mud in our driveway. One silver lining to the kids coming home from college early: We can ski together.

A friend who’s the mom of one of Colly’s high school friends messaged me a couple of hours ago, writing, “Be glad that you are in beautiful Telluride not the Bay Area. It’s like armageddon at the grocery stores.” I feel so glad, I almost feel guilty.

I spent part of today changing airline and hotel reservations—rescheduling Boston Marathon plans for the weekend of September 14, getting Colly ready to travel back here next weekend. I’d like her back sooner, but RISD is staying in session for the week, and she needs to finish projects and pack up her rental. When I wasn’t at my desk, I cleaned and organized the house like a maniac.

Meanwhile, as snow fell outside, I thought about going to an event in town scheduled for 5:30pm: the inaugural “Skidola” hill-climb race. It’s the winter version of the July 4 “Rundola,” a fundraiser and foot race up the ski slope under the town gondola. Skidola participants have their choice to skin, snowshoe or hike up the snowy ski run. Would anyone actually show up for it, given the stormy weather and the sudden “no gathering” decree on this Friday the 13th? Would I go?

It hit me, of course! I’ve got to go. This is a chance to be with others, to celebrate the outdoors, to support the community, to breathe deeply in healthy lungs. How could I miss it?

I scrambled to get ready, unable to decide on snowshoes versus traction devices for my shoes. I took both with me, along with trekking poles, and drove to town through howling wind and snow flurries.

When I parked and went into the restaurant by the base of the gondola where race registration was being held, I was a bit shocked by the scene. It was as if nobody had been following the news. The restaurant was packed with post-ski-day revelers drinking beers and standing close to one another, ignoring the idea of social distancing. As I stood in line near the table for the race registration, I watched everyone touch the same door handles, touch the same iPad touch screen and share hugs. It felt so strange and ominous to watch perfectly normal, happy social interaction through this new lens of germaphobic anxiety. I felt claustrophobic. I registered for the race, got my bib, then went straight to the bathroom to thoroughly wash my hands. Then I opened the door while still holding the paper towel I used to dry my hands, so I wouldn’t directly touch any communal surfaces. This is how I operate now.

I felt much better outside, waiting with others for the race to start in the blowing snow. Some people got into the St. Patrick’s Day spirit early and wore leprechaun hats and green tutus, God bless them. I decided at the last minute to ditch the snowshoes and “run” (make that, hike) with Kahtoola traction devices and my trekking poles. About 60 people had registered for the race, roughly half female and about half donning skis to skin up.

At the Skidola start, next to the base of the town gondola.

I looked up at the ski run under the gondola. We had to ascend about 1.5 miles, gaining nearly 2,000 feet, to the top of the mountain. I couldn’t see the mountaintop because of the cloud cover. But I didn’t worry about the weather. I didn’t worry how fast or slow I’d be. I felt surprisingly calm, as if I had left my worries behind when I exited that crowded restaurant and found peace and happiness at this start line while surrounded—close, but not too close—by like-minded mountain folk who decided to seize the afternoon for a crazy end to a crazy week.

The starting horn buzzed at 5:30 p.m. and we took off. Oh, my, I had forgotten how hard the July 4 Rundola event is, and here I am doing it again, but in several inches of fresh snow while snowflakes stick to my eyelashes. I tucked in behind a guy on skis and focused on following his tracks. I planted my poles to gain leverage up the first extremely steep and slick ascent.

Halfway up, we faced a choice of continuing straight up the expert ski slope, or taking a longer route up the Telluride Trail, which is a milder route with switchbacks. Going the Telluride Trail would add half a mile, but I felt it was worth it. I didn’t mind going longer, if I could stride out more quickly. I started up the long-cut route with two other women. The sun, hanging low on the horizon, pushed sideways-slanted golden light through the silver clouds.

A pic I took from the top that shows the Skidola route and the mid-packers making the climb. Note the guy in the green tutu.

The final pitch to the top reminded me of climbing sand dunes at the Grand to Grand Ultra—each step a hard-fought battle. The woman next to me got ahead because she used her hands to bear-crawl, whereas I planted my poles, and the poles got stuck in deep snow. This whole climb felt ridiculous, and my lungs burned from the uphill effort, and I loved it—I felt giddy, in my element. I finally reached the top less than a minute after the other women, fourth female, taking around 47 minutes. The first-place woman was a teen girl who had been behind me, but then she bravely took the shorter, steeper route and reached the top quicker.

Final steps to the top. Photo by Bria Light

Going through the finish chute. I told the person taking the photo, Heidi Lauterbach, “I’m in no hurry because I don’t want this to end!”

On my drive home, I stopped at Clark’s market to buy some more milk, because it hit me we’ll need more since Kyle is coming home. The shelves looked sparse with supplies, some items out of stock, others going fast. It’s the same story around the whole country, only much worse in urban areas. In addition to milk, I bought chocolate and the last jar of all-natural peanut butter.

Then, after loading up the car, I went to the bathroom at the market to wash my hands. There, to my surprise and happiness, was the bottle of hand sanitizer from yesterday, still one-third full. I felt better about humanity, seeing it still standing there for all to share.

Saturday, March 14

We left home to drive to Boulder, to move Kyle out of his dorm room, and we stopped in Montrose so I could visit Mom. I hadn’t gotten the notice that visitors are now prohibited from her assisted-living home, but I understand why they’re no longer letting people in.

I stood in the waiting room holding the banana bread and milk I got her from Starbucks and told Meghan, the woman in charge of the memory care unit, that this might be my last time to see her. I promised I was fully sanitized from hand washing, and I’m not sick.

“Follow me, but make it quick,” she said, so I went with her down the corridor to my mom’s area in the locked-up unit for dementia and Alzheimer’s patients.

Mom was just waking up at 10 a.m., in her pajamas, and her eyes widened when she saw me. She smiled, as if in a dream. I knelt down while she sat on the bed and hugged my arms around her waist and put my head on her lap, but I was careful not to kiss her face. I asked, “Are you surprised to see your youngest daughter Sarah?” (I always do that, subtly re-introduce who I am, because she won’t know without a prompt.)

“Yes, I think it’s wonderful,” she said in her sing-song way. Everything is a surprise to someone with little to no memory.

Then I helped her stand—which she couldn’t do without me supporting her under her armpits—and I asked if she felt OK, and she looked at me playfully. She moved her hips side to side, doing a little dance, to show me she’s OK. I made her show me again so I could film it.

My time was limited to 20 minutes. I got her dressed, studying her body because I want to remember in detail what she looks like, and I stroked her hair and tied her shoes. She insisted on wearing a decorative straw hat. We walked out to the eating area, then I washed my hands again and put out her snack.

One of the nurses said, “It’s time for you to go.” All the of workers there looked and sounded tense.

“Thank you so much for all the work you’re doing and care you’re giving,” I told the older worker, Betty, who’s one of my favorites because she brushes and braids Mom’s hair.

“I hope we all stay healthy to take care of them,” she replied, dead serious.

I didn’t know what to say to Mom in this limited time, not knowing when I’d see her again, wondering if ever. She is so frail, her lungs wheezing and her left eye now chronically inflamed.

I took out my phone for a selfie. She was fixated on her banana bread and didn’t want to stop chewing to smile. When she saw our reflection in the phone, she said, “You look cute. I look terrible,” which made me laugh.

“I have to go, Mom. I love you so much. I’ll see you again.”

“OK!” she said cheerfully, “bye!”

She won’t remember my visit, but I will.

Saturday night

A sense of dread replaced any calm I felt at yesterday’s special Skidola event. I haven’t felt this way since the hours and days following 9/11.

I’ve been sitting in this Boulder room on hold with United for over two hours, trying to get through to sort out a travel credit to apply to a newly booked flight. Colly has to leave campus as soon as possible; RISD changed course, because the coronavirus is now next door at Brown (is likely throughout the community, we just don’t know because no one has been tested). She suddenly has to say goodbye to all her friends, clean out her rental, and get herself and her cat on a plane as early as possible, and I’m not there to help her.

The talk on the news of possible restrictions—cancellations—to domestic flights is freaking me out. What if she can’t fly home? She has her car, but I don’t want her to drive more than 2000 miles solo. We have to figure out how to get her car shipped here, or maybe sell it on short notice.

I got her rebooked for Tuesday morning. So much can happen between now and Tuesday morning—she could get ill from the combo of stress and the virus and be unable to fly, or her flight could get canceled. I feel sick with worry and just want her home.

But Kyle is with us—I am so relieved to be near him again. When we drove up to the CU Boulder campus, students everywhere were carting out boxes. I saw Kyle come out of his room and felt a surge of love. He looked so good, healthy and grownup. He clearly was happy to see us, too. We took a pre-dinner short hike in Chautauqua Park.

Selfie with Morgan and Kyle this afternoon at Chautauqua Park.

He feels—as all the students feel—uprooted and slightly bewildered by the sudden end to the academic year (though they’ll try their best to keep learning remotely), the sudden goodbyes. “It’s insane,” he said, “they had to close the UPS store for a few hours to catch up with all the packages”—the surge of demand and long lines of students shipping their stuff home. “But if this had to happen, at least it’s only my freshman year.” He knows he can come back and enjoy three more years here, unlike seniors. He talked about how much he likes his classes this semester, especially journalism. Journalists are heroes, we agreed.

To cheer up, we talked about snowboarding in the coming week. Right after we said goodnight, I saw this notice on Facebook, that the mountain has closed.

I texted it to Kyle. “Fuck,” he texted back.

I’ve been scrolling through the comments by all the people whose jobs are dependent on the ski resort, wondering how they’ll manage the loss of income from the closure.

I know that life will get back to normal, but it likely will get worse before it gets better.

Am I completely over-reacting? Maybe, I hope so. I hope the next few days prove that I’m a nervous Nellie rather than a realist.

It’s past 11 p.m., I need to go to sleep. I just need to get Colly back, and then we’ll be OK. I need to stop thinking about Mom and her health-care workers and the news footage of the nursing home in Washington state where so many got ill and died. I need to stay healthy, so I’m going to wake up early enough to run tomorrow morning before we meet Kyle to load up the rest of his stuff and leave. I’ll run and calm myself with the beauty outdoors and the thought, “I am healthy, I am strong.”