2020: Farewell or good riddance?

Thursday 31 December 2020

What to make of 2020?

The 2020 photo album I am compiling is, unsurprisingly, a lot thinner than usual. Not a lot happened in January and February anyway, and then – boom – the Covid-19 pandemic took over the world and there was even less to put in the photobook. Just a few pictures of empty supermarket shelves and face masks fill the March and April pages. The rest of the year comprises a small number of brief highlights, like a September trip to Venice or a fun Halloween, connected by long stretches of isolation. November stands out as a month where nothing happened at all: in the last 12 years of assembling the annual photo album, this is the first time there’s been a month without a single picture on my iPhone.

Of course, if, like my neighbour Jim, or a number of people at work, your whole family came down with Covid-19, then it was a pretty miserable year. Or if your business went under. Or if one of your parents died. Or if your teenage daughter was hospitalised for several weeks with a painful neurological condition. Or if your incurable Parkinson’s got a little worse. Given that the last three of these things did happen to Clara or me, it is tempting to write off 2020 as a year to forget. An annus horribilis as The Queen once said in her Christmas speech.

However, most clouds have a silver lining. So, whilst appreciating that it was a crap year for many, here are five good things that came out of 2020.

1. Staying connected

Ironically, given social distancing, Covid-19 brought many of us closer together. I’ve seen a lot more of my siblings than ever before: we have family Zoom calls every few weeks whereas in many years previously we would see each other only at Christmas. I schedule regular video catch ups for the local PD community. I see some of my friends more than before, albeit on a screen.

Surprisingly, in a work context, whilst we miss out on the human connection from the simple act of shaking hands, we do get to see into people’s sitting rooms, studies and bedrooms. We often talk more openly about our personal lives than we would do in the office, as the boundaries between work and home have become blurred. I’ve got to know many work colleagues better over Zoom or Microsoft Teams than face to face.

2. Working from home

For millions of office workers, working from home was always an option but in many companies was seen as a privilege to be used occasionally rather than a full equivalent to showing up in person.

Perceptions have now changed. For instance, the working mother, who works from home 50% of the time can now expect her career to progress just as quickly as her colleague who produces the same output but spends five days a week in the office.

3. Local community

Our local Café Rouge sadly closed down but many local businesses are flourishing. The nearby butcher, bakery, Italian deli and various restaurants have adapted their offerings and are thriving as a result. Those who have innovated and adapted have done well. For example, many of the local eateries now offer takeaway coffees during the day gourmet delivery menus in the evening.

Similarly, local community has had a boost. Several times we’ve benefitted from the WhatsApp group for our street. Originally set up for the pandemic, it had the side effect of bringing local residents together for anything from helping with damp problems to sourcing pumpkins for Halloween.

4. Environmental benefits

From reduced carbon footprint to clear water in the canals of Venice, this is an obvious one… the challenge now is how we sustain it.

5. A sharpened perspective 

Not long before the pandemic hit, I overheard in a restaurant two men talking about the pros and cons of various airlines’ business class offerings. One said: “The problem with the new BA transatlantic business class is the holder for the mineral water bottle. It’s in the wrong place so that when you’re on the flat bed and need a drink it’s awkward to reach.” This may well be true, but, really? WTF? In the context of no longer being able to fly anywhere at all, this sort of observation seems even more absurd than it already was.

As another anecdote, shortly before the second lockdown we went to listen to a concert by the Brodsky Quartet, some would say the best string quartet in the country. It was a one-off performance of pieces by Beethoven. The leader of the group gave a heartfelt speech of how much it meant to them to playing that evening. Particularly poignant was listening to “Cavatina” from String Quartet No. 13 in B flat (opus 130). This is the final recording on the golden record of the music and sounds of Earth, on board the Voyager 1 spacecraft, currently the furthest manmade object from our planet. So this short piece of music which we had the pleasure of listening to live prior to the lockdown also represents humanity far beyond the edge of our solar system.

The point is that often it is only when things are taken away that you really appreciate them.

But when things are taken away, as with Parkinson’s, it’s also important to focus not on what you no longer have, but on what you still have and still can do.

And perhaps that is the most important thing to take forward from 2020.

Waiting for Godot

Sunday 22 November 2020

In Samuel Beckett’s seminal play, Waiting for Godot, the two main characters (Vladimir and Estragon) engage in a seemingly endless and somewhat hypnotic dialogue about the impending arrival of the mysterious Godot. After two absorbing hours, Godot never shows up and his identity is never revealed, leading to much speculation about who he really is. Over the years there have been many interpretations of this strange play, from political to religious to Freudian. Beckett himself never revealed its intended meaning, perhaps because it was deliberately written to be ambiguous.

During this month of November, I’ve been feeling a bit like I’m waiting for Godot.

First there’s the pandemic and the latest lockdown. Despite the optimism of the vaccine announcement recently, we don’t yet know how this is all going to end. We are all waiting for something to happen that will bring the whole episode to a conclusion, but we don’t quite know what. And we talk about it incessantly in the meantime.

Then there’s my work. In recent weeks this has become even more of a struggle than previously: every day it’s is an exhausting challenge to make it through to 6pm which is when I typically down tools and get on the exercise bike. So I’m looking for a way out.

I have a master plan to get involved in charity or research work related to Parkinson’s or Alzheimer’s, and have spoken to a number of organisations. I’ve also applied for three jobs for various charities, but so far, have not even got as much as an interview. The plan B is to stick with my current employer, but I feel it is a matter of months rather than years that I can keep doing my current role. Again, I feel like I’m desperately searching for something but I don’t know what it is.

And finally there’s Parkinson’s Disease itself. I had my six-monthly check-up this week. As expected, there was some tweaking of my dosage to keep up with the progression of the condition, which is a little worse now than last time. I now shake quite a lot when not medicated.

I asked again about my genetic analysis, but there was no news. There is almost certainly a misspelling somewhere in the 3 billion letters of my DNA. But it’s very hard to find a needle in a haystack when you don’t know what a needle looks like. Again, it’s a case of searching for something without knowing what you’re looking for. To some extent this applies to a lot of research into neurodegenerative conditions. For millions of people across the world, like the dialogue in Waiting for Godot, the story goes on, but salvation never comes.

So, November has an air of gloom about it. Perhaps December will bring fresh hope. That said, October was a fun month, finished off by a great Halloween. Rosa and I went to town (literally, to a costume shop) and we dressed up as a plague doctor and the grim reaper respectively. A wicked twist on Covid-19 that only a few trick or treaters twigged. We decorated the front of the house with fake cobwebs, spiders, blood stains on the windows, and, to add the icing on the cake, hung a life size skeleton down from the front bedroom window on a length of rope. With a suitably evil pumpkin and bottle of hand sanitiser by the front door we lured in around 40 terrified children.

Luckily, they all went away with sweets and chocolates.

Speaking of luck, there is a character called Lucky in Waiting for Godot who has a trembling voice.

Interestingly, according to Wikipedia:

Jean Martin, who originated the role of Lucky in Paris in 1953, spoke to a doctor named Marthe Gautier, who was working at the Pitié-Salpêtrière Hospital. Martin asked if she knew of a physiological reason that would explain Lucky’s voice as it was written in the text. Gautier suggested Parkinson's disease, which, she said, "begins with a trembling, which gets more and more noticeable, until later the patient can no longer speak without the voice shaking". Martin began incorporating this idea into his rehearsals. Beckett and the director may not have been completely convinced, but they expressed no objections. When Martin mentioned to the playwright that he was "playing Lucky as if he were suffering from Parkinson’s”, Beckett responded by saying " Yes, of course", and mentioning that his own mother had Parkinson’s.

When Beckett was asked why Lucky was so named, he replied, "I suppose he is lucky to have no more expectations..."

A long day

Saturday 8 August 2020

See also previous posts The call and The in-laws.

Clara’s Dad died around 2:30 this morning.

Clara was on her way to the hospital to take over the overnight vigil from her brother when her father took his last breath. In a way she was relieved not to be there when it actually happened. She had already spent much of the previous 48 hours with him, witnessing his final lucid moments, and listening to his shallow breathing as he peacefully slipped away.

His death certificate will probably say something like pneumonia (ironic on the hottest day of the year), but the truth is he simply died of old age. He was 94 and it was his time to go. He’d had a good innings as they say. And, mostly thanks to Clara, his last three years living across the road, had been comfortable ones. Clara had visited him nearly every day in that period, and I had periodically taken him for drives round the local area.

When my mother-in-law died two years previously it was sudden, and I felt a surge of emotion at the time. This time, the best word to describe how I feel is probably “content”. I’m happy that this decent, mild-mannered, erudite gentleman of the previous generation passed away gently and mostly painlessly, more or less at a time of his choosing. His children had strived to give him the best possible last few years, and were with him at the end. A fitting end to a worthy life as a college administrator and lecturer in English, but also a husband, father and loyal friend.

There’s not much you can say to your wife when their remaining parent has just died. Throughout the day, I tried to be there if she needed anything, but I also tried to give her space. I avoided talking too much, lest I put my foot in it by saying something unintentionally insensitive.

By 6pm, I suggested we go out for dinner to a local pizza restaurant. Conversation inevitably turned to funerals (how does that work with Covid-19?) and the flurry of other activity that will take over the coming weeks and months, including the grim business of sorting through the deceased’s possessions. Clara is, of course, also starting the process of grieving.

By the time we got home, we were both exhausted. It had certainly been a long day. A sad day, yes, but also a day to reflect on a life well lived, and a family baton handed over smoothly to the next generation.