Kurt R.A. Giambastiani

Ordinarily, I try to avoid confrontation. Last week’s post, therefore, was out of the ordinary, and indeed, it did give rise to a few confrontations. Most were from expected quarters, but there were a few surprises. The conversations it engendered, though generally civil, were at times tense, and they definitely raised my anxiety level to DEFCON 3.

That, however, wasn’t what upset me the most. No, what had me flirting with DEFCON 2 was something entirely unexpected.

We were invited to a barbecue.

We’re doing okay, COVID-wise, here in Washington State. Though August has seen an uptick in the death rate (~10/day), that’s only a third of where we were in April. Hospitalizations are following a similar curve. We’ve had a few outbreaks, but they’ve been fairly localized.

Our state’s “safer at home” policy, together with the cooperation of businesses that have adapted to work-from-home for their employees, has allowed a many of us to maintain stricter physical distancing practices. The statewide mask mandate and the rate at which Washingtonians are complying—currently at around 60%; not great, but much better than it was—has kept our transmission rates at manageable levels.

Even so, my wife and I have reasons for maintaining tight borders for our “viral bubble.” We’re both in our sixties, and we both have one or two additional markers that add to our risk for a serious case, should we contract COVID-19. We also have a neighbor who is immuno-compromised by chronic illness and for whom we want to be available should they need assistance. To strengthen our bubble, I work from home (my wife is retired). We mask up whenever we run errands. We pretty much only go out for food and meds.

Naturally, we’ve felt the lack of social interaction. Gone are the dinners out with friends, board-game nights with the neighbors, as well as concerts and trips to the museum. Facebook—for months our main venue for socializing—has become a minefield filled with prognostications of doom, fact-free cage-fights, and regular gushings from the fire-hose of misery, foreign and domestic. As a result, we’ve been limiting our time there, to fight the depression that so often follows, but this only further diminishes our social activity.

So, when our adoptive family floated the idea of a Labor Day barbecue—essentially a merging of our viral bubbles—we considered it readily, though not without some trepidation. A while ago, the family’s main households (Mom’s and those of her two sons) merged their bubbles. As a group, they keep their expanded bubble tight as well, working from home, limiting exposure to those outside the bubble, and employing masks and distancing strategies. There are extra vectors there, like grandkids and such, but again, mitigation strategies are employed.

Taking this into account, the risk to my wife and me would be minimal. Not zero, not as low as in our current situation, but still minimal. We realized that our hesitation was definitely a matter of being overly cautious. We’ve been isolated since March, and the habits of quarantine have become the norm.

One night during our deliberation, though, I woke up at 2AM, with the other side of the equation burning in my brain. Yes, the risk to us would be minimal, but what of the risk to them? What about the risk to Mom? To our neighbor?

As I said, we’ve been isolated for a long time, but we do go out for necessities and for the occasional take-out. We’ve had plumbers here in the house. We sign for deliveries. We’ve been in contact with people who have been in contact with a lot of people. And though neither of us feels ill, we know that at any point we could be asymptomatic. What if we bring the virus to the family? We haven’t been tested, and since we have no symptoms nor have any known exposure, testing for us is simply not recommended.

That tipped the scales for us, because essentially we were contemplating risking the health of people we love, in order to get a hug and partake of Todd‘s unsurpassed grill-wizardry. In the end, Todd’s well-smoked brisket may be to die for, but I wouldn’t kill for it. (Sorry, Todd; I have my limits.)

And so, we declined the offer.

While I’m comfortable with this decision, it does make me wonder about the future. What will the world have to look like for me to be comfortable with accepting such an offer? Under what conditions will I feel the risks to all involved are acceptable? What sort of therapeutics, preventives, vaccines must be both in place and in practice before normalcy, at any level, may be achieved?

I don’t have answers to these questions, but now that I’ve asked them of myself, I need to think about it. Things are changing so fast and we’re learning so much every week about this thing, it’s impossible to predict what’s ahead, but keeping an eye toward the future (curse of the over-thinker’s brain) is (this time) probably not a bad idea.

For the nonce, though, we’ll keep our bubble intact. Visiting with physically distanced friends, be it via Zoom or out back in chairs on either side of the firepit, will have to suffice. Most likely, it will only be for another six or eight months, but regardless, I want there to be months and years beyond that, for all of us.

k