Facing a crisis like COVID-19, we can choose to be miserable or strong





I’ve been complaining a lot lately. It’s as if I can’t stop whining about every little matter, grousing and grumbling with the best of them.

It’s too hot outside. It’s too chilly inside in the air conditioning.

It’s too rainy, too cloudy, too sunny.

The weeds are growing too fast. The lawn is turning yellow in patches.

I’m tired of staying home. I’m not comfortable going out to public settings.

There’s nothing good on TV. There are too many options for streaming.

I can’t focus on reading. I’ve got too much time to read.

I’m aware of this useless carping. In fact, at times it feels like an out-of-body experience. In my mind’s eyes I see myself floating a few feet in the air, wondering what in the world has gotten into me. What a cry-baby! I cringe in embarrassment. And still — still! —I focus on the many inevitable quibbles of life.

As the year moves relentlessly forward, as I cancel this trip and that family visit, as I come to grips with the fact that COVID-19 is not going to disappear anytime soon, (not even with a vaccine miracle), I seem to be working hard on my post-doctoral fellowship in Wallow Science. Everything that’s not what I want has turned into a big, insufferable bother.

But the true test to my irritability came last week with the drumbeat of news about Hurricane Isaias, as it gathered strength traveling the Caribbean. I took it as a personal affront. An insult. A conspiracy. Apparently, it wasn’t enough for us to be the epicenter of the epicenter of the COVID-19 pandemic in Miami. Nope, not enough. Now we had a storm ready to peel off our roofs and drown our landscape.

Every potted plant moved, every patio item secured required a fresh chorus of moaning. Truth: I wasted a lot of energy complaining about an event I couldn’t control, a natural (and not unexpected) weather occurrence that I’ve lived with all my life. This, after all, is the risk we accept when we choose to live close to the ocean.

Never mind that The Hubby did all the work to protect our house. Never mind that Isaias, downgraded to a tropical storm, simply skirted my ribbon of Florida coast. Never mind that I had plenty of bottled water, food cans in the pantry, and a generator ready for loss of power. I thought it my dang duty to bellyache.

But sometimes something happens to remind me how good I have it. Sometimes logic manages to skewer me back to reality. Not a minute too soon, either.

In the span of 48 hours, I listened to an interview of an avid skier who had survived the coronavirus after his lungs collapsed four times, his kidneys failed, his body became septic, and most of his fingers were amputated. He was happy to be alive, practically gushing with gratitude.

I also watched on the news as the hurricane lashed the Bahamas. Not again, I thought. Just last year parts of the island nation were devastated by Hurricane Dorian.

Then, as if to drive the message home, a dear friend, masked and physically distanced, delivered a little brown bag to my doorstep. Among the goodies in it was a collection of very appropriate inspirational sayings. The one quote that stuck with me, the one that smacked me between the eyes, was from the late author and mystic Carlos Castaneda.

“We either make ourselves miserable or we make ourselves strong. The amount of work is the same.”

Huh. That delivery of wisdom can’t be coincidence, can it?

So, here’s a promise to myself: Time to make myself stronger. I’m not waiting for the right time, the right place, the right pandemic. I’m ready for the emotional free weights and psychological kettle bells now.

(Ana Veciana-Suarez writes about family and social issues. Email her at avecianasuarez@gmail.com or visit her website anavecianasuarez.com. Follow @AnaVeciana.)