April 3

The P.A. at Medstop on day 7 of my illness confirmed bronchitis with an x-ray, and prescribed cough suppressant but not antibiotics.

Home alone on bed with computer deepens separation from people and the world around.  For two days I immersed myself in the web fighting boredom, surfing among youtubes, movies, news broadcasts– legitimate and bogus.  World events—wars, political mayhem, elections—all brief thrills and chills—and then movies.  Looking for quality on Britbox, started watching Brideshead Revisited, 1980’s version of 1940’s novel about disenchanted aristocrats, every minute dripping with homosexual romanticism that left me cold. Switched to Downton Abbey-like feature about Oscar Wilde whose lingering shots of pederastic tongue kissing and cornholing soon became unbearable, finally reverting to a James Bond action epic which required closing eyes for several torture scenes but was otherwise diverting. The only escape from this decadent escapism came from working on two writing projects dedicated to Jan in recognition of our anniversary and regret for spoiling it with illness

April 4

The anniversary has come and gone. I gave Jan the card I made and the apology poem, she made us a special halibut dinner and continues to urge me to rest and stay away from cooking and cleanup.

Restarting work at the creek, interrupted by two weeks of Spring Break was scheduled for yesterday afternoon.  Five people came, Viri, Katy, Taylor, Juan and Adriana.  My long planned intention to fell the ugly willow near the bench and turn it into a bridge worked smoothly with their enthusiastic teamwork.

Anne Marie messaged me that she would be out journaling in the morning and I managed to intercept.  She called the curve of the creek where we’ve been working “a riffle.” I came back at 4:00 and slept.  Jan made another great dinner and sent me back to bed, but I could only sleep sitting in the chair with feet up.  I plugged in airpods and put on the Apple Classical Beethoven Adagios collection, which suspended me between dream and waking all night.

April 5

I’d been planning to attend the “Hands Off” anti-Trump demonstration today, but acquiesced to Jan’s urging not to go in my condition.  Upon returning from it, she conveyed the seriousness of the situation that’s still sinking in. We are in the midst of a fascist coup that may be impossible to reverse or resist, and counters to it will be unprecedentedly painful. Everyone will face terrifying moral choices to fight or capitulate.

This political crisis overtops concern even for health.  Salud Carbahal, our heroic Congressional representative, spoke at the rally suffering from the worst cold he’s ever had.  What must it mean, flying in from Washington where the battle is hottest and shuttling among his activated constituents in need of his presence.

April 10

Fewer coughing fits last night, after struggling to teach two PBHS classes at the creek. A fit of afternoon energy drove ambitious meal preparation of eggplant parmesan.  Woke feeling fresh in the morning and went to beach with dog, wondering whether my illness has finally reached a turning point, the antibodies triumphing over the aliens. But there I felt waves of fatigue along with phlegmy cough, suddenly shifting to feeling really old. The same young woman in a swimsuit I’ve seen there several mornings alone sitting on a towel, writing in a journal and reading the bible, had her head bowed on two fists supported by her knees, I assumed in intense prayer.

April 15

Made appointment for this afternoon at Medstop for renewal of cough medicine and follow-up.  Bronchitis symptoms seemed to be subsiding enough for me to return to the bedroom three nights ago, but flared again, so I’m back in exile.  Able to function pretty well during the day and feel driven to exert and accomplish, but then I pay price.  So yesterday I spent the whole day in this chair reading Stalking Shakespeare, a book George lent me at the dinner he and Marta invited us to on Sunday.  It features Stanley Wells prominently along with the Shakespeare Birthplace Trust in a strange but  engaging memoir about the author’s quest for the true Shakespeare portrait, a goal pursued for centuries by scholars and sleuths.   Also prominent is author’s process through various stages of mental and physical illness and recovery. It made me wistful for the “Shakespearean Encryptions” project I’d abandoned, since I’ve heard nothing more about it since January from Shormi, the editor who invited me to contribute a book chapter.  The abstract I submitted began with discussions of two Shakespeare portraits, Droeshut and Chandos, in order to fit the projected collection’s rubric of “Shakespeare Image.”

Writing this entry was just interrupted by an email from Shormi asking if I was going to treat the stage version of Upstart Crow as well as the TV series, implying that the project was still alive.

At dinner George said he’s not depressed any more since he’s deep into writing a novel: a story about encounters between Melville and Whitman that never happened but could have. The mention of Whitman made both Jan and me pop up with reference to Gary Schmidgall, a friend  and Whitman scholar who also writes on Shakespeare.  George knew and admired a couple of his books.

Two thirds of the way through the book, I wrote to George to express my enthusiasm for the book, and, after determining I’d never sent him the abstract, forwarded that.  He got right back with a message including this:

It really does jibe with your new project. Write that article!

Those sentences agitated me with regret for abandoning the project and not submitting it elsewhere, followed by reflection on my reluctance to offer anything for publication that’s not requested—was it pride or the opposite?

April 26, 2025

At my second return, the P.A. at Medstop prescribed Prednisone to treat the bronchitis, and within two days it was gone. Since then the Creek project has fully taken over, leading up to hosting a lively Mark’s 75^th Birthday party there, which included recruiting relatives to do some some heavy construction.

Next day, the City Biologist and the Creeklands ED asked for photographs of it for an upcoming presentation. It took awhile to come up with the requested “before, during and after” pictures accumulated over ten years.   I was glad to include pictures of Anne Marie’s nature journal entries I had just turned into signage.

Dear Chief …

We asked to meet you to briefly discuss an encounter that I had with the SLOPD back in October 2019. I didn’t think it was serious enough to bring to your attention until events of the last few weeks started a national conversation about police policy and culture in general.

On the afternoon of October 13 Jan hosted a potluck dinner at our home at 265 Albert Drive for a group of people she’s been working with on San Luis Obispo’s time-honored youth exchange program with a school in Stuttgart Germany.  After the event, around 7:00 (?) p.m. I got into my Chevy Volt and headed for City Farm SLO at 1221 Calle Joaquin, where I am the Director, to carry out my regular duty of feeding the chickens and putting them away for the night.

I remember stopping at the corner of McCollum and Grand Avenue to turn right and then suddenly feeling the bottom of the car forcefully bumping on the rocks in the median on Grand.   I came to a stop, slowly pulled over to the right lane, got out, realized that the car was damaged but still driveable, and pulled ahead to Fredericks St., turned right and found a place to park, planning to walk the two blocks back home and have the car towed in the morning.  Not knowing what had caused the accident, but considering that it might possibly have resulted from my thinking about the chickens or from my having had a glass of wine in the course of the afternoon, I was somewhat disoriented and eager to get back home.

As I walked up Fredericks toward the corner of Albert Drive, three SLOPD cars pulled up around me and several officers got out.  They looked at my registration and insurance and took my driver’s license. I told them what happened and they escorted me up to Albert and partway up the steep hill to a driveway on the right. There they had me walk a straight line, stand on one foot and inspected my eyes with a flashlight. The tone was not hostile, but it was quite intimidating.  I said nothing except to answer the questions posed. When asked whether I wanted to take a breathalyzer test, I said no.  At that moment, the interrogating officer took me by the shoulders, turned me around and snapped handcuffs on my wrists behind my back.  Having some shoulder arthritis, I was uncomfortable but said nothing and then was ushered into the hard low back seat of one of the police cars, still more uncomfortable, and driven to the police station on Walnut Street.

Once inside I was told that I was required to take the breathalyzer test, which I did, and then was placed in the holding cell.  My phone was not taken from me, and from there I texted Jan and told her what was happening.

At first she thought I was pranking her, but when I sent a picture of the inside of the cell, she saw I was for real.

Before long, I was taken out of the cell and told by the officer that I had blown .02 and would be taken home.  She explained to the other officers that she had called the watch commander who asked if I was on heart medication, which I was, and who explained that it was this that accounted for results of her eye inspection.  She apologized for the inconvenience and I was then driven home.

Once I got there and discussed the situation with Jan, I realized what had happened. Between making the right turn and ending up on the median, I must have briefly blacked out.  Although this was of concern, I was relieved to understand.  Next morning I phoned the cardiologist, Dr. Sada, and told him of the event. He arranged for an appointment the same day.  After a quick examination and looking at the monitor records following a very slight stroke I’d had in August, he concluded that I’d had a “syncope” or heartbeat irregularity that caused the blackout.  He scheduled me for surgery the next day and installed a pacemaker, and I’ve had no problem since.

In retrospect I realized I was somewhat frightened during this encounter. My strongest impression, however, was if a 77 year old white man a couple of blocks from home was treated like this, what would it have been like for someone with a different profile.

However, since I never had any other negative experiences with SLOPD, was acquainted with and admired the Chief, and in fact several years ago had two amazing experiences with an officer helping us to deal with a serious family problem with our custodial grandson, I felt no need to pursue it further. But, in view of both local and national events lately, I thought bringing this to your attention could possibly reinforce the value of avoiding heavy-handed treatment of citizens whenever possible.

Sincerely,

After weeks of feeling grotesquely privileged by April days of growing gardens, walks on the beach, leisurely prepared meals, low anxiety about getting stuff done, luxurious entertainment by TV, music and books, against a backdrop of news offering suspense and amusement, last night and early this morning provided a brief dose of the darker reality.

A phone conversation with Peter, my  younger brother stand-in, detailed his excruciating post-operative condition after successful surgery removing slow-growing tumors from his kidneys.  He’s had four botched catheterizations and is now sending urine to a bag, since his urethra is blocked.  This makes for continuing pain that the painkillers cant control and required an emergency trip to a urologist in Courtney from which he’d just returned after several days in a Vancouver hospital.  Prognosis uncertain.

My last night brought repeated awakenings with more pain than usual in hands, shoulders, back and knees.  I applied Jan’s cream, took more Tylenol, tried cannabis oil, and went back to bed exhausted after morning bath.  There I  half-dreamt that these were early symptoms of infection with the virus and visualized being set up in our guest room, wondering which exposure–Costco to get the Mac and Cheese for the Homeless Shelter or not wearing  a mask when seeing Claire and Greg–had led to it.  It was only after a third cup of coffee and two more Tylenols that I returned to a semblance of the new normal–readiness to go to the farm to carry out today’s ambitious plans for harvest and planting with Shane and Tree and meeting with Josh and Shea to measure the layout for her planned outdoor farm school.

We follow the Idaho Mountain Express online to maintain indirect contact with Joe and his family who are sheltering at home in the middle of the highest per capita infection rate location in the country. The news there doesn’t tell us much about what’s really going on and neither do his reports but Jan came up with a long article in Buzzfeed, a national outlet, that gave us a fuller picture–both about the course of the spread and through a number of interviews with rich and poor victims, about the range of human impacts.  This quote stayed with me and dominated my morning quiet time in the bathtub and while meditating:

The infectious disease doc came in and said, “You have COVID, and I don’t think you’re going to survive, because you only have 61% of your lung capacity.” They asked him, “Do you still want to have this DNR [do-not-resuscitate order]?” He said yes. “Do you want to be put on a ventilator if needed?” He said yes.

Meanwhile, my dad was gradually improving. He said it was so hard to be alone, with the only people he came into contact with wearing full protective gear. He said it felt like they were scared of him. But he’s a tough cookie. He couldn’t get out of bed or go to the bathroom for nine days, but when they let him out, he took a shower, and came home — that was March 29 — and surprised everyone on the family Zoom call. It was my parents’ 51st anniversary. My mom was just totally taken aback and so happy.

https://www.buzzfeednews.com/article/annehelenpetersen/coronavirus-covid-19-idaho-blaine-county-sun-valley

My most persistent concern over the last several years has been the dual business of departure and legacy.  The “Better End” talk I wrote for the Sangha and the updating of our estate and advance directive documents last year addressed the first.  The effort I’ve put in to scanning photographs and retroactive updating of my blog with uncatalogued writings and documents address the second.  But both tasks are far from finished, the opposite of the kind of closure they intend. The ongoing Pandemic adds to my age and health status to make completing them more urgent, and the lockdown should provide the opportunity to get it higher on my list of priorities, but so far that urgency has issued only in procrastination pressure rather than action.

The questions, answers, and subsequent outcome of the old man in the Buzzfeed article captures my confusion about the  advance directive.  At the moment of actual decision he reaffirmed his DNR, but rather than abjuring any heroic artificial lifesaving efforts, as included in my directive, he asked for the ventilator, which then saved his life and brought happiness to his family. This goes against the news that I read lately indicating that those embattled ventilators have the desired effect only in a small  proportion of cases. When writing the directive, I didn’t envision Covid 19, but rather something like a stroke or heart attack after which any recovery would only prolong infirmity. But since then I’ve been diagnosed with coronary heart disease, suffered a (tiny) stroke and a syncope and agreed to the installation of a pacemaker.  And life is good. So if I become infected how will I answer those questions?

It took the initiative and planning by Jan and the enthusiasm of Claire, the two shikses in the family, to overcome my reluctance and that of Claire’s partner Gregg Loberstein, and make this wonderful celebration go forward. Also onscreen are Gregg’s son Michael and Claire’s son Lucas.

I’ve been taking heart from Leonard Bernstein’s Chichester Psalms: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zEBfay9FUgE