For as long as I can remember, I’ve been fascinated by plagues. Yes, plagues. Any plague, really. Bubonic, Septicemic, Pneumonic. Black Death, Yellow Fever. Throw in there added curiosity about random pathogens or viral hemorrhagic fevers and they're like cherries on top. Camus, Cantor, Defoe, Follett, all resident authors in my bedroom bookshelf.
Of all the variations of illness and demise-by-plague, Yersinia pestis, however, wins the Molly Oscar every time.
My family makes fun of me. Granted, an attraction to plagues and horrific pathogens is a weird fascination, especially for one who is not particularly astute when it comes to science and who struggled in biology class. But while I marvel at the power of a virus and the energy of bacteria, it is not the orchestra of havoc that these infective agents conduct within the human body that intrigues me. The bewitching part is the indomitably of the human spirit.
Sit back and look at the Black Death. Estimated to have killed upwards of 60% of Europe’s population, the plague reduced the world’s population by almost 100 million people in the 14th century. Any student of Petrarch must be moved by the level of pain seeping through his love poems to his beloved Laura. Having succumbed in Avignon, Laura’s plague-ridden cadaver was just one of millions tossed into hurriedly-created death ditches. To read about the devastation is to double over in horror.
Many buried their children with their own hands. Di Tura, an Italian chronicler, recounted, "It seemed that almost everyone became stupefied seeing the pain. It is impossible for the human tongue to recount the awful truth. Indeed, one who did not see such horribleness can be called blessed. The victims died almost immediately. They would swell beneath the armpits and in the groin, and fall over while talking. Father abandoned child, wife husband, one brother another; for this illness seemed to strike through breath and sight... And they died by the hundreds, both day and night, and all were thrown in those ditches and covered with earth. And as soon as those ditches were filled, more were dug. I, Agnolo di Tura believed it was the end of the world."
Who wouldn’t think it was the end of the world? And yet… it wasn’t.
Despite the unimaginable, despite seeming that the apocalypse was heir apparent, the human race survived. Contaminated droplets from a simple cough rendered an entire continent helpless. Fleas, rats, ships- all crafty couriers of death- infested the world with darkness. And yet, we survived.
Fascinating.
Physical survival is one thing, but the individual and collective resilience of the human spirit is spellbinding. Somehow, these people of the Middle Ages picked themselves up and moved forward. I posit that they were able to do it because they sought solace and motivation in one another. Collective unity. Together, they had witnessed the vicious wrath of hell that annihilated all that they held dear. The Plague stole their loves, their neighbors, their stability. It perjured their truths and decimated their beliefs. It blackened not only bodies but economies, villages, cities, governments.
Instead of turning inward, they aligned their centers and humbled themselves before the lowest common denominator: death. They moved forward together, unified by both fear and hope.
Fast forward.
It’s 2019. By comparison, the loud voices ringing through the television screen, podcasts, “news”, social media feeds seem a bit, well, whiny. It’s not just politics. It’s everything. Opinions and judgments pour out from everywhere. The pedestrians on the sidewalk, the cashier, the babysitter. The neighbor, the plumber, the boss. From you, from me, from them, from us.
When did we permit ourselves to curdle into such separatists? At what point did we lift the lid to our national garbage can and toss gratitude inside? When did we close the drapes on the immense light streaming into our lives daily?
Shall we call in a plague to intervene? Should we message the Grim Reaper and schedule a reminder?
This thing we call life, we’re all in it together. We might be born into and depart from this world one at a time but we’re bound together by space, time, and dimension. Can no one see the magnitude of possibility that lies in our togetherness?
Follow along on some quick journeys.
Laura
Last week, I buckled myself into my friend Laura's Jeep Cherokee. During a 45 minute car ride, we shared stories about our families. I inquired about her parents and listened as she shared fun anecdotes about her elderly mother. When I asked about her father, she replied very matter of factly that he had died when she was 17. “He committed suicide. Put a gun in his mouth and pulled the trigger while my 15 year old brother was out buying a pack of gum. He came back to the house and found our dad.”
We slowed at the stop sign… and turned right.
Mary
Mary grew up in a middle class family in the 80s. She was taught by her parents, school, media from an early age that she could become whatever she wanted to become. She could be mother, doctor, advocate, volunteer. There were no instructions, however. Only feminist static. She married, pursued a graduate degree, became pregnant, and sat alone 12 months later with a cup of tea and a gallon of tears. No one ever said it was undoable. She lives now with “failureitis”- a chronic and constant state of feeling inadequate as a mother, as a professional, as everything. She is numb with nothingness.
Sam
Born Samuel, Sam feels like a Samantha. Sam doesn’t want attention, to stand out. Sam doesn’t want to be a poster child for a new age. So Sam sits in the bathroom stall and comforts himself/herself by rocking- alone.
Ruben
Athletic, handsome, charismatic, Ruben entered high school with flair. But October walloped him with the dreaded diagnosis: Cancer. Dreams of playing high school football were blurred by chemotherapy treatments. While his friends took selfies of their different hairstyles, Ruben’s bathroom floor collected his untethered hair.
Nancy
Nancy was always slim. Even after her three pregnancies and the divorce, her body maintained a slender shape. But then her thyroid betrayed her and 55 pounds later, her bedroom wastebasket is filled with tear-stained tissues. She hears the whispers of friends, acquaintances, neighbors but lifts her chin anyway as she heads out to her double shift.
Paul
Paul died of pancreatic cancer yesterday. Young, handsome, conqueror of odds. Cancer whittled its way in anyway and nibbled on hope, not just Paul’s but all who loved him. Bastard of all mutations, Cancer picked up its scythe and slithered on to its next victim.
Betsy
Betsy licked the envelope closed and looked around for a stamp. This final payment to the funeral home for her husband’s burial completes her installments. As she peeks under the pile of bills, she hears an odd sound. Thinking that her only son was still asleep, she ran up to his bedroom and opened his door. She saw the outline of his shadow swinging before the truth registered and she collapsed.
Richard
Richard looked down at his phone as it signaled the third call that day from the debt collector. His chest churned with stress as he ignored an angry text from his wife. He knew that she blamed him for their situation. He had tried to keep up, tried to be a good provider. No one had taught him how to manage finances or how to clot the hemorrhaging of money that came with a young family of five. He slammed his fist against his desk, grabbed the car keys and left the office. Thank God “Happy Hour” started early on Thursdays.
Every one of these stories is someone’s story. They’re not fiction.
Oh, friends. Do you not see? Loneliness, isolation, judgments. Self-doubt, self-righteousness, self-aggrandizement. Blame, endless criticisms, lack of empathy. These are our modern day pestilences. These are our scourges. We’re eating away at ourselves from the inside out.
When can we quiet our quibbles? Let us stop the bickering, the judging. Our society has adopted a ready defensive stance. But if there is no aggression, there is no need to defend.
Calm the storms, walk away from wrath, let go of hate.
Do we want to be or not to be? Hamlet posed the question first but it is still a good one to ask time and again.
And be all our sins remember’d.
Slap.
Nasty flea...