Arthur
“As a little boy, I was born fearful and rebellious. Those two things are still true today. I’ve spent my life trying to be less fearful, but I have not ended being rebellious. Father Rohr – a Franciscan who lives in Albuquerque – said to me once, ‘People come in three shapes. The first shape is accepting; the middle is fighting; and the last shape is understanding. You look like you’re understanding, Arthur.’ I said, ‘Richard, nah, not really. I think I’ve got maybe one foot in that last area. Most of me is still rebelling in that second area.’ And, I think that is still true. I was very combative against the virus.”
Sometime during the middle of the pandemic, people began noticing a type of collective human pause – a shared break during which life was forced to slow itself down and create a sense of calm amid an otherwise chaotic COVID storm. For many, this break was a welcome reprieve; it was a moment to come back to one’s self and reflect on life and purpose. Families began to share meals together again. Old friends reconnected. With very few places to go, people were left only with themselves and so, they turned inward.
For seniors, however – especially those individuals living alone – this isolation was not met with the luxury of time. In the quiet of their homes, isolation often turned into a crippling loneliness that presented them with a stark choice: live life as normally and socially as one could, but risk illness or death, or stay safely inside while time ticked slowly by.
Staring down both the threat of an unknown virus and the inevitability of old age, Arthur, a retired journalist originally from Coney Island who has lived in Albuquerque for over 40 years, shared his experience of life during COVID-19. His is a tale of living, isolation, questioning, spirituality, and the search for individual meaning and higher purpose that transcends all ages.
This is his story in his own words.
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I had no foresight into what was going to happen with this bug. I’d like to say I anticipated it, but that would be a lie. What I did realize, fairly early on, was that older people were very much at risk and I am older. Now, my attitude toward being older is not good. I recognize that attitude is an important part of how you get through life. There are older people with much better attitudes than I have. I hate it with a passion – and while that is maybe not the worst attitude, it’s not good.
A few years ago, I saw I was getting older. I was very happy in my little house, and I thought, “If I lose my mind, nobody will know it.” I knew I had better get into a social environment, so I sold my house and moved to a very nice, senior living community. It was lovely – people were very nice; the staff was nice. But I hated it with a passion because everybody was so nice, it was dull. Everybody had walkers or was blind and had somebody leading them around. It was like a lake – a quiet lake in which there were no waves or boats or action. It was just a place to sleep for me.
One day, I explained this to the new pastor who worked there. I said, “I hate this.” And he said, “So why don’t you leave?” The next day, I went downstairs and I said, “There may be a time when I need this place, but not now. May I leave?” They said, “Sure, that happens.”
I moved to where I now live. It’s a tall building Downtown and I have a view to the west, which is wonderful. I have great sunsets, and in the morning, I open the curtains and I check to make sure that the volcanos are quiet. If not, I need to call a lot of people and warn them about it. Also, there are days when you look, and you can see out beyond the volcanos.
COVID-19 found me in a place where I was surviving by traveling a bit and by doing a lot of theatre. Albuquerque is a hotbed of amateur theatre. We have 35 or 40 community theatre groups, and I’ve been doing acting since about 2002. That went away when the bug arrived, so all of a sudden, I was without this basic recreation. Doing theatre is fun because you have an intellectual challenge – which is learning the role. You have a social situation – you’re with people, some of whom you don’t know and you get to know. You have a practical challenge of getting to a rehearsal several nights a week and following the director’s guidance. Then you get a kick when the audience applauds. And, all of that went away.
There I was with no theatre, and really not a lot of social life because COVID rules were to stay home. Well, I didn’t stay home. It occurred to me that being out would probably be safer than being in – it certainly was more interesting. So, whenever possible, I ate out. I shopped. I drove around; I got me a new car – which is an old car, but it’s a sporty convertible that gives me the illusion of being a dangerous young man. I read a lot. And, I was basically lonely. There was no getting around that. I thought a lot. I thought a lot about my past life as a journalist – as a single person because I’ve never married. I thought about the romances that didn’t work out, and of course, I got miserable thinking about all of this.
I have spent my life being busy, and now, all of a sudden, I wasn’t busy. That was difficult. I often wondered if I was not depressed in a clinical sense. I had been as a kid, and maybe I was returning to this. I don’t know. I certainly was depressed in some sense of the word – and remain so. I have just had a couple of bad days recently – and they were bad because I was alone. I was lifted up by the Sunday New York Times, which I get physically, but while that lifts you up from the depths, it does not send you soaring; it just keeps you from sinking.
I varied my days as much as possible during the past year. I recognized that I was lonely; I communicated with as many people as I could on email. I went to lunch as often as I could outside. I did a lot of reading. You just try to vary every day between reading, getting out, seeing people, eating and yes, I must admit it, I’ve been going to sleep earlier.
I hate that – because at my time in life, going to sleep earlier means living less, in the limited time remaining. I mean, there are women out there; there are books – there are things to do, and instead of doing them, I’m sleeping. Bad. But, it has become a habit and sometimes it permits me to sleep later the next morning. COVID has been a lesson in defeat. In all, I haven’t succeeded. It has been more than a year of basically loneliness and a sense of being cheated, and there’s no pretending otherwise. I’ve just done the best I can.
I find in my old age that I am trying to become perfect before I knock off. So, I am reading more nonfiction than fiction – books about either politics or religion or non-religion. Books about meaning; books about how life gets meaning, if it does. One of the books I read during COVID was called, “The Little Book of Atheist Spirituality,” by a French philosopher – brilliantly translated. Lovely book in which the author says to religious people, “I have no objection to your believing in God. I wish you would understand that I know there’s a lot I don’t understand, but I feel a strong spiritual urge even if I don’t quite understand the idea of an omniscience being.” This was a very encouraging book for me to read. It basically reinforced, for me, where I’m going.
I started as a nice Jewish boy in Brooklyn. Right around 13 – bad timing – I decided there was no God. I have been wandering further from a belief in God throughout my life, but I have retained a connection to Judaism, partly because the ethical elements were encouraging and positive. Partly because I’m ultimately, completely, 101% Jewish – except for a belief in God.
My whole movement since has been towards a spiritual space. I remember when I came to New Mexico for the first time. I flew out to take a job here, and I saw the mountains and tall guys with cowboy hats and boots. I felt something that I didn’t understand, which I labeled, “spiritual.” I have reached a place where I don’t need to fight anymore. I understand that there is much that I will never understand. I call that the “spiritual reality.” I understand that the ethical teachings I learned as a kid fit. I understand that humans are not yet sufficiently evolved to live properly.
You know, my father used to say, “Be kind. You never know what secret pain somebody is carrying.” I did a play here three or four years ago that Phil Bock wrote. Phil was a distinguished anthropologist from UNM. He was a great theatre guy, too. One of the plays he wrote was poking fun at Tennessee Williams. It was a compilation of Tennessee Williams plays – the purpose of which was to say, “Be kind.” In it, I played an old poet who was borrowed from a Williams play. The character was trying to finish this poem he’s writing, and when he finally does, he sings a little song and wanders off stage and dies. The more I think about that, I think it’s perfectly done. Finish your poem – even if it’s not a poem – but it’s about being kind to people. Then wander off stage and knock-off.
I’ve been thinking about death since I was little kid. In a way, it’s good because thinking about death makes your life mean something. And, yes, I think this last year and a half, I’ve thought more about death. I’m very much against it right now. There may well be a time when I want it to come quickly. My little time in the senior living community was useful because I looked around at people waiting for death. I thought, “I don’t want to sit around waiting for death. I want to do things.” Doing things has been my way of living – I’ve always been amazingly busy. COVID knocked that for a loop. I am now excited because I’m going to be amazingly busy again.
I’ve never been married; I’d like to be married before I die. Plus, the theatre and writing again – whatever else happens – I want to get busy again. When that is not possible, then I want to go. I don’t really see any point in hanging around then. I want to live, live, live. There’s a popular song, “I want to live ‘till I die.” I sing badly, but often. The song says it all. I want to live ‘till I die.
