The current coronavirus pandemic, as a respiratory illness, has caused me to reflect on some of my childhood experiences with sickness. For whatever reason, as a young boy I was very susceptible to chest infections in the winter that were almost always accompanied by a persistent, lung-wracking, hernia-inducing cough. One year, when I was nine or ten, I even contracted whooping cough (pertussis), which resulted in me missing something like 45 days of school in the winter.
As I reflect back on those years, the prevailing impression is that of my mother coming to me in the night when I was in distress because of a coughing fit, comforting me with her presence and offering one remedy or another—cough syrup, Vicks VapoRub, or my favourite, a tablespoon of melted butter. In extreme cases (although never at night because of the prep time involved), she would apply a mustard plaster to my chest. (Yes, mustard plasters really are a thing; you can find instructions on the Web on how to make a mustard plaster. It also shows up on a list of top 10 useless remedies for the common cold.) Whether the remedies were effective or not is a valid question, but what made a difference (and dominates my memories of those long, dark nights) was my mother’s presence with me—her touch, her reassuring words, her responsiveness to my needs. By her actions, she said “You are not alone.” She brought comfort, even if she couldn’t quell the cough.
Even though we are wired as humans to respond to touch, we are presently called to love our neighbours by keeping our distance from them.
In contrast with my experience as a child, those most severely affected by this coronavirus are suffering alone. Daily, through the media, we are exposed to the anguish of family members concerned about their loved ones dying alone. Often it has been left to hospital staff to stand vigil by patients’ bedsides during their last moments. Even those of us who have remained healthy are required now to abstain from touch and close proximity by “physical distancing” requirements. Mental health experts are warning that “losing everyday social connections comes with psychological costs. And those costs could go up the longer such measures drag on.” Even though we are wired as humans to respond to touch, we are presently called to love our neighbours by keeping our distance from them.
How then, do we experience comfort in these dangerous times when we cannot hug our grandkids, can’t meet our friends for coffee or beer, can’t exchange fistbumps with our running buddies, can’t shake hands with our neighbours? There are two strategies we can employ, both of which are being widely practised locally and globally as the human spirit prevails over the coronavirus (even as the death toll rises): Self-comfort and comfort at (two) arms’ lengths.
First, self comfort: One of my favourite verses from the Book of Psalms is Psalm 131:2: “I have calmed and quieted my soul, like a weaned child with its mother.” This is self-comfort (or what therapists call self-soothing): developing and deploying the capacity to calm and quiet our inner being when our physical or psychological context is disturbing. Self-comfort enables us to live in the middle ground between being detached or numb (with or without the help of psychotropic agents!) and being in a state of emotional crisis or upheaval. Some researchers have found it helpful to categorize patterns of self-comfort under two themes: ingressing and transcendence:
- Ingressing (what Maslow called “healthy regression”, a “temporary turning away from the real world”) allows us to take time for ourselves, focus on our human needs, and find moments of happiness and fulfillment in distracting activities. And so we find comfort in listening to music, going for a run, watching Netflix, cleaning out a closet, or baking chocolate chip cookies.
- On the other hand, through transcendence we attempt to see our suffering or distress from a new perspective; the fragility of life becomes a shared reality instead of a personal threat. In the terms of Ignatian spirituality, we find ways to transform feelings of desolation into feelings of consolation. And so we journal, compile gratitude lists, participate in spiritual activities, go on long walks, or sit by the river and meditate.
One narrative of the COVID-19 pandemic is the propensity and capacity of humans to find ways to comfort and encourage each other when we face a common foe.
And then there’s comfort at (two) arms’ length: As much as we are equipped to give and receive emotional signals through touch alone, we are fortunate to have other senses which can also evoke feelings of comfort and reassurance. When Jesus’ disciples were distressed at the prospect of his crucifixion, he spoke to them, saying “Be of good comfort”: “It’s all going to work out in the end.” Yo-Yo Ma has launched a social media campaign called #SongsOfComfort, encouraging people to create and share their own art from home during this time, using the #SongsOfComfort hashtag. Many cities now feature an nightly 7 p.m. cheer to show support of first responders and healthcare workers. In London, Ontario, Rick Wood comes out of his home at precisely 5:30 p.m. every evening and begins to play the bagpipes. He says, “While we might be isolated, we’re not alone so I’ll share this little gift and bring a smile.”
Along with the lament for the thousands of lives lost and the recognition of the sacrifices so many are making for our health and well-being, the narrative of the COVID-19 pandemic to date is a story of the propensity and capacity of humans to find ways to comfort and encourage each other when we face a common foe. Verbally, artistically, musically, creatively and symbolically we are reaching out to our neighbours to let them know (as my mother did in the night when I was suffering), “You are not alone. We are in this together. Collectively we will overcome.”
I hope that when this is over and things have returned to normal, that our “new normal” is one where we live together on this earth much differently than we do today. A V-shaped economic recovery would be welcomed but a V-shaped social recovery (where we quickly revert back to our pre-COVID-19 way of living together) a tragedy. May it be that a year from now as a society we’re more attentive to the needs of those around us, more committed to our own self-care, more conscious of our tenuous place on this planet, and more willing to ask the deepest questions about the meaning of life.
Banner photo by nz_willowherb. Text © 2020 Edwin Wilson.
