If the coronavirus has taught us anything, it’s the importance of planning.
Hopefully, we all have new understanding and appreciation for planning, for time and for how to connect our past, present and future. Stocking up. Supplies. 2-week quarantines. “15 Days to Slow the Spread” (announced on Monday, March 16th, and extended 14 days later until April 30th so “45 Days to Slow the Spread”). Incubation periods (up to 14 days, median 5 days). Median time to ICU admission (10 to 12 days). Recovery rates. Death rates. Projections. Approaching the apex. The top of the hill. The worst week yet. Our Pearl Harbor.
It’s important and good--though also very hard--to look ahead and try to figure out what’s next. It’s equally important and not bad--though difficult in its own way--to look back and figure out how we got here.
For me, my own experience with coronavirus has me looking back to what I’ve called “Steve’s Accidental Brain Surgery.” Here is the short (or shorter) version of that story. Four years ago this April, on the morning of my father’s memorial service, I drove to the senior facility where he’d lived. I was alone and early, planning a quiet and solitary time to set up a memorabilia table in the reception area outside the conference room/theater where the memorial would be held. Less than a mile from the facility, I stopped at a red light at an X-intersection on a rural road and was rear-ended by a distracted driver who was driving 55 MPH. My minivan was sent 30 yards, hurtling into an adjacent field. I survived because of my seat belt, called Sara to let her know about the accident so she and the kids wouldn’t freak out when they passed the accident on the same road, 30 minutes behind me. Our minivan totaled, I was checked out by a paramedic and hitched a ride to the memorial with the local fire chief. Working with my family, we set up the memorabilia table, I delivered a eulogy but got a really bad headache when the service was over and the shock had worn off. That night, Sara took me to the ER, they did a brain scan and found a small growth. Not caused by the accident. Might have had it my whole life--but I was not going home. Checked into the hospital, two different nurses on different floors told Sara sometimes a bad thing has to happen to get people to where they need to be. We waited all the next day to see a brain surgeon--he was busy doing, well, brain surgery--but then he told us the growth was a cyst--benign, small and probably there my whole life. Come back in 6 months, he told us, to make sure it did not grow or move.
Fast forward 6 months to December, I got another brain scan. I went back to the brain surgeon and he told me there was no problem with the cyst. No growth, no movement--but not so fast. The scans also showed I had a brain aneurysm. It was 6 mm big, just below 7mm which is the cutoff for immediate surgery. Leave the aneurysm alone and I would risk having it burst somewhere down the line with 40% odds of dying from a brain aneurysm that bursts.
It took 7 anxious weeks for me to have my brain surgery. First, an angiogram. I woke up in a room, looking up at a TV monitor and a video of a probe inside my head. The angiogram also found a second aneurysm. Sara and I planned and prepared, updated our willS and got a power of attorney, medical and otherwise just in case. We got ready and the surgery was on February 9, 2017. Before the surgery, my brain surgeon told me that I should plan on taking 12 weeks off from work before heading back to the office. He said he knew I might feel ready in 8 weeks, but, he told me, I would need the full 12 weeks to be really ready. (He was right. He knew.)
During that recovery at home, Sara was by my side every day for the first 5 weeks. I literally could not be left alone for two weeks for fear I’d have a seizure. But at 5 weeks in, she went back to work and I spent the next 7 weeks alone in the house during the work day. In many ways, that whole experience was a very bizarre way to get me ready for this stay-at-home phase of the coronavirus.
Three years ago, at almost the exact same date in March as when I started writing this coronavirus quiz, I decided to journal my experience and began writing my brain surgery quiz. I recounted every step along the way, going back through emails and texts to build a timeline of what Sara and I had been thinking and doing as the whole crisis unfolded. Writing that quiz was physical therapy for my brain, getting me back in shape for working on devices. It was also an almost spiritual journey as I tried to make sense of the whole thing.
Again, looking back, I am struck by the parallels to corona. Echoes of trouble in late December. Growing anxiety in January. Surgery in February. Anxiety and confusion in March. April trying to make sense of it all. Back then, I was able to go back to the office in May. With corona, who knows?
In trying to make sense of my brain surgery, more than a few people told me that it was all part of God’s plan. That if I had not been stopped at that red light, had not been hit by that distracted driver, had not had those brain scans, had not had the surgery, I might have died on the subway someday, the silent, ticking time bomb of my aneurysm having finally gone off. People told me I ought to thank the distracted driver. (I have not.)
My response is that if it was all part of God’s plan, at the very least He should be called out for poor planning. Wouldn't it have been more easy if the distracted driver had just pulled up alongside me on the morning of my father’s memorial, rolled down the window (it was a wonderful Spring day) and yelled to me, “You ought to have your head examined?” (And yet, if she had done just that, would I have listened?)
I finished up the story of my brain surgery with an epilogue after the final “What did not happen?” question. (Remember, this is the short version of the story.. “Steve’s Accidental Brain Surgery Quiz” is 82,223 words long with 102 “What did not happen?” questions.) In the epilogue, I concluded that it’s only in looking back that we can see how so many things in our lives are intricately connected, one to the other. To call my brain surgery “accidental” is to miss the fact that, looking back, there is a clear line connecting everything that did happen. I did not have a burst brain aneurysm because ALL these things DID happen:
A. My father’s worked as a safety officer and then risk manager;
B. My father died when on March 25, 2016 and we planned his memorial for April 16th, the same morning the distracted driver was out in her car;
C. I stopped at the red light. The light had turned yellow as I approached and I distinctly remember thinking that I should not speed up and try to get through. For once in my life, I thought, slow down and stop;
D. Sara bought that mini-van 16 years earlier based on its safety record and a so-called “steel cage” that saved my life;
E. Sara took me to the ER, I got brain scans and had brain surgery. It was no accident. Change one thing and it changes everything. A stop for coffee on the way to the memorial, getting to that intersection 10 seconds sooner or the other driver actually paying attention--they all mean no brain surgery.
And so it is with the coronavirus. My office is in New York City. In early March, I commuted every day, twice a day on crowded subways and trains. Coworkers tested positive. I’m 63. I’m lucky, very lucky. So far, I’m corona-free and alive--and who knows who (or what) may have saved me so far? A decision to get on one subway car instead of another? A skipped meeting with certain team members at work? One shared elevator ride or another? I don’t know. We can never know.
So, in writing this coronavirus quiz, I’m looking ahead and looking back, trying to find the connections that brought me--and us--to this time and place. And yet, even at this horrible time, I am also on the lookout for those magical moments of the unexpected connections between us. Are they "part of the plan”? I don’t know, but they never fail to amaze me. I love to make note of them--especially in times of crisis. They keep me going and give me hope even on these, the darkest days.
For example, since the start of the coronavirus pandemic, I’ve been reading Understandably, a fantastic daily email newsletter from Bill Murphy Junior of Inc. Murphy and I traded emails after I sent him a copy of my coronavirus quiz in which I had highlighted a story in his newsletter about his father’s memories about Murphy Junior’s insights the day before detailing the story of an astrophysicist who got powerful magnets stuck in his nose trying to come up with a solution to create a device which might help people keep their hands away from their faces. In our emails back and forth, I asked Murphy about the subscription service he uses for his newsletter. It’s called Subscript and he gave me some pointers. (I’m thinking of using it to send out this coronavirus quiz--you’ve been warned.)
On Monday, April 6th, Murphy’s newsletter, “Guy with a camera,” highlighted an incredible photo taken during the 2017 eclipse.
I loved it and sent Murphy’s newsletter (and the eclipse image) to my daughter Annie, a psychiatric social worker at a hospital in New York City. She told me she loved the image and it gave her hope so I ordered a reprint for her.
In the online order form, photographer Jon Carmichael says the picture is a reminder for people to keep “looking up.” “Look Up” was my advice and the title of my coronavirus quiz from the day before, Sunday, April 5th. I texted Annie to call out this seemingly coincidental connection.
In emails with Murphy about Carmichael’s image and Subscript, I sent him a link to a Golf Channel article from one of the country’s finest sportswriters, Joe Posnanski, “Story behind photo of Hogan's 1-iron shot at Merion.”
Like Murphy’s newsletter on the eclipse image, the Posnanski blog had focused on the incredible story behind an iconic image. This one, Ben Hogan’s key 1-iron shot during the fourth round of the U.S. Open on June 10, 1950. Murphy read the Posnanski article, emailed me that he loved it and I went to send him a link to another of my favorites from Posnanski, “Katy the Prefect.”
When I found this second Posnanski link, I realized that, like Murphy, Posnanski also used Subscript--something I had never noticed before. I highlighted this connection in my email to Murphy. His reply included a famous phrase among photojournalists which I had never heard before, “ f8 and be there.” Google it--it’s great, timeless advice dating back to the 1940’s on taking pictures. A reminder to be there in the moment and not get bogged down by the technical details of your camera settings--the technology of that era. It’s still true today. Be there.
“F8 and be there” is a phrase I might never have heard about if not for ALL of the following things that DID happen:
A. The coronavirus pandemic;
B. My coronavirus quiz;
C. Murphy’s newsletter, his answering my email and me sending him the Posnanski links;
D. Years earlier, I’d stumbled onto Posnaksi when I discovered his writings on Twitter during the Penn State sex scandal. During that Jerry Sandusky scandal, Posnanski was writing Joe Paterno’s biography;
E. After discovering Posnanski and his insights into sports, life and raising daughters. I read and shared his blog posts with countless others throughout the years.
There’s magic in every moment--and if you look back and connect the dots, you can feel like everything’s “part of a plan.” You simply could not have gotten here without having gone there, ad infinitum. If corona has taught us anything, it’s that we need to listen to the planners. If we had, looking back now, we would be connecting different dots--and today we’d be in a completely different world.
Do your job. Stay alive. One day at a time--even though looking ahead, we’re simply not sure about what’s next.
One thing that’s almost certainly next is wearing masks out in public for the foreseeable future even if we can get to the point where we’re no longer under “stay-at-home” orders. Today’s quiz question, then, is dedicated to helping you plan ahead for wearing a mask--something I’ve done every day this week whenever I venture outside the house to walk the dogs.
What did NOT happen?
A. The masks Sara made for us tie in the back. I needed to practice tieing them on behind the back of my head and neck before leaving the house;
B. Wearing a mask makes my glasses fog up. I now leave my glasses at home when I walk the dogs;
C. I walk the dogs for exercise and to let them do their business. The poop bags are thin and rolled up like produce bags we used to use in the grocery store (remember?). To get the poop bags open when I need them, I used to lick my fingers to separate the two sides of the plastic opening at the top. You can’t do that with a mask on--even though I tried (twice);
D. I use my time walking the dogs to phone family and friends. Wearing a mask, I found out this week that I cannot unlock my phone using “Face ID;”
E. After brain surgery, I was diagnosed with mild sleep apnea and now use a cpap machine with hoses and a mask to keep my airwaves open while I sleep. Cpap machines use water so the tubes and tanks can get moldy. Several years ago, Sara (always Sara) bought me a machine which you may have seen advertised by William Shatner on cable TV. It uses UV light to clean the cpap’s parts. I am now using that machine to clean and disinfect my mask and iPhone. It’s all part of the plan.
Want the answer?
Answer #23. Poor Planning, April 8, 2020
If you’re a subscriber, the answer will be sent to you as a separate email when the question is published.
Want more?
Here’s the next quiz in the series: Quiz #24. “A Baby Aquarium.”
Here’s the previous quiz in the series: Quiz #22. “Social Changes.”
Here’s the first quiz in the series: Quiz #1. Stella and Social Distancing, March 13, 2020
The quiz is explained here: Steve’s Stay-at-Home Coronavirus Quiz.
Here is an archive of all the quizzes.
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