FEAR
A certain level of fear is good, because it stops you from being an idiot and putting yourself and others at risk.
If you’re not even a tiny bit afraid of COVID-19, you’re an idiot. All over the world, idiots are setting out to enjoy life as they always have, and here in Australia they’ve been heading for the beach in their droves before the last of summer has dwindled away. Honestly, I’d rather stand under the air conditioning output of a major hospital than visit the beach at present, because somewhere offshore are a number of COVID-19 infested cruise ships circling our island continent in terrible strife. My inner Elbit and I would stand united against dipping any digit into waters that may be infected with cruise ship effluent, which is ejected into the ocean as a standard operating procedure. Instead, hundreds of sun worshippers, surfers, body-boarders and thrill seekers are probably bathing in the stuff as it’s carried in on the surf, and then taking it home to their families. I’m also beginning to wonder where aircraft jettison their effluent. I understand it is released from a great height as a block of ice, and as it hurtles toward the ground it melts and dissipates, but I’m not sure I like the thought of it hovering somewhere above me. Of course, if it’s jettisoned over the ocean, I’m fine, but anybody wielding a surfboard, bottle of sunscreen or a beach towel is in even greater danger of swilling around in a combination of cruise ship and aircraft effluent.
I’m afraid and I’m not frightened to say so – I think it’s normal in the face of this pandemic, and my fear keeps me thinking about remaining sensibly safe from infection. It’s only when fear becomes terror that it’s an issue, and harnessing one’s inner Elbit is large part of avoiding a downward spiral into paranoia. At times however, that’s far easier said than done. My writer’s imagination, combined with over a decade spent as a Funeral Director, feeds the Elbit within me. As a result, I happen to know a thousand ways to die and the multiple weapons of destruction that can cause it. Consider the humble tissue box. Once you’ve seen the results of what happens to a tissue box that sits on the back parcel shelf of a family sedan during a rear-end collision, you’ll never leave a single would-be missile back there again. I think that’s one of those instances when a coroner should list a cause of death as misadventure, rather than struck in the occipital lobe by a tissue box travelling at 80 miles per hour. I’ve also seen evidence of what scuba diving equipment can do to an asthmatic, what white water rafting does to the human body, how metal has no respect for flesh and how a transferring infection from knee wound to a spot on the face can kill. It’s a dark filing cabinet of memories that I hang on to, but I’m fairly certain I know why I haven’t yet visited the rubber room (although I’ve come close). It all comes down to having a dark sense of humour.
The Monty Python team, Morecambe and Wise, Jacques Tati, Cheech & Chong and Jerry Lewis were a few of the important influences I had growing up. I was also an avid reader of P G Wodehouse, Kinky Friedman and Tom Sharpe, and all of that becomes part of my arsenal when Elbit starts to wind up inside of me. It means I have the capacity to balk at the scarcity of toilet paper while wondering aloud if it will soon be available on the Brown Market. Ol’ 76 and I were chatting earlier today, and I made the mistake of trying to work out some COVID-19 statistics with him. Between us, we’re pretty smart and we have well-positioned contacts within key industries. We thus calculated that if this pandemic continues to grow unchecked (which it won’t), the health authorities will have to draw the line at Age 40 – in other words, nobody over 40 gets the good gear if they’re infected, because they have to ensure the younger generation continues the human race. It was a fairly sobering moment, which we both ruined by pronouncing mankind absolutely stuffed if that ever happened. Why? Because nobody under 40 knows how anything mechanical works, or how to calculate a simple maths equation without an Excel spreadsheet. The laughter began as we considered the irony of them all having ventilators but nobody left to tell them how to fix them! And just to ensure we might be on the downward spiral once we leave this mortal coil, we also had a discussion about the best way to socially distance while giving a patient a suppository. For the under-40s, there’s absolutely no way the majority of them would find that funny, because they’ve been conditioned to fight natural humour and replace it with a social conscience. On the other hand, the majority of we Baby Boomers without humour filters have suffered the indignity of a suppository at least once in our lives, and we also know how to make a slingshot … so it’s hilarious.
As I write this blog, my fear for all of those already affected and those who are yet to face the fight of their lives is as strong as it ever was. Sadly, there is nothing more I can do about that, aside from practising social distancing to keep me and others safe. Outwardly however, my argument for keeping the over 40s alive is growing. You see, if Mum, Ol’ 76, Elbit and I survive this pandemic, I don’t think we’d like to live in a world without a sense of the ridiculous, irreverent humour, faux pas, puns, bottom humour or social gaffes, and that’s what we have to offer mankind. If the health authorities instead look above the Age 40 line rather than under it, the young and strong will survive regardless, while we old gals and codgers will be saving mankind from the worst fate of all – ordinariness. Either the lure of the rubber room is growing, or I’m on to something … only time will tell!
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Elbit vs. COVID-19 