Coronavirus isolation a tough change for extroverts, but we’ll get through it together

In December 1968, the third influenza pandemic of the 20th century hit the United States. One of the people who got influenza A subtype H3N2 was my dad.

We didn’t see him come out of the bedroom for days.

“Where’s dad?”

“He’s very sick.”

“It’s Christmas.”

“I know.”

When he did emerge, he looked haggard. He was 38 and looked twenty years older. He had grown something of a beard.

He lit up a Pall Mall, probably his first one in two weeks. I remember him saying, “I’m not going to die, but I wished I would for a while there.”

He conveyed Norwegian stoicism at its finest. None of the rest of the family got sick.

Back then, to my knowledge, there were no quarantines, no “shelter in place” orders, no social distancing. No one told me to wash my hands, cover my cough or not interact with other children.

There was also a very bad flu strain that hit the U.S. in 1957 that no one remembers now, but at one point 41 percent of Los Angeles had that, too.

Now we are in a worse situation than 1957 or 1968. Many of us are sheltering in place and working from home, including me.

I am profoundly fortunate to be able to do so, as are many of my loved ones and friends. Many of us, however, are not so fortunate. We owe a debt of gratitude to the doctors, nurses, nursing home caregivers, grocery delivery people, restaurant owners, postal workers, state workers, military, first responders, truck drivers, hair cutters, farmworkers and everyone else who keeps society moving.

What I do isn’t essential. It’s probably socially helpful to have a little of what I do, but it’s not essential. I tip heavily, wash my hands constantly and haven’t had anyone more than 20 feet around me since I locked down a few weeks ago.

As a noted extrovert — my editor describes me as a “social butterfly” — it’s been hard to voluntarily avoid what any extroverts crave: interaction with people.

I get up very early, get cartoon ideas, make some calls and draw the idea. Lately, it’s been done several hours before deadline or even the day before. That’s what vast stretches of time with no meetings or coffee chats can do. It’s not how I want to work, but millions are doing this.

Reaching out to friends finds many of them in the same position, and I got out of the pool way before a lot of them did. I had just returned from New York about three weeks ago and I exposed myself to the following disease vectors:

• The New York subway.
• LaGuardia Airport.
• Many New York surfaces, such as railings and everything else in New York that’s gross.
• Penn Station.
• New York to DC Amtrak.
• Union Station
• And so on.
• Two flights back from DC to O’Hare, then O’Hare to Sacramento.
• Who knows what else? I don’t want to know.

I made it past the 14 day incubation period on all of that.

Time takes on a different meaning alone. Sunday is Tuesday is Thursday is ... what day is it again? Oh, yes. Tuesday. Whatever you say. Sunday? Fine.

So far, I am not personally acquainted with anyone who is currently sick. I am praying that it stays that way. And to those who are sick or have loved ones who are, please accept my profound sympathy.

Some friends are setting up virtual cocktail parties, and I even heard of a virtual Irish poetry reading with pipes. I am tempted to try virtual Password with friends.

Thus far, I haven’t initiated any conversations with my two cats, although they are very well-read.

Pro tip on staying sane at home: Keep the TV news off and just dip in quick to reliable print sources to stay updated. I listen to 1940s music and jazz. If someone calls and wants to complain, I have little patience for that.

We are all in this together, and if we are to get through, it’ll be because we didn’t panic. That includes you, Costco toilet paper hoarder and the guy with 17,000 bottles of Purell he can’t sell.

My dad didn’t panic. He had lived through the Great Depression, World War II, was decorated in the Korean War and his father was out of work after the 1929 stock market crash.

I won’t tell you to light a Pall Mall after this. But I will tell you to keep washing your hands.