MY O.C.
Behind the Covid Curtain Scary moments and small joys abound at a senior living community rocked by the pandemic. by Suzanne Hawley
I
live at a retirement community in Anaheim, a few miles south of Knott’s Berry Farm. When COVID-19 struck last spring, our happy village turned into a ghost town for the elderly. The lockdown was swift and emphatic: No one could leave the facility, and no visitors could enter. Drop-offs for residents were accepted by gloved and masked person-
illustration by P E T E R YA N
nel from behind the glass doors. The 100-plus residents were confined to our rooms as the cheerful gatherings in our dining hall became a thing of the past. Three times a day, servers brought Styrofoam containers in rolling ovens to our doors. The severity of the situation was reflected in protective clothing as servers, medical technicians, caregivers, and housekeepers were sometimes unrecognizable. Elaborate face shields were worn over masks; cloth replaced hair nets; bare hands were swathed in plastic. Our devoted staff members’ voices were muffled, only eyes peering out. Overnight, it was like being dropped in an alien land. The only socializing occasions were chance encounters in public areas, including a regimen of distasteful nose swabbing. By osmosis, we could tell our ranks were thinning. The very elderly and infirmed were conspicuously absent. In keeping with federal guidelines and good taste, we didn’t press for information about who had migrated to hospitals, skilled nursing homes, or worse. On July 21st, I turned 75; surprisingly, it was one of the best birthdays of my life. I live here because of a pronounced bipolar disorder that responds kindly to a low-key life and effective psychotropic medication. But before that big day, I was feeling rather washed up. I received an intercom message to come to the lobby. Standing outside the glass doors, there was a cohort of family and friends, burgeoned with flowers, gift bags, birthday cake, and cards. We March 2021 • OR A NGE COAST 73
