If you’ve had a personal experience with COVID, it changes how you view it. Having had a very personal experience with it back in March, it’s been maddening and infuriating to watch our country go without a national policy, and to watch so many of my fellow citizens behave in selfish and reckless ways.

As a consequence, it’s sadly very clear that if you don’t personally know someone who’s had it, you will. And sooner, rather than later. And that first friend or family member will be at the top of a growing list. I’d lay money on it.

Planning a Thanksgiving get-together? Use this nifty tool from Georgia Tech. Click the number attending then hover over your town or county. And afterward, maybe thing again.

We know a fair number of people who have tested positive and many have fallen seriously ill. In the beginning, we chalked it up to city life and a dense population. I’d been going to the office as usual before contracting it, often taking the subway. My daily life simply made me more vulnerable.

But we’re clearly in a new stage. The rest of the country, rural or not, is catching up. And it terrifies me. Our list of friends who’ve had it increased by two last week, one of them from the Chicago suburbs, the other downstate. They’re both health care workers who have been meticulous in their anti-COVID protocols and have escaped until now.

In one case it infected our friend and her colleagues in her clinic, leaving their department strained. The outbreak was traced to an intern who’d done a shift, and who, for some insane reason, had attended an in-person training. Apparently, a good many of the participants had also tested positive.

Our other friend has been on the front lines for a major regional medical provider. That’s including administering COVID tests, and tending to sick COVID kids who’d contracted it on spring break. She’d sort of assumed it was inevitable, and even took a B&B to avoid bringing it home to her family. She miraculously avoided contracting it—until a week or so ago. She got pretty sick but the virus has cleared and the worst symptoms have subsided—except for the smothering, lingering fatigue. It’s like nothing else I’ve ever experienced. It was a slog just getting out of bed every morning. I’d wake up, have a coffee, feel pretty good and work at my computer and then…90 minutes later BAM! Napping wasn’t a luxury, it was mandated by my body. And then, it was murder getting out of bed again, and repeat.

Don’t let uninvited guests join your Thanksgiving.

Our doctor friend is experiencing that now. But she has to go back to work tomorrow. Because the provider she works for is down 200 staff to COVID right now.

And it’s going to get worse. How much worse depends on us. As I wrote in an earlier post, “Let’s take care of the people who take care of us.”

We’ve been using a little app called Marco Polo to send video messages back and forth with distant friends for the past few weeks. One of them told us that she was agonizing about whether or not to go home for Thanksgiving for a planned gathering. Her sister was adamant that they both should stay away. And she issued a pretty effective warning she’d heard:

Don’t let your Thanksgiving celebration cause Christmas funerals.

PS: It’s not the flu. Just ask Chicago Tribune columnist Heidi Stevens.

PS #2: It’s not the flu. Just ask R&B performer Jeremih.

In August of 1978, I was newly returned to the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign from an internship in Washington, D.C. And, for the first time in my life, I was a little cocky. I’d lived outside of the Chicago area! I knew stuff that you didn’t’! I’d lived in Washington, D.C. dammit!

I held hopes that I’d land a job back in D.C. as the result of that internship, but I had one year plus a summer of college to go.  And let’s say I wasn’t the most serious student for my senior year + a summer.  U of I had something called “new student week” back then. It was a full week of orientation in August. In its time, that meant a lot of debauchery, so old students came down to enjoy, too.

I learned a new club was opening on Green Street in Campustown, which was the main campus drag. The place was called Mabel’s. A university bigwig who handled its money decided Champaign-Urbana could use a New York-style jazz club. And Mabel’s was born. He’d  bought a bunch of antiques and curios at an estate sale for someone named Mabel, and the club was strewn with those relics.

It was a long flight of stairs up to the first floor of the club. And another shorter flight up to a balcony seating area.

I took a job there as a cocktail waiter. I didn’t care much about jazz, but well, it looked fun. Being a male server at a campus bar was sort of earth shaking back then, when just down the block young women servers dressed in skin tight Danskins. (Which all seems quaint in these times.)

Mabel’s first floor near the stage was quite the hip deal: It was big pillows on the floor. People laid on the floor propped up by those pillows. So I’d bring drinks out and set them on little weighted “tables” in the midst of the pillows. Back then, all you needed was a university ID to get into a bar, so we got lots of 18-year-olds on dates drinking strawberry daiquiris. At closing, some couples would be in oblivious liplocks. The manager would pump out the 1812 Overture as loud as it could go and that was that.

I digress. What I didn’t realize was that I was already a jazz fan, but didn’t know it. My favorite band at the time was Steely Dan, and the album Aja was hot as a firecracker. And my favorite part? The title song, and a solo by jazz great Wayne Shorter. Wayne was my gateway drug.

The University of Illinois has always had a vibrant jazz program in its music department, but perhaps never more vibrant then back then. There was UI Jazz Band #5, #4, #3, #2, and the vaunted #1. They were all good but #1 had ringers who were down from Chicago or other places as adjuncts.

The program was led by John Garvey, a character who regularly rode a mo-ped around campus while smoking a pipe. He had a thing for all kinds of music, including Russian folk, and he founded a Russian folk group as well as leading the jazz program.

The first time I heard #1’s horns crank it up, powerful, in complete synchronization, I was floored—and hooked. You can feel that shit, and it ain’t electrified like, say, The Who. It’s humans moving air.

The Mabel’s owner had done his homework and was a true jazz lover. He managed to book greats like the Thad Jones/Mel Lewis Orchestra (if you have to ask, you can’t afford it). And Gary Burton on the vibes. All this in a college town in East Central Illinois.

Tonight we went to Jazz Showcase to see the Chicago Jazz Orchestra, an umpteen-piece band that took me back, and reminded me why I love a big jazz band. If you’ve never experienced a jazz big band, try it out. The arrangements, the musicianship, in my view, are unequalled.

1978 turned into 1979. Mabel’s waitresses didn’t need Danskins, they were just gorgeous. I fell in love with one of them; it was the first time I felt that way. (Not the last.) We had a sultry, carefree summer. I moved back to D.C. to take that job in August.

Oh, also, because I was out of sync with the Journalism calendar, I took basic reporting late. A young woman named Beth was in that class. We became friends.

On my last night working at Mabel’s on the day I handed in my graduating paper  (I was bartending by then), Beth came to help me celebrate. I gave her what would be my work number in D.C. should she ever be in town.

So yeah, I love a big jazz band.

A few clicks (and a credit card) and Voila! Soup!

Here’s a plug for an online outfit that we highly recommend when you want to give some warm fuzzies to friends and loved ones: It’s called Spoonful of Comfort.

Basically, they’ll send your choice of soup to your lucky friend, in a giant jar, plus rolls, plus cookies, and they even throw in a nice stainless ladle.

We learned about it when a friend emailed me after he learned I’d been hospitalized for covid. He ended his email saying, “I’m going to send you soup.” I thought he was joking. But one day we got a big box with ice packs with poblano chowder, dinner rolls, chocolate chip cookies and the aforementioned ladle.

It was delicious, and we’ve sent a half dozen care packages since. (For the record, two chicken noodle, three chicken and rice, and one clam chowder.) I’m happy to say that every recipient has been as tickled as we were to receive our soup!

Our most recent went to our doctor friend, Colleen. Beth and Colleen have been fast friends since high school when both were waitresses at the Marshall Field’s Oak Room in suburban Oak Brook. Colleen was a great comfort to Beth during my stay at Northwestern Hospital. She’s been a great support for both of us during my recovery. And, especially early on, she asked questions that I could help her with because it was new to all of us, including the docs.

And so, what better way to say thank you than sending Colleen and her spouse some clam chowder!

We’ve been thinking about Colleen a lot lately, as covid has surged again, straining hospitals, doctors, and nurses. I’ve been thinking about every terrific person at Northwestern that got me through.

So apart from soup, let’s all say thank you to Colleen and all the medical professionals that we’re exhausting again: Wear your mask. It doesn’t matter who you plan to vote for. Let’s take care of the people who take care of us or they will not be able to take care of us.

Amid the inflamed political climate that is being deliberately sown, it’s easy to get so distracted that we’re never, ever discussing substantive issues. It’s so easy to get caught up in name-calling and labeling, instead of having respectful back and forth.

And from what I’ve seen, either the Democratic Party and its constituents will do it, or no one will. (I’m happy to consider voting for a Republican—the next time I recognize one that’s actually, well, a Republican.)

On the Democratic side, we have an opportunity to discuss substance with each other, and try to squeeze it out of the candidates. This all came to mind when I witnessed a minor skirmish between some Democrats.

One was chastising Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez for off-handedly dismissing Joe Biden’s remark to the effect that a lot of people would be heartbroken to lose their private insurance under a Medicare-for-all scenario. This same person also expressed general angst about AOC and her cohort turning off middle-of-the-road Dems and other voters.

And then the predictable backlash against “moderate” Democrats.

And off we went into nowhere.

To me, Ocasio-Cortez can and should speak up on anything she wants. And by my lights, she’s good at it. I don’t think she and her cohort and the candidates who support Medicare-for-all are naive dreamers. I’m glad they care about the issue.

On the other hand, I don’t support Medicare for All. And I don’t think that those who do support Medicare-for-all should consider those of us who don’t’ support it as sellouts.

If there’s been one issue that I’ve consistently cared about for most of my adult life, it’s been health care. It remains so. As in, everyone should have a humane level of coverage. What’s humane? As an example, I’d suggest the level that the small non-profit I work for could be used a baseline for discussion. That’s for another time.

Beth and I became heavy-duty users of our health care “system” starting in our twenties. Actually, she’s been at it since she was seven, and diagnosed with type 1 diabetes. On our honeymoon, she started seeing spots. Months of treatments and hospital stays ensued. Two days before our first anniversary, we learned she’d never see again.

And then Gus was born with a myriad of health issues that we deal with to this day.

We were lucky. Beth and Gus were covered throughout. If these things had happened at different times in our lives, we were cooked. But even being lucky, we ended up in enough debt to take years (and a lucky break with a startup company) to erase. And even with that lucky break, I can’t tell you how much time I have spent trying to understand bills, coverage, reconciling conflicting info from the provider and the insurance company, etc. And of course, we all live dreading losing the insurance.

Back in our 20s, all our contemporaries knew about health insurance was that they had it. But when I’d tell them what it was like to use it, their eyes would gloss over, and you could see the thought bubble above their heads: “Mike’s going on a health care rant again.”

Back then, to anyone who’d listen, I argued for a single payer system. I completely see the attraction—maybe especially to cut down on the insane billing bureaucracy that private industry has given us.

But I don’t support single payer anymore. Those who do are good by me. I just strongly disagree with the Medicare for All thing for several reasons.

First, from a logistical and economics point of view, shutting down a giant industry while expanding an already enormous bureaucracy is going to be an enormous, disruptive task that I fear would be an enormous mess. (Granted, some displaced workers would be recruited to the expansion of Medicare.) But it’s a gigantic and complex undertaking, and none of the proponents have indicated they fully understand that. Nor have they sketched an outline of how it could be phased in with minimal disruption. I suspect it’s because…it’s difficult to impossible.

Politically, most people simply don’t want to switch their insurance plans involuntarily. You’re asking them to give something up and telling them, “Don’t worry.” And we don’t exactly have a great track record here. Obamacare promised that no one would lose their current plan–and that was untrue. Many people remained insured but with lesser plans. So people are more skeptical than ever about claims about what they’d get. I don’t believe the support will be there when push comes to shove.

The thing is, Europe has had universal coverage for decades. But single-payer is a complete exception when it comes to achieving universal coverage.

Their systems, by my lay study of them, rely on heavily regulated private insurers. They let those with means buy more than minimum coverage.

So, I say beef up Obamacare, ratchet up regulation of existing insurers, a la most of the countries that have universal health care. And by hook, or by crook, shoehorn a public option in, which, if it works, would move us toward single payer, and if it doesn’t, it doesn’t.

All that said, I welcome anyone to address the concerns I’ve raised—to offer how the problems I perceive with Medicare-for-All can be solved. Let’s not forget that we all want everyone to have coverage.

More broadly, the concept of civil political discussion in the commons has disappeared. That means on the blue-state side of things, it’s on us to show, well yes, that concept is alive and well.

When I finished college I got a job at the Study Abroad Office at University of Illinois. During one-on-one appointments with U of I students, I’d ask what they might like to study overseas, what sort of living arrangements they wanted, did they speak a foreign language, which countries they were particularly interested in, that sort of thing. I’d describe options available to them, make phone calls to other universities If U of I didn’t offer the option they wanted, and help with paperwork to get their credits transferred. I liked the work, I was good at it, and soon I was promoted to assistant director.

and then, in 1986, I lost my sight. My contract was terminated.

The Americans with Disabilities Act wouldn’t be signed into legislation until four years later. Today, July 26,2015, the ADA is 25 years old, and while I am celebrating all the progress we have made in a relatively short amount of time, I also acknowledge we have a lot more to do. One example: it’s 25 years after the ADA was passed, and the unemployment rate among people who are blind still hovers around 75%.

Here’s my work story: After my contract at University of Illinois was terminated, I attended a residential rehabilitation center for the blind, learned Braille and taught myself to use a talking computer. I applied for a job at the Study Abroad Office again after The Americans with Disabilities Act had been passed and made it through the first round of interviews. Even with the law ON my side, though, I didn’t get hired.

My husband Mike was the lucky guy who got to read the carefully crafted rejection letter out loud to me. Not a word about disability. The reason I wasn’t hired? My lack of recent work experience.

I applied for all sorts of jobs after that. One was with an emergency hotline that took calls from people whose pets have eaten a toxic substance. I emailed them for details. My note didn’t mention I was blind, or that I used a talking computer to send the email. Their response was enthusiastic. I was invited to visit the office to apply for the job.

A friend drove me to the interview. I heard the receptionist leave her desk abruptly as my friend helped me fill out the printed application form. The woman who walked out next was not the receptionist — she had a different stride from the first, and her bracelets jangled. Rather than greeting me, this new woman launched into a speech. Forms had to be filled out with every phone call that came in, she said. Her voice was shrill. The bracelets clattered. Every word had to be documented, she said. Every word by every person who calls the hotline.

I explained how I use a talking computer. I could create digital versions of the forms, complete them on the computer, print them out. “No,” she said. “They’re legal forms. They have to be filled out by hand.” I tried to squeeze out more details, see if maybe there were workarounds. But she wouldn’t listen. That was that.

It was a law suit waiting to happen, but even today, 25 years after the ADA was passed, these law suits are the burden of the person with the disability. To bring a case against that poison control hotline I would have had to pay a lawyer, file, wait months –sometimes years –hoping the Equal Employment Opportunity Commission would accept my case. I didn’t file a complaint.

When Mike spotted another want ad for that same position in the paper weeks later, I sent another email asking for another interview. No email response.

A carefully worded letter arrived soon afterwards with task descriptions, each one specifically written to make it perfectly clear that a blind person couldn’t possibly perform them. The product of a legal consultation, I was sure. I got this sort of treatment more times than I care to tell you about. I don’t take it personally anymore, but back then it was painful. And confounding.

I guess it’s the same as other bigotries. Changing the law is one thing. Changing hearts and minds is another, and slowly, slowly those hearts and minds did start to change. As ramps replaced curbs, and theatres and sports facilities added accessible seating, and buses and trains and subway cars ran automatic announcements to call out each and every stop, and handicapped stalls were added to public restrooms, well, a funny thing happened. People with disabilities started eating out at restaurants, enjoying a night out at the movies, cheering on their sports teams at games, traveling on public transportation. People got more used to being around those of us with disabilities, and that familiarity made them more willing to take a chance on hiring us.

I wrote earlier this week about the University of Illinois in Urbana hiring me as a model for art students. After that, a Presbyterian church in Champaign hired me as a volunteer coordinator. When we moved to Geneva, Ill. a minor league baseball team found a job for me in their ticket office. In Chicago, a non-profit organization took me on as their Interactive Community Coordinator, and three different organizations hired me to lead memoir-writing classes. I am grateful to the School of Art and Design at University of Illinois in Urbana-Champaign, McKinley Church and Foundation, the Kane County Cougars, Easter Seals National Headquarters, the City of Chicago, Lincoln Park Village, and the Center for Life and Learning for taking a chance on me. Their confidence in me has helped boost my confidence in myself.

I am also thankful to the legislators, demonstrators, advocates and lobbyists who worked so hard to get The Americans with Disabilities Act passed back in 1990. The next frontier? Bringing that unemployment rate down. Let’s keep working.