The Last Canadian, my trip through COVID-anxiety, and a plea for your help

The Last Canadian. Great title, eh? Bet you don’t know it. It’s the book my dad and I bonded over. It’s also the book that made me anxious at the beginning of COVID.

Fifteen months ago, we shut the world down. Those of us who could, started working full time from home. All I could think about was this 1970s Cold War novel.

Here’s the plot: an airborne virus is released into North America, a virus so powerful people died within a few minutes of not-too-close contact. Our protagonist and his family survive in the Canadian bush until a survivor/carrier arrives in their encampment killing all but our guy. He becomes a survivor/carrier himself and travels through North America meeting others who’ve lived, observing the anarchy that ensues, helping reform society, and of course, fighting the bad guys who started the whole mess.

For my father, the chapters detailing the ways the family survived in the wild were the highlight. Nothing rattled dad; there was nothing he couldn’t do; and his social needs were minimal. The idea of survivalism suited him, possibly even his utopia.

I’m not dad. The homesteading was interesting but for me, the book picked up at the anarchy and the rebuilding part. I function best with a high degree of order so the chaos terrified me but also challenged me to imagine how we could create a better new world order. I read this book as a teenager and then again 10 years ago and loved it both times.

Then COVID. 

The pandemic grind has taken its toll on everyone. I see this in the work I do with communities where people have been crabbier (or worse) towards one another. I see this in the ability of colleagues to maintain enthusiasm for working from home. I see this in friends and family who are at wits end, after too much togetherness or too much apartness. Most are increasingly frustrated and depressed by its relentlessness. 

My trajectory has gone the other way. COVID knocked me on my ass in March 2020 and I blame The Last Canadian. With the plot in my head, I raised the alarm bell early in our office. It seemed so obvious to me we were heading into something dire. We packed up and moved to home offices on March 13, 2020. 

I started a COVID journal. Here’s a bit from an early entry:

Saturday, Mar 21, 2020, 9:40 a.m. Wow, what a weird week. I’m a fucking wreck. This social distancing is so stressful. I am completely freaked out about the future of the planet and annoyed when I see people blithely ignoring requests that we keep away from others. It feels so irresponsible. We are in the midst of global catastrophe which will forever change us.

Journal writing, like almost everything, proved too difficult for me in those early weeks; I quit shortly after that entry. The struggle to keep focussed reminded me of my early grief following the diagnosis and subsequent death of my husband. Like then, in early COVID, I cried many times a day. I cried about the loss of our day-to-day lives; I cried about the loss of actual lives; I cried about the healthcare workers who worked tirelessly to save us; I cried because people less fortunate than I couldn’t isolate to stay safe; I cried about the vast debt governments were incurring, burdening future generations; I cried about the unnecessary risks others took; I cried in anticipation of the bigger devastation countries less wealthy than Canada would experience; and yes, way down the list, I cried because I was sad to be a bubble of one.  

But here’s where The Last Canadian made it weird - I was convinced chaos would break out under Trump’s US and Americans would storm our borders looking for safe haven. So convinced this would happen, I tried to barricade off my back gate - ostensibly to keep skunks from crawling through the rails but there was more to it. 

By June, I stopped communicating with those I felt were too lax. I didn’t want to hear about their activities or feel judged for following the rules. At the same time, I was starting to feel a sense of FOMO (aka fear of missing out). The tension within me was great, the crying was continuing, and I lost a couple of days of work simply to stress. I decided to get some help — I tapped into my work benefits, just another privilege I enjoy. Within a few counselling sessions, I had a better sense of perspective, fuelled by one of the first things the counsellor said: “there’s a reason we have anxiety during COVID - -there is danger.” 

With the counsellor’s help, I became comfortable with my life being out of step with others while at the same time, I cautiously spoke to people about their own struggles. It was my first experience of what those with chronic mental health issues face - isolation because of the stigma mental illness still carries. With minimal human company, I’ve walked, macrame-ed, sourdoughed, and most importantly, written myself back to structure and mental wellness. I know it’s a long road ahead and there will be moments when I slip. I will seek help again if that happens. 

Two weeks ago, I completed “The Sunrise Challenge,” a fundraiser for the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health (CAMH). I rose at dawn every day for a week to reflected on how lucky I am to have recognized the direction I was headed and have access to the necessary resources to turn myself around. I know there are many who haven’t been so lucky. 

This is a time like no other to give to CAMH, a resource stretched beyond its limits.
Please consider donating.   Link to CAMH donation site