It's been a while. A long while.
Something triggered me to want to write this morning. To write about this specific thing. These thoughts have been swimming around in my head lately. Or, more accurately, these memories of thoughts. Humor me with the following therapeutic writing exercise.
Making decisions
The first decision, how worried should we be?
At home, not so worried. At work, not worried so much as curious about how things would play out. Almost an anticipatory curiosity, like with severe weather events. Big storm coming they say, how much do we prep? Am I stupid if I, like many others, brave the gas station and the grocery store to prepare? Or do I just assume all will be ok? For this, do we teach ourselves how to use a PAPR? And what about the hundred others in our group? We set up a training schedule. We answer questions. We reassure. Doesn’t feel stupid to prepare. Even without knowing what exactly we are preparing for.
First possible patient is here. We prepared.
I don’t know what I’m doing.
Second decision, things are getting real.
Spring break travel plans seem risky theoretically, although
our road trip plans low-risk overall.
But should I cancel and be available at work? What do I owe this job, these people? My time, my engagement. We stay home.
And then the family continues to stays home. For a long time they stay home. They stay home, and I go to work. I don’t know what I’m doing.
Decisions 3 through 742, I don’t know what I’m doing.
During the day, there are people. There is camaraderie. And consensus. We are in this together.
At night, it is just me. And somehow there is an assumption that I
have the answers. That I know what I’m
doing. This assumption is scary. And lonely.
And scary. I cry. Do others cry? I don’t know what I am doing.
We move forward
At work, I continue to plan. I support. I buy snacks and we check in with each other. I organize. I become quartermaster, the most natural of jobs for me. The queen of PPE. I reassure. I support. I plan. I check in. I organize. I give gratitude. I know exactly what I am doing. It is lonely and I cry. Do others cry?
At home, I recharge. A quiet life. Content. Sunday afternoons on the porch, reading the paper and listening to live streams of a local band. Sending and receiving thinking of you and hang in there gifts. Family dance challenges. Walks around the block. Hello to neighbors. No, we’re not new, we’ve lived here for a decade. Music. Themed family weekends to celebrate life with the babies. British Invasion. New Orleans food love. Parisian spies. At home, I recharge.
The world moves forward
Talk of vaccines, I volunteer. I feel like I got run over by a truck and
suspect I got the real deal.
Talk of vaccines, I am surprised. Surprised by the hate and by the fear.
Back to school, in person?
No. Not for our family. The dining room transitions to support
virtual classrooms X 2. Babies learning
computers and how to keep a schedule. Husband
balances all of it with his own full day on his computer. Trying to keep his
schedule.
I’m at work. I’m always
at work.
Halloween. Neighborhood
says no to outside trick or treaters. We
have to turn off our lights to enforce the message. A quiet and contented night for just our
family. Themed costumes: Healthcare
Heroes.
We vote. And we feel
hope.
No family Thanksgiving or Christmas. Continuation of our most beloved traditions anyway. Sized down. Quiet and content.
Talk of vaccines, I celebrate. Celebrating confirmation that I got the real
deal. I help those I love get their real
deal. But not everyone I love. Eager for babies to join us. We wait.
The hope of the past November is marred come January. But we push on.
We start to venture out.
Armed with masks and hand sanitizer.
Still quiet compared to prior. Still
content at home.
Talk of vaccines. No
longer surprised by the hate and the fear.
A full year of virtual school done. Kindergarten and 2nd grade. Babies and husband survived together. While I was at work. Always at work.
The state says everyone goes back to school in person. And no masks, we forbid masks. But what about the babies, I ask.
Talk of vaccines. The
babies still haven’t gotten their real deals.
Superintendent asks, what about the babies? He says, masks, masks will help protect the babies still waiting for
their real deals. State sues. I send a thank you note to the superintendent. And the babies go to school.
One week later exactly, nasal congestion and fever. Mild for the babies. I again feel like I’ve been run over by a truck. Husband somewhere in between. But we all recover. We all survive.
Somedays I still feel like I’m surviving. Still waiting for full recovery. Not from the virus. But from this world the virus helped create.
