Life in the time of Covid isn’t normal. Just in case you didn’t know.
My 92-year-old (93 next month) dad had a couple procedures yesterday. The hospital board had to approve them as essential. Because his memory is shorter than an inchworm these days, my sister scattered notes around–“yes” on the coffeepot, “yes” on the kitchen faucet, “yes on the broth and the jello and the approved soda. “No” on the jar of peanut butter, “no” on the bread, “no” on the potato chips. She taped food doors closed. And she hid his cigarettes since he was not allowed to smoke until the following day. He called her last night to tell her he couldn’t find them, and she told him she’d tell him where they were in the morning. She told him to go chew a carrot stick or smoke a banana. She considered April Fooling him–to say she really wasn’t going to tell him where they were. But she changed her mind–or forgot. I don’t think people are into April Fool’s today. I also think that even with more time on our hands, some of us may be even more forgetful.
A month ago today we were in Ponte Vedra taking care of our littlest grands while their parents flew out to Las Vegas for a company convention. They left us four gift cards to different restaurants, and we used them all. We hung out at playgrounds and didn’t think a thing about social distancing. How stuff can change in a month. And today, very few planes are flying anywhere.
Things had started to get real while we were gone. International travelers were being “frisked” for viral symptoms. My husband got a call about someone in his South Florida office who had been in Vietnam for a couple of weeks and changed planes in Japan. Now he was coughing and looked a little peaked. Though he insisted he felt fine, he was sent home to finish out a quarantine period.
When I strapped on my Fitbit one morning, I suddenly remembered how my mom always wore her watch with the face on the inside of her wrist. Then I dreamed my in-laws who passed years and years ago were visiting in our Michigan house–the one they had lived in. In my dream, I was brushing away giant cobwebs in the basement where they sat on a couch that has also been long gone. Why was my mind going back in time?
A Facebook friend asked others to list some overused words. Somebody posted the word, “canceled.” I agree. A Detroit Tigers spring training game–canceled. A church apologetics conference–canceled. A “Serve the City” event–canceled. We’d looked forward to serving on the beach cleanup team. Two different events where we were to volunteer with Compassion International–canceled. Our spring break family gathering at Disney World–canceled when the park closed. A hair appointment canceled. (I’m glad God created hair ties.) Doctors’ appointments canceled. A trip to New York City for the end of this month–postponed. So a visit to Yankee Stadium to see the home team play “my” Tigers–canceled. We canceled two tours. Church–canceled. School–canceled. Yes, “canceled” was definitely the most over-used word of the month.
My husband is working from home now–at least until the end of April. He works at his grandfather’s humongous roll-top desk in our front entry and is often doing a Zoom interview or in a Zoom conference. We live in a Lego house that’s one big great room except for the bedrooms. So I have to plan my own work and keep the dog occupied. Yesterday I nearly slipped behind D half dressed to retrieve a towel from the front linen closet. I caught myself when I realized he was Zooming. It was a close call. On a call yesterday, one of the NY higher-ups hoped aloud that everyone would be back in the office by July. JULY?! This will be a test of our ability to survive retirement. But at least then I could run around the house in any stage of dress–if I dared–without the fear of being caught on camera. Hopefully.
I’ve been having Covid dreams. The other night I dreamed I was begging D to send 100 of our 200 ventilators to New York. I think he agreed to do so. I also think he was lying in a hospital bed.
My Fitbit informs me that I don’t get quality sleep. Yesterday I woke up with a visual migraine. This morning I had a headache that’s lasted all day in spite of medication. I’m tense and tired most of the time, so I often need to just sit and close my eyes and breathe. In between, I clean and cook and eat too much. I have carb fever. I watch too much news. I wait for the daily briefings and follow the stats. I wonder what part I can play to help–an “elderly” nurse with an out-of-state license. I bought myself a new stethoscope. It had been on my Amazon gift list for a couple years, but the family kept sending books. Go figure. I’ve ordered an oximeter. (I also keep ordering books.) I gave blood for the second time in my life.
I try not to worry about my Michigan family. My dad lives alone and is starved for companionship. My brother lives in Dad’s basement since his own home is flooded, but he works in healthcare so keeps his distance. My sister and brother-in-law are hosting their son and his Ukrainian exchange student “daughter” who have isolated away from “mom,” the hospital nurse. Tania is missing all the fun spring school activities. It’s not the experience she expected, and her exchange program has told to be prepared to catch a flight home at any moment. Seems safer to me to stay put, but nobody asked my opinion. My daughter is immunocompromised. Here in Florida, our extended family includes two immunocompromised members in the same household–one under treatment for tongue cancer and the other on hospice.
Our church has moved online with a sermon series on unshakeable faith (faith is greater than fear) followed by a fun message for kids as well as morning devotionals on Psalm 13 with the reminder that lament is part of worship. Which reminds me, if you haven’t seen this article by N.T. Wright, it’s a good one.
I thought–I hoped–2020 would be a year to breathe, especially after last year’s drama–the good and the bad. So far not so much. But this is a time to be still, to lament, to be kinder and gentler. Maybe to read a book (or several) or learn something new. To pay attention to the beauty in our safe own space. To remember that it will pass. And even when things get back to normal, they will never be the same. They will have changed. (Also, “normal” may be another one of those overused words.) We will have changed. I hope it’s for the better.
So how are you doing?
My mother died after a massive stroke at the beginning of the month of March. My husband drove us the full 13 hours there so I got to sit with her comatose body as it failed. I missed the first hours where she seemed to recognize my siblings and Dad. But I got to sit and pray with her and hold her hand and tell her what a good mother she had always been and that we would all be fine. I distinctly felt her spirit leave her body in a very holy moment. Four days later her 91 year old body ended its very hard work. It was my job to tell my dad she was gone. It was a relief.
We decided it would be safer to have a memorial service on her birthday in May. It looks like that will have to be postponed. It looks like I will have to tell my dad…
So, everything is filtered through this. I feel veiled and not inclined to lift it any time soon. Normally I might have obsessed over oh so many aspects of the situation. I can get symptoms at their mere mention usually. Stay at home? No problem. I’d be here anyway not watching or listening most of the time to the news. Rather, I’m listening to my mother’s favorite music, going through old photos, and regularly group texting my siblings now that it’s up to us to watch over our dad, and plan our mom’s memorial service.
That’s how I’m doing. Mostly. It is Spring here in Virginia so time to get garden stuff done which I am doing in my mom’s memory more than usual. It’s a balm for my heart and a dose of happiness when I’m out there.
Oh, Robin. This is grief upon grief, loss upon loss. I’m so glad you were able to be with your mom when she passed. And I think putting off the memorial service is wise. My son-in-law’s grandmother died recently, and they went ahead with a service. But I think it was very small, and they made sure to follow the 6 feet of distance.
Staying home is really not much of a problem for me, either. Having another person here ALL the time is a change. Especially because he is working and I have to adjust my activities. Like this morning when I forgot and ran the noisy blender.
Also, there’s nothing more healing than to be outside. That’s where the dog and I often go. She wants to be with him a lot, so I have to remove her.
So much love to you.
I wanted to add that I’ve read of family members who have had to say their forever-until-later goodbyes over the phone or FaceTime. Makes me so sad and especially glad you got to be with your mom in person.
I awoke in early morn
for the last notes of night’s coda,
and saw, as new day was born
the rising sun’s soft corona
peeking over distant slopes,
to see if the way was safe
for the sun to rise in hope,
and that its smile would not chafe
nerves arleady full-scraped raw
by this endless run of malice
when the world we thought we saw
was changed to prison, from a palace.
To the east, friend, lift your eyes,
for like the Lord, the sun will rise.
Andrew! How wonderful to “see” you here. Thank you so much for this poem of hope and promise. I especially love “the rising sun’s soft corona” and the “nerves already full-scraped raw by this endless run of malice.” That’s a perfect description. And you’ve been living it for a long time. Hugs to you.
Such a beautiful, powerful poem, this. Thank you for hope.
LDM
Sandra, I so appreciate your update on your family and situation during this horrid time. Yes, it seems like “cancel” is the word of the year. We are self-quarantining due to our age and some preexisting conditions. So thankful for Instacart and curbside pickup!!!
We have had to cancel a boatload of vacation plans, too, but that’s okay. I know God has this, has us, and we will make it through to the other side, tougher, stronger and, I believe, more united as a nation.
God bless!
I haven’t used Instacart or curbside pickup. I kinda like to go get my own stuff, so I go with a list and get out. Also, if what I want isn’t there, I can grab something else and build a meal or two around it.
You are right. None of this is a surprise to God, and he’s got it. I know it’s easier for me to be positive because so far we are healthy and haven’t lost anyone and D is still getting a paycheck. But I also have to believe we who remain will come out stronger and more united. I’ve been overjoyed at how everyone–companies and individuals–have been pulling together to help overcome.
Stay safe.
“to be still, to lament, to be kinder and gentler . . .” heartening wisdom for me on this snowy morning. Thank you, Sandy, for offering touches of humor alongside candid responses and heartening truths. I am grateful and glad glad glad to read your words.
Dear Laurie… I’m glad glad glad to “see” you.
Also… no snow here at 81 degrees. Sorry, not sorry. š
Stay safe.
Thanks for sharing this post, Sandra, and for the reminder that “lament is a part of worship.” Wishing you as peaceful a time as possible.
Wishing that peace right back at you, Bethany. Hoping we come out of this better people.
Thank you so much, Sandy. I always appreciate writing from your heart and your pen. I had started my own “Corona Chronicles” earlier, and likely not for publication. I’ve no real platform for doing that. You and I love alliteration, huh, even midst pandemics. How about peace in this pandemic? How that is alliteration that would be music to my soul. Time to breathe, huh? You say, not so much. I totally understand that. And yet your last paragraph offers the hope that as long as we cocoon we will continue to breathe with uninfected lungs and by paying “attention to the beauty in our safe own space. To remember that [the pandemic] will pass.” And in this lovely essay, you, yourself have passed the peace and hope. Thank you.
xo
Lynn
Peace in this pandemic. Perfect. I’m guessing there will also be a lot of pandemic poetry coming out of all this.
Thank you, Lynn. I always smile when I see that you’ve commented.
And “this, too, shall pass” is a phrase my mom handed down. I remind myself of that several times a day.
Oh I love your mother’s phrase. Yes, this, too, shall pass. And I know we all wish it were sooner than later; but we must wait patiently for the Lord’s timing.
You mentioned poetry, and I wanted to share this, in case you’ve not read it. From what I can tell, Ms. Ungar is not a Christian, but I was very moved by her poem and wisdom. I thought I’d share it with you. I also love that her poem inspired a beautiful choral work by a virtual choir. There are all kinds of creative ways to wait. Enjoy! (The song is after the poem on her site).
Pandemic
What if you thought of it
as the Jews consider the Sabbathā
the most sacred of times?
Cease from travel.
Cease from buying and selling.
Give up, just for now,
on trying to make the world
different than it is.
Sing. Pray. Touch only those
to whom you commit your life.
Center down.
And when your body has become still,
reach out with your heart.
Know that we are connected
in ways that are terrifying and beautiful.
(You could hardly deny it now.)
Know that our lives
are in one anotherās hands.
(Surely, that has come clear.)
Do not reach out your hands.
Reach out your heart.
Reach out your words.
Reach out all the tendrils
of compassion that move, invisibly,
where we cannot touch.
Promise this world your loveā
for better or for worse,
in sickness and in health,
so long as we all shall live.
āLynn Ungar 3/11/20
http://www.lynnungar.com/poems/pandemic/
Oh, Lynn. I’m listening to the choir now. Thank you so much for sharing this.
Seeing this time as a sacred time, a time for centering, a time to reach out with the heart–so perfect.
I would only add one line…
Know that our lives
are in one anotherās hands–
and ultimately in Another’s hands.
Yes, your ending is perfect, and an important reminder for Christians, and obviously for everyone! I don’t shy away from reading secular things, but always discerningly. And I realize too that a good thing coming from this sacred time (change the letters of SCARED TO SACRED!), is that many who don’t know Christ are searching for comfort and answers. The field is ripe for harvest, and it is good for us to be on a sacred mission to share the love of Christ and the salvation He offers. And add another R, and we have a reminder of the SCARRED hands that hold us, and because they are scarred by nails, we are held by hands of love and forgiveness.
Thanks for such rich sharing, dearest Sandy. You always provoke deep thinking.
Love
Lynn
Thanks for the reminder that scared and sacred differ only by a letter placement. And then there are the scars. I hope you had a lovely Easter.