May 2020
It is Narnia winter.
Currently, there is a world pandemic of COVID-19 that has caused Michiganders to be in lockdown for over a month. Much of the country is the same. Everything is canceled, the majority of stores and restaurants are closed. We wear masks – bizarre and quiet and very grey. I sort of don’t care. Cold .
My brother is scared. He has always had a thing about germs. If I dug a bit under his defenses, I’d likely happen upon a little crumpled note that reads, “I live far away. People are dying from a highly contagious virus. I don’t want my dad to die.” Instead, he kind of yells about Clorox and stuff. If my cookie happens to drop on the ground, odds are I’ll still pop it in my mouth.
My Dad’s family has long lived by their self prescribed motto of, “rules don’t apply.” They have always done what they wanted, fairly confidently. When they are reminded of a rule they’ve completely trampled over, they may offer a reply of a small shrugged shoulder, but certainly nothing more.
Mostly, I like to follow rules. A month ago my therapist said to me, “It seems like you only ever really do what you want to do.” I agreed and wondered, “why the hell would I do something I don’t want to do?”
Truly, I am perplexed and ruminating on it.
In my reflection, I am unaware of rules broken within the things I do… there is the possibility that I follow rules because they are inside my box of chosen items… shrug shrug, I sort of don’t care.
Our state Governor has issued a “Stay at home order.” My dad is in and out of shops every single day. The girls and I mostly stay home. My husband goes to work. Repeat. Repeat again.
Think of any late 80s sitcom and the necessary episode where the family goes skiing and get completely snowed in! Baby, it’s cold outside!
A few weeks ago, a family friend died from the virus. He had underlying health conditions. Upon his arrival at the hospital, doctors hooked him up to morphine and waited for him to die. No treatment. No options. Just wait. It only took a few days. When he died, I wanted to feel sad. But I sort of didn’t care.
Narnia winter has gone on so long, it takes a lot to stir me.
The only exceptions revolve around my mom; I move setting from “blend lightly” to “course chopping,” at any moment.
In Narnia, I am unsure if I’m a Lucy or an Edmund. Likely, I am a woodland badger. Santa didn’t swing by in his sleigh to offer me any treats and I have heard of Aslan, but I am currently uncertain of his true character. Or possibly, existence. I’m just trying to burrow in and mind my business. The weather in Michigan may be revealing Spring and the calendar claims it so, but winter trudges on, the shadow has been cast.
Through my drawn out storm, a few former friends have faded away. Or I have let them go. Other friends have refused to turn to stone, even if I have given them plenty of reason. I am not a delight. But I am trying. And I am thankful for those who put their boots on to walk alongside.
Since my mother died, I have dreaded no date more than her birthday. Her birthday date was special and somehow defined part of her. Tears leak quickly from my eyes now and every prior time I have thought of her birthday within the last 11 months. Her birthday is tomorrow.
Last weekend, I couldn’t get out of bed. My body was anticipating the dread to come. My head and heart ached. Days were counting down and I was broken without a plan. My husband brought me medicine and turned off the light. He kept the kids quiet and closed the door.
Don’t stir the burrowed badger.
I’m convinced that women attend lamaze classes because they know labor will be terrible. It’s impossible to escape the narrative that the pain of labor will nearly rip your body in two.
So what can you do? You want a plan.
Not once have I heard of a lady who has praised the use of lamaze training, when the time came. The nurses tell you to breathe. You don’t need to tap into your pitiful plan. In my opinion, lamaze is an attempt to control the anticipation of the forthcoming pain, not the actual, real time pain.
Last week my brain and soul needed a plan to aid my forthcoming pain. A global pandemic puts a real damper on plans. Graduating Seniors have no ceremonies, brides are cancelling long dreamed of weddings. We can’t go to our Helping Place.
The White Queen reins.
On Monday, my dad walked into my house and sobbed. It was the tipping point in my pain. Get me the fuck out of this state.
Flying during a pandemic is a challenge. It could also be considered risky, frivolous, and selfish. I sort of don’t care.
I booked all of us on flights to Arizona for the very next day. My dad and I needed to be with my brother in another state. If anyone debates the merit, I am in a state to go full blown Rocky. Your rules mean nothing.
My girls had varying reactions to my newly sprung plan. “Pack up your swimsuits and big feelings, it’s 24 hours to departure, kiddies.”
I gave my brother little notice that 4 emotionally charged members of his family were to fly on a metal germ vessel and land it all at his home. Really, I gave him no choice. Get out your clorox.
So now, together in AZ, we sit knowing it is my mother’s birthday tomorrow. It is better than being at home. That part feels good.
And it also feels like an emotional stoning.
I do not want to remember my mom on her birthday. I want to eat cake with my mother on her birthday. And hear her voice and giggle. I want to touch my mother.
Yesterday, everyone wanted to go for a walk except my youngest. She got grumpy. So the others left and we stayed back. As soon as we were alone, she completely melted. Crocodile tears. “We are talking about Maya so much. I wish we had stayed home and pretended it wasn’t her birthday. It is too sad. Last year was terrible, God gave me a terrible year and now this year is awful with the virus and WHY WOULD GOD DO THIS TO AN 8 YEAR OLD, MOM?”
Aslan? Santa? Anyone?
It is the dead of winter, even here in the desert.
I am driving around with a severely shattered windshield and the heat has stopped working. I am responsible for transporting my offspring and my father. I am behind the wheel, with a seriously obstructed view. I am almost willing a cop to pull me over just to see a human face I can punch.
My youngest ended her little meltdown by saying, “I don’t feel happy since Maya died. Every day I want to be happy and I am not. I’m sad. I used to have a smile on my face and now I wish I could feel like that, but I feel terrible”
What could I say? I’m just a chilly badger.
I attempted to relate to her feelings. And I hugged her, of course. And I mentioned the blessings we should count. “How many families are like us at The Helping Place who wish they could be with their families at times, but couldn’t? We are blessed to be able to buy plane tickets.”
Today, I can see how my words likely sounded like a line of crap. I wish I would have just said, “Want to chomp on some raw cookie dough?” or “Want to see if we can find some BB guns to shoot?”
Breathe in. Breathe out. heee heee hooo hooo.
I am aging rapidly. My skin looks ashy and white hairs are plentiful. Science backs the facts that stress and grief age a body. Time is moving. Birthdays are coming. I want to halt it all. The more days that pass, the further I am from the living days of my mom. It hurts as it wrinkles my face. The seasons have changed since that day at Henry Ford hospital and yet, it feels like yesterday.
“The first year is the hardest,” people say. A lot of people. That is a scary thought for me. I fear it becomes normal that your person died after that first year. I don’t want it to be normal or “part of my story.”
Every single day, I re-remember. I’m still surprised. A couple of times I have felt a surge of sheer panic and pleaded with my husband to tell me my thoughts are untrue, that this all never happened.
In Michigan on Monday, I called my husband at work, frazzled, “I cannot take this. I am so sad. I need to go to Arizona.” And he said, “Go.” There was no hesitation. There is a pandemic and it is highly frowned upon to travel for anything other than complete necessity. I had to take our children, too. And my husband confidently said, “If it will help you, here is the money, go.”
I texted a friend who immediately said, “this is good. you need to go.” That is grace. That is love. That may be Aslan’s army.
My best friend lives in California. She could have been considered nearly my mother’s own child, they spent so much time together. And she is dreading tomorrow, in her own way.
On Tuesday, at the airport in my mask, I texted my friend to say that I was about to board a flight, could she make the drive to Arizona? This was a cruel move. She knows how much I need her. We know each other’s moves and marks; I can barely remember life without her. I am in pain and of course she wants to jump in her car and drive to me. But there is a pandemic. She didn’t reply ‘no’ because she knew what she wanted to do, even though she couldn’t. We put the idea on hold until we could talk on the phone.
When I heard her voice on Wednesday, we both knew what needed to be said; it isn’t a good idea to drive to our crew, too many variables in short notice.
During our phone call on Wednesday, I asked my friend what her husband thought about my request for her to travel. She said, “As soon as I got your text, I felt urgent. I was torn and I didn’t know what to do. I went into [spouse’s] office and said, ‘Keri is flying to Arizona and she wants me to drive there!’” Likely, it sounded irrational to him. Especially considering that the day before, they had stood in line outside of Target for 45 minutes in order to buy 4 rolls of toilet paper.
Curious, I inquired as to his response. She said, “He just raised up his hand, waved, and said, ‘ok. see you later.” We laughed on the phone. And as soon as I was alone, I thought of his response and cried.
In the past, he and I have had theological discussions and stood in opposing armies. His camp would have proclaimed Aslan a whimsical cat. Currently, I am a dehydrated, wandering soldier.
But there, faced with a loaded question, his response was grace.
It was understanding. It was comic relief to his stressed and empathetic wife. It was a spark in the snowstorm.
It was love.
Here in the desert, I attempt to continue my role, balancing the oldest and youngest members of my family. Here, though, I can reach for steadiness from my sibling. And when he rambles on about not washing my hands, or wearing my mask, I occasionally offer him a small shrug. And before bed each night, after our hand sanitizer dries, the girls and I bear hug him.
It is 104 degrees today. So hot. But I sort of don’t care. I may not be thawing, but at least I am huddled with the other critters in my pack.
My mother’s favorite color is purple. She loves comfort food, numbers, and television. Her favorite flowers are tulips and her favorite season is Spring. She loves her birthday, and home, and her family.
It is May 1st. The sun is setting over the 7 palm trees I count from my brother’s back porch as my children laugh as they swim in the pool.
Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat.
Not That Good Grief 