Tag: covid

Motherhood

The Addition of All the Many Moments and Sum of All Their Parts

by Life With InterestLeave a Comment on The Addition of All the Many Moments and Sum of All Their Parts

There will come a time when I won’t care what others think, or what I think for that matter. That time may be coming sooner than I think, for I’m far too tired to care this much for much longer. It seems caring about much of anything puts me at a disadvantage in the grande scheme of things. I still watch in awe how the confident function, and examine my reflection in the mirror and attempt to gaze back with half that confidence. I always end up half laughing , half crying. I’ll never be that.

It is difficult living in this bubble of brilliant type As with a few amongst them who have figured out how to play the game and get ahead. I’m trying to do just that. My head keeps spinning. I don’t know why I can’t think like everyone else thinks. Logically. In a structured way. There is structure in there somewhere, past the swirling seas of patterns and potential. I’m trying to find it. Structure, and release. How to offer high quality with little emotional cost. How? I don’t know yet. People do it, so it must be possible.

I feel guilty I have little emotional energy to spare for the actual state of things. I read election news and social media feeds and catch up quickly on how fucked up the world is and hope that maybe despite being so fucked up things will eventually in due time (maybe 10 days time) hit a wall and swing back the other way. Though the Supreme Court is now stuck without questionable intervention due to questionably rushing a nominee through. Yet some people really will be happy and benefit from a conservative government in power—I don’t agree with those people, I don’t think it’s fair that many must suffer to support their views, and yet some people will be happy. Those who prefer a woman to die than to abort her child. Do they not deserve happiness too? I don’t know. Who really deserves happiness? We are all pretty awful creatures and in the end to ashes we go. So, if anyone is happy at any given time even for the worst of reasons, isn’t there some sick beauty in that? I don’t know. I’m trying to see the rusted glass half full.

I hope Biden wins.

I guess we will find out soon. I am grateful my children will be too young to remember much of this presidency. I don’t want them having a picture of “Presidential” as this. My oldest will be 6 if Trump gets another 4 years, so there will be some memories — but mostly of the joy of seeing him out of office (hopefully) as he concludes his second term. Frankly I’m concerned if he doesn’t win this time he will continue campaigning for the next 4 years and run again in 2024. Everything is going to so much shit right now a part of me feels like we are best off letting him destroy us so we can properly rebuild, vs handing this mess to Biden (who he will continue to blame) to fix. Hmm.

It’s unfair of me to think these things. I can survive another 4 years of Trump, probably, but many others cannot. And his administration just announced they gave up on managing the virus. Entirely. What? Just let everyone die? I guess so. Just 1% of Americans. Sorry if you’re one of them.

The whole pandemic lifestyle is getting to me. The first few months I enjoyed—no longer having to commute to an office. Working from my bed in my pajamas. Going for long walks in the late afternoon vs sitting in 45 minutes of traffic to drive home. No having to come up with something awkwardly witty or say or ask at the water cooler. Just me, my family, my apartment, and my food delivery people who I never met other than by name in Instacart.

But now I miss people. I do. I miss being around people. Hearing them. I miss all the things I haven’t been able to do with my son like take him to dance class or little gym or the zoo or go on vacations and show him new things. I’ve invested all the extra free time in buying and now renovating a home, so at least it has been productive (I can’t imagine doing this in a normal time.) There are plenty of positives and yet—I miss my family. I miss my occasional happy hours with coworkers. I miss even more occasional massages and pedicures. I miss getting a professional haircut. It has been almost one year since I’ve had one. I cut my hair myself a month or two ago. It’s time to do that again soon.

I struggle in knowing many aren’t social distancing as much as my family is—and wondering am I giving up too much of my life to hide from something with a 99% survival rate? I mean, not that I’d be attending maskless indoor parties or anything. But what if my son went to daycare to meet other kids his age? What if I took him to the zoo or pumpkin picking? Or to ride the outdoor train that goes down to Santa Cruz that I always wanted to do once I had a child.

My son doesn’t seem to mind that he’s missing out on some aspect of his childhood. He doesn’t know what he is missing, though I suspect he has some idea when I grab him away from other children who come running up to him at the park. In the rare chance we go to the park. How will I, after a vaccine is introduced, teach him it’s ok to socially interact with other kids? Will he easily adapt? Will he shy away from socializing because that’s what he knows? I worry.

At least soon he will have a little brother or sister to play with. I mean, in a year or so when that baby is more than a blob that poops and cries. One day. You know if said blob and I survive childbirth. Which we probably will. I expect this time to be equally as scary as my last birth. Or worse. Or maybe it won’t be. I read a lot about traumatic births. So I’m scared. Women who have survived but who have hemorrhaged. Or who had an emergency c-section where the medication didn’t work. Who can blame me about worrying a bit?

In 13 weeks I’ll have another baby. That’s just three quick months. I am looking forward to it. Not the birth part. But the part after. Not being interrupted from my half sleep in the middle of the night after my child is born to be informed my father died. Not having to beg so many wonderful friends and family to help my husband survive with a newborn as I took a flight across the country, terrified of my blood pressure spiking or blood clotting, to attend my father’s funeral. Maybe some time, this time, to feel happy despite the typical positive birth exhaustion blur. I just want that. I don’t deserve it. No one deserves anything. But I hope I get that experience. A baby that comes out breathing. Who isn’t whisked away to the NICU. Maybe a “normal” birth and a breathing baby and things to go right for once.

I can’t let myself get too optimistic for anything. I thought my father was doing better and would make it three months so he could meet my son at Thanksgiving. I could see how happy he was holding my son for the first time. Laughing and joking with him. Telling stories about when I was a child. How my son reminds him of that. Singing to him and reading to him and having all those stolen moments that will never be. I don’t like to get my hopes up anymore. It doesn’t seem worth it. But it also doesn’t seem worth it to live a life always expecting the worst.

So I guess I have to figure out how to fill the glass a tiny bit more so I don’t have to make a judgement call on how to describe it’s respective volume.

Motherhood

Pregnant in a Pandemic

by Life With InterestLeave a Comment on Pregnant in a Pandemic

I had always planned to start trying for my second child 18 months after my first was born. I figured, like my first, this whole miracle of life thing would take months and require medical support like the creation of my first child. At age 36 I didn’t want to look back and think I waited too long to try. I wanted to give my son at least one sibling, maybe two. After my father’s death two years ago, and overall being so far from any family with children my son’s age, and growing up in a large extended family, it hit me hard how important it was to make my own little big family if I could.

Then, a global pandemic happened. In case you haven’t noticed.

I wasn’t in denial of what that meant. I weighed the pros and the many cons. I didn’t mind the idea of not seeing people during my pregnancy or missing things like baby showers and such. If it had been my first pregnancy I would be missing all that but been there, done that, and ok with hibernating these nine months. But I was expecting it to take a while to get pregnant—putting me at a late spring or summer or fall due date—after the second and likely worst peak of the pandemic had past. But the pandemic and my body had other ideas.

In March, I either had COVID or some form of debilitating anxiety where I couldn’t eat. The reason I think it was COVID is that my go-to when I am anxious is eating. But in a month, I lost 8lbs. I also had a lot of lung issues and ended up getting an inhaler and feeling liquid in my lungs for a while. It could have been bad allergies (I don’t have allergies typically) or maybe I was just losing it—but nonetheless I ended up eating healthy/less and with the massive reduction in social anxiety (not having to interact with other humans was just a huge relief, esp coming off what might have been an actual manic episode the prior fall and early winter) my body apparently said “ok, you are ready to be a mom again.”

With my first son, I took my pregnancy test on my 34th birthday. With this one, it was Mother’s Day. I figured my life is secretly scripted so of course I’d find out on mom’s day that I had rapidly reproduced this time around. I used a cheap-o test at first and there was a very very faint line. My text to a friend confirmed it was there. The more expensive test I took a few minutes later said it definitely was there. Pregnant. In a pandemic.

It was no longer a — well maybe I’ll get pregnant and maybe I’ll have to deal with the tail end of the pandemic in a while and maybe that will be difficult. It was—you are delivering in January. The exact month the pandemic will probably be at its actual worst, after a summer of people flouting the rules, after nearly a year of people saying they just want to get back to normal life. Oh, and for fun let’s make your due date two days after the inauguration what will likely be the most contested election in American history, when our prior president may refuse to leave office should be not get re-elected. Why not?

There are definitely pros to being pregnant during a pandemic. For starters, being able to work from home my entire pregnancy is a blessing. As I’m older now, this pregnancy has been a bit harder on me. I think part of that is because I’m not moving enough (which means I would be better off going to an office dusky) but being able to lie down and work, or sit down and wait for a wave of nausea to pass without getting any weird looks at the office is one of the best things about this specific situation. While last time I felt I had to push myself to not be disabled by pregnancy (working up until my due date with horrible carpal tunnel at the end and eventually being diagnosed with gestational hypertension and needing to be induced) I can take this pregnancy easy. Ish. I mean as easy as one can take a pregnancy with no childcare and a two year old wanting attention all day.

Yes, a negative of the pandemic has definitely been the loss of childcare. Prior to the pandemic my FIL came to watch our son four days a week. He enjoyed it and it worked out well for us. But then with COVID we couldn’t risk getting him sick—even though we immediately went into isolation and were being as careful as possible, I had to go to a few doctors appointments so we had to stop seeing my in laws for a while. My husband, who works flexible hours, stepped up to take on the bulk of the childcare. At first, that seemed to work well. I was thriving at work, sleeping well, able to focus without the commute and anxiety of judging myself so harshly for every movement around others. For a few months, I felt, hey, I can get the hang of this pandemic life.

My husband was definitely struggling, though, and as my pregnancy progressed the sleep I was getting turned into random wakings in the middle of the night. I began to be sad overall about the pandemic—about how my son cannot play with other kids, about how my mom can’t see her grandchild until who knows when, about how my sister and my son’s only aunt may not see him for years. We eventually made the choice to see our in laws again, but only 2 weeks after any in person doctor’s appointment. We have completely isolated otherwise, except for going around with our realtor looking at empty houses as we wanted to buy and move before baby number two. I think that little socialization and activity kept me sane these past few months. Oh, and we bought a house (also known as baby #3.) So we have been keeping busy. My son seems ok as he doesn’t know what he is missing. He is now used to mommy grabbing him when we are out and an older kid comes too close, like at the empty park the other night when an unmasked pre-teen came storming out of nowhere and sat right behind my unsuspecting son. Now that some parks are open we will go only when they are empty, and we wash hands after. It seems low risk. But who knows. We do our best. But like everyone else we can still get sick.

Pregnant women are much more likely to end up on a ventilator if we get COVID-19. I would very much prefer to not end up on a vent in my third trimester or ever. I’m scared now, a bit, but being as careful as I can be. I have only a handful of in-person doctor’s appointments left. I’ll go and wear my mask and try to stay far away from other humans and hope I can stay healthy. I worry about what happens when I go to the hospital to give birth. I worry about wearing a mask while in labor when I am already panicked and finding it hard to breathe. I worry about looking at every nurse and doctor who helps me while in the hospital and wondering — do they have COVID? What if I get COVID while in the hospital? Should I have a home birth? Should I get to the hospital so late I give birth in the parking lot and am close enough if anything goes wrong they can whisk me or baby inside and save our lives? What if I get sick at the hospital and die a few weeks later, leaving my kids with no mom? What if I get my husband, who has some high risk medical conditions, sick and leave my kids without a dad—and me without a husband?

But I keep reminding myself pregnancy is a risk in and of itself. Everything in life is risk. So I just need to be as careful as possible, keep calm, and carry on.

I mourn all the things I am missing out on this pregnancy. There has been little time to celebrate my growing bump. I am sad for the weeks ahead, after birth, when I can’t connect with other new mothers as I did last time. I worry for all the pregnant woman and new moms who are essential workers—or married to one—who aren’t able to lock themselves away from the virus.

Overall I, personally, am doing well. My concentration has gone to shit these past few months, but I’m surviving. After a few solid months at work when I was doing well, I came crashing down with the exhaustion and anxiety that is life these days. I keep reminding myself that just surviving—and doing the best I can (as long as I can keep my job, hopefully)—is enough right now. Gone are my fantasizes of thriving in my career, moving up the ladder, what have you. I can be a good employee and a mom and I don’t have to be a leader or brilliant or whatever it is that is worker bees think equals success. I am in a very good place if I can just hold it together mentally, and physically. I can have this baby and experience all of that and see what life looks like on the other side of it.

For now, I’m so grateful for the last months, for working from home and being able to see my son grow up. I didn’t see him much in his first year. I don’t have time or energy now to see him as much as I would like in a more present way, but I’m here nonetheless. I’m here to see him wake up and for a quick lunchtime cuddle and afternoon laugh. This has reminded me of how much I was missing. It really had made me realize what matters in life. In a sense, I think there is something to be said about being forced to hole up and slow down. And, assuming WFH will stick for a while, I look forward to being able to breastfeed longer versus having to sneak away to the mom’s room to pump every few hours. To not have to drive to the office in those first months after maternity leave when I almost got into an accident too many times to count because who sleeps with a <6 month old?

So I’m focused on the positives. And survival. And trying to move on to this next home-owning, mom-to-two, mentally stable (hopefully) phase of my life. I’ll do my best, but for the first time in my life, maybe I won’t give it my all. And I’m ok with that.

Mental Health

Let’s Write a Happy Post

by Life With InterestLeave a Comment on Let’s Write a Happy Post

It has been a rough… I don’t know… nearly 37 years. But compared to most 37 year stretches of human life it’s been good. Solid. Not so bad.

The challenge is slowing down and not feeling like I have to prove something. I don’t even know what I want to prove (other than, at this point, that I can consistently pay my mortgage for the next 30 years), but I think I’m finally letting go of this innate drive to be somehow special. Even over the desire to be recognized for being a proper cog. And a good mother. Not an amazing one or anything. Just a standard, run-of-the-mill, cares about her kids mom who occasionally treats herself to a (post covid) mom’s night out.

Aging is tough. Not just my own aging but experiencing everyone else go through it. Knowing 40 is just around the corner. Watching my mother having 70 around the corner. Still feeling sore from the midnight call two years ago, a week after giving birth, and in a bit of a delusional state to begin with, when I was informed my father passed away. Being concerned about other family members every time they feel ill as youth no longer is on their side and statistics suddenly look less promising.

Oh, but I promised to write a happy post, didn’t I? Well. I don’t know if happy is the right term but I feel rather satisfied that I managed to make it possible to purchase a home. Yes, there was some luck involved, but even more so tenacity and semi frugality and years of saving and investing and wondering if I might possibly ever have enough to buy something remotely worth buying. And despite my mental health challenges, my ups and many downs, I’ve done it. I am a home owner.

In home ownership, I also feel like I made and continue to make a lot of good decisions. In a high cost of living area the price tags on houses are insane, as are the monthly mortgage payments. But I’m happily welcoming my in law to share our new home, and with his contributions can also keep the monthly payment down enough to make me a tad bit less worried about losing the house if SHTF. We didn’t buy the cheapest house, but we definitely didn’t extend ourselves anywhere near what the bank was offering. The home, while not the cheapest house on the street, still seems to have potential for value growth. I feel like after 2+ years of looking, and finally compromising on the location quite a bit, we made the right choice. I made the right choice. A smart choice. A grown up one. And one that is going to be good for my family.

And while I’ve been pushed out of a role I aspired to be suited for at work, it is for good reason. It’s not a good fit. And what’s amazing is that I’ve been able to prove myself in another, tangential role, where I probably fit a lot better. And I’m being given a chance to really thrive in that position. Despite being sad my ADHD self couldn’t manage a seriously complex and collaborative role requiring equal parts project management excellence, influence building, and broad expertise, I am grateful and relieved to be off that boat, for the time being, and put on one where perhaps I’m not clogging leaks left and right all while trying to steer the ship safely to shore. I miss all the icebergs.

On paper, I’m incredibly lucky on so many levels. In real life, I am too. I’ve acquired some likely lifelong friends this year, successfully connected two good friends with each other across the county and now they’re in the middle of a fledgling romance that seems like it actually may stick. And for the most part I’ve turned the incoherent and at times terrifying energy of last year into something(s) productive and good this year.

I wish I could say I feel stable and life is just swimming along smoothly. It’s anything but. But. I’m starting to get into the grove of things, I guess. Of being a mom. An employee. A creative/ish. A near-40 nobody who can still be everything to my family. As my aspirations shift from stardom to all my loved ones surviving the next 5 years (and our country not falling into a devastating civil war), I find new stressors that are perhaps more real (and stressful) but at least make me feel somewhat sane to stress about. I’d take a do over of the last 12 months if I could have one—but since I can’t, I have to applaud myself for getting through whatever that was and for being able to be on the other side of it. I wouldn’t say I’m stable but I’m at least not presently captain and crew on a sinking ship.

Motherhood

Lockdown Day 22: The Bittersweet.

by Life With InterestLeave a Comment on Lockdown Day 22: The Bittersweet.

My attempts were futile. No matter how many times I put the canopy over his head and tried to explain how it would keep him dry, he pushed it off gleefully to feel the rain falling on his head. Soon, he also felt the rain pouring on his feet, as he quickly clawed off his shoes and socks. This was moments after he realized, 10 minutes into our walk, that his father had not come with us. “Where Daddy go?” he inquired over and over again, frantically looking for my husband. “He didn’t come with us,” I attempted to explain to my 20 month old socially isolated son, who, after five minutes of repeating “where daddy go” finally got the memo and replaced his “where daddy go” chant with repeating, in the most adorably sad voice, “bye bye dada. Bye bye dada. Bye bye dada.”

The good thing about it being under 50 degrees and pouring on day 22 of lockdown is that no one in their right mind was outside, at least in our little apartment complex. Being so close to our front door, I opted to let my son–already soaking wet–run through puddles barefoot. This is what childhood is all about… except usually it’s with other kids. But my son, who doesn’t understand why “boppa” and “grandma” can no longer visit, who screams into my phone “call friend” so he can see another kid around his age who makes funny faces at him virtually, seems mostly ok with this whole lockdown thing. He might not realize he traded in friend and grandparents for more momma time, but I can tell he likes that I’m home.

But the days of working from home have turned into one big blur. I made a commitment to myself yesterday that everyday at lunchtime I would eat a super quick lunch, then take my son out for a short walk. It was definitely the perfect day to commit that to myself in an area that typically has nice weather, the day before it was 48 degrees mid day and pouring rain.

I hadn’t paid much attention to the weather (what’s a little rain?) and I asked my husband to get my son ready for a quick walk so we could get some fresh air. My son was already enthusiastically shouting “need go home a park go home*” (“go home” means “go out” to my son) when I opened the door and noticed the little rain was actually quite a lot of rain. I grabbed an umbrella, threw on a hoodie, and figured the rain would keep us safer. One might say my son could catch a cold from being out in the rain and getting all wet, but–he won’t catch coronavirus.

After I quickly lost the battle of “keep the canopy down so you don’t get soaked,” I watched my son sit up in his stroller, uncovered, staring in awe at the rain, the heavy grey sky, and the sopping wet verdancy around him as he reached out with delight to brush against the soaking leaves–leaves only slightly less soaking than his outgrown brunette hair and fuzzy Elmo hoodie. Given he couldn’t get much wetter, I opted to take him out of his stroller to roam free. I questioned whether I was being a bad mother for letting my son run shoeless through puddles in cold-for-California weather, but I made the call to not care either way–he was having fun, and fun comes in short supply these day. Splash splash splash, he stomped, from one puddle to the next. I let him wander freely with the exception of keeping him far away from the postman and the construction worker who were having a socially-distanced chat by the mailboxes.

We weren’t outside for long. We headed back to our apartment to get warm and share all of our adventures with “dada.” I went back to my bedroom to resume work and prep for a call, and my son went back to the other room to watch too much Sesame Street. As I curled up in my bed and got back to work, I felt the same unsettling mix of deep existential sadness swimming through my veins in tandem with a tinge of peaceful delight that I’ve felt for days now. The deep pit of guilt for feeling anything positive in any of this, with so many suffering, and yet, finding so much of “this” is making me happier than I’ve been in a long time. The long focused periods of work where I can perform my best and not be distracted by severe anxiety. The getting to see my son for a few minutes on breaks and give him a quick hug or see the newest thing he has learned (or visit, after finishing one big project for the day, when I heard him giving dada a credit card and telling him that he wanted to “buy a mommy.”) The eating small portions when I’m hungry versus stuffing my face all day long with too much food. The being home and fully present when I’m done with work versus having to drive 45 minutes in traffic and arriving home too exhausted to do much with my family other than sit on the couch and survive social interaction before it’s time to go to sleep. Getting to see my son go down for his nap in my husband’s arms. Doing what’s best for my mental health and my professional productivity. Living a life that feels like I have a life… I mean, one where I can’t see other people outside of my family and where I’m constantly worried about my loved ones getting sick and dying… but a life nonetheless.

This weekend, as I roasted onions and garlic for fresh red pepper tomato sauce I was attempting to make for the pasta my husband found at the supermarket last week, I stood in the kitchen and let the thick, blood red aroma fill me. I reveled in the suspense of potentially cooking something edible, and the likelihood of it being barely that. Ultimately, the pasta was undercooked and the sauce too bitter, but that didn’t matter. I found joy in the process of making it. In the process of doing something just to try it out. Anything not entirely burnt was preemptively deemed a success by yours truly. And as I ate my pasta too-al-dente with sauce surprisingly flavorless and thin, I grew excited about what I could do next time to experiment and make it better. Because now, for the first time in years, I have the time to just be present in the world where the future is so uncontrollable I’m forced into sweetly hovering in the present. My anxiety still stabs my heart and takes my breath away at times, but lesser and lesser each day this lockdown wears on. I connect with a few friends and family members here and there, in text messages and on zoom virtual happy hours, but my contentment seems more to do with the semi-solitude that social isolation forces (and enforces.) It feels as if my little family of three is floating out amongst the stars, light years away from other sentient creatures, despite radio contacting others for comfort here and there. And there, amidst those stars, I finally am getting a taste of what happiness can be, and it tastes far better than my pasta sauce, though perhaps equally bittersweet.

Politics, Etc.

Today is the Day I Grew Up.

by Life With InterestLeave a Comment on Today is the Day I Grew Up.

It seems with every passing year, there are a few stretches of 24 hours where I mutter that to myself under my breath, or allow its veribage float and flutter maniacally in my mind for a brief while, only to be forced out by reconciling my desire to not be old with not actually being old. There was the day I graduated high school, then, the day an airplane–then another–hit the Twin Towers and I watched a city that was once my urban backyard crumble with a vulnerability I never mentally allowed it to have…

…there was the day I got my first real job, the day I got my first solo apartment, and the day I moved back in with roommates. The days of frantic calls from home and hospitals leading up to the day my father died. The traumatic birth of my son, when I lie on a hospital bed, seconds after giving birth, trying to tell myself my son died, just to prepare myself for the absolute worst after the doctors took him from me and tried to get him to breathe on his own (it took over 36 hours for that to happen.) The day my son first called me mommy and not “dada!” (well, it was more like “mommy mommy mommy.”) The day I saw my first (ok, eighth) grey hair and decided I wouldn’t pluck it from my head.

But none of those experiences aged me so permanently as living through an–actual–global pandemic. With so many humans having to life through horrific wars, this pandemic, which kills under 1% of its victims in most regions, is a “baby war.” Even those who feel the impacts of it more acutely, in job losses or crippling illness, are still unlikely to die from it. More will know someone who passes from the disease when all is said and done, but for a horrible pandemic, it, well, it could be a lot more horrible.

Still–as a mother, as a 36 year old woman less than four years away from turning 40–as a worker who is trying to balance working from home without childcare and still being a mother and still having some semblance of sanity AND managing burning waves of anxiety that rip me apart from my inside until I’m left hollow and shaken–I feel–old. I feel my age. I feel those 36 years of knowing exactly what all this is. Of watching people ignoring health official recommendations. Of seeing how in our wealthy country we somehow do not have the proper protections for our vulnerable healthcare workers and EMTs on the front lines. Of watching democracy fall apart because people would rather believe whatever it is they want to believe based on what makes them feel safe, rather than think for themselves. Of watching foreign powers infiltrate our social media and deliver a constant feed of Fake News to further terrorize our democracy into a shadow of its former self.

I grew up, because I know too much, and pay too much attention to all of it. I envy those who find comfort in conspiracy theories and/or religion. I see my life ahead of me, however long that is, of a clear next phase of my reality. I’m not a “young–carefree–mom.” I’m a mother who worries and wonders what will come of our country and our world. It’s not just this pandemic. The pandemic brought to the forefront what is already going on and shone a bright light on rapidly rising inequality and wealth distribution. It shows those of us who care to look that our nation is fractured, possibly past the point of return, though it will take a while for it to crumble. It is, perhaps, the beginning of the fall of the American empire–which is maybe not a horrible thing for the history books, but not so great as a citizen. I question what that means and look to foreign political leaders who are using this situation to consolidate power and take on authoritarian rule overnight.

Growing up means seeing what’s there. The cracks. Seeing all of the cracks in the foundation of our society and being forced to accept that there is nothing to do to avoid its collapse. And, as history tells us, societies must collapse and be reborn in some other model. And here I sit, just a 36 year old woman, a mother, an employee, a half-decent friend, a someone, a no one, just watching the fantastical stability of society slowly, quickly, and again slowly combust, right before my very eyes.

Today is the day I grew up. And this time, I’m aging at full speed, with society etching worry lines into my forehead, and painting dark circles of sleepless nights under my eyes.

Politics, Etc.

Now is not the time to panic.

by Life With InterestLeave a Comment on Now is not the time to panic.

It has been 18 or so days since I woke up feeling like I was coming down with something that turned into nothing except the feeling of my chest being pressed in the center by a 50lb weight. It has been 18 days since my sore throat has come and gone, along with it occasional sniffles. It has been 14 days since I contacted my doctor and she told me that I couldn’t come in to be seen, but my symptoms were concerning enough that she would preemptively treat me for pneumonia and give me a strong antibiotic and an inhaler. 10 day for so since I developed a cold ice gel sensation in my lungs that burned a cool burn and tingled through my entire body, waking me up in the middle of the night. 3 days since I thought I was getting better, but the sore throat and bruised lung sensation returned. 1 day since I realized I’m not getting better.

It may well be that I have a new poorly timed allergy after years of suffering no such symptoms come spring. I’d like to see my doctor in person and be checked out properly. This cannot happen, of course. Not in the age of coronavirus. My lungs are sore and likely inflamed. I have shortness of breath when I walk and sometimes I need to sit down to catch my breath. It’s terrifying. And it’s probably not Coronavirus. It’s especially terrifying if it isn’t Coronavirus, because I may have some undiagnosed Asthma or something that would make getting actual Covid-19 really, really bad.

Today, for the first time in two weeks, I went to a store. I really wanted eggs so I ventured into Whole Foods and tried my best to remain 6 feet from everyone, but that was impossible. I found one empty aisles and made a beeline for the back of the store, switching into a different aisle half way to avoid someone who turned the corner. I kept my face down while peering up to identify the eggs. Found them. Grabbed two boxes of eggs. Then a few other things. Grabbed two cans of pinto beans then immediately regretted it as I didn’t have a cart and I was well on my way to dropping two dozen eggs and acquiring a virus that may in under a month take my life. I felt I had to buy everything I touched, so I did. The two dozen eggs, the two cans of pinto beans, the sorbet bars that turned out to be ice cream bars with sorbet in the middle, a tea, and a dark chocolate coconut bar at checkout.

I failed miserably at checkout. But they didn’t make it so easy. There are blue x’s on the floor but the people behind me came up too far and I went up too far and then it was all over. I was panicking and accidentally put my chocolate bar on the pile of food that the people behind me were purchasing. I apologized and kept my head down. I felt horrible for the woman checking me out who must have at least been 50, and probably in her 60s. She had gloves on, but surely she was at high risk for being infected. Given the situation, I’m shocked that grocery stores aren’t turning into order ahead and pickup or delivery only. Maybe that’s not financially feasible, but it would be safer.

The grocery store shopping expense was surreal with the barren shelves and the people shopping all either clearly trying to avoid being anywhere near another human and then others prancing about and walking past me at full speed, way too close. I couldn’t hold my breath the entire time as I did when I went to the post office to drop off a letter the other day, so I just gave in to get my eggs. If I’m going to die, I at least need to experience the delicious fluff of a few more good homemade omelettes.

This will all end eventually. We all know it will. I’m not even really anxious anymore. I mean, I am anxious, but that’s not the predominant mood of the week. I’m just sad. I’m so fucking sad and I don’t know how to process it. Because it’s not like the depression I’m used to which is largely just a self defense mechanism to keep disappointment at bay, this is a true, raw sadness that brings me back to the months leading up to when my father passed away and the weeks after. It’s this emptiness. This being stuck in limbo. Especially while others act as if everything is ok (even though in this case everyone is actually experience the same loss of normalcy) and I know everything is not ok. It may be ok for me, personally, but the world is not ok. There is so much broken in the world and especially in this country. We all need a wake up call but the saddest part of all is that even a pandemic will not wake people up. How many fucking people approve of how Trump is handling this mess? How many fucking people think he’s doing a great job despite lying over and over again how this wasn’t a big deal? You know what’s sickening? That no matter what he does, his supporters don’t care. And people think he’s doing a good job when his actions (or lack of action) is literally killing hundreds of people, if not thousands of people. Yea, great job.

I don’t think the problem is capitalism. Or socialism. It’s people. People are pretty horrible, when it comes down to it. I can’t say I’m better than the average anyone. We’re all in it for self preservation and survival. But our drive to self preserve is our downfall. I’ve tried to explain to conservative types that even rich people are better off if people in their society are not left to suffer in poverty. We don’t have to bring the top down to bring the bottom up. No one gets it. Here is a real example. We give everyone healthcare. We make sure that everyone can have paid sick leave and see a doctor and not spread a virus so quickly because people refuse to stay home from work when they are ill in fear of losing their jobs. Our country is ridiculously wealthy and yet look at us. Doctors. Nurses. Those on the frontlines. Having to reuse masks and protective gear. What the hell is wrong with us, America?

This morning I read an article that has been circulating about how what many of us are feeling is grief. It’s not just about the loss of life, or even the momentary loss of our way of life. It’s knowing that our world from before has forever changed. That we may move on but we’ll never forget. We’ll be a little more nervous about things like hugging friends and the germs we might acquire touching anything in public. It’s this deep sense of loss. And I was thinking yesterday how what I really feel is mourning. Mourning the loss of the early childhood I expected for my son, mourning that I may not be able to have another child if I responsibly wait until all of this has passed to try, mourning that even though I’m incredibly socially awkward I was just in the past year starting to make a few friends at work who I hung out with in person once in a blue moon, which made me incredibly happy, and now that’s all over too. Or, at the very least, on hold for who knows how long.

Sure, we may be allowed back into the world sooner than later. But the virus will still be lurking. I won’t want to go out to restaurants or bars or anywhere. I’ll drive to work, take the steps without holding the railing, sit at my desk, try to find a seat on the far end of the table in meetings, and immediately drive home without stopping along the way. Just weeks ago I was thinking of all the classes and activities I would enroll my son in over the coming years. How fun it would be to take him back to the zoo now that he knows animals and would recognize them. How we would go to the aquarium a few more times this year, every few months watching him grow into being amazed by the schools of fish swimming by and glowing jellyfish floating about on display.

There will be memories made at home, too. I get to see my son much more than I would otherwise while working from home. Not much during the day, but at lunch I can see him, and then after work I don’t have to spend 45 minutes in traffic waiting to get home, exhausted. Instead, I have more energy to be a mother. Which is nice. I mean, outside of my lung problems, and finding it hard to breathe and have energy for much at all these days.

I’m definitely trying to focus on the positive here. Trying to connect with friends who I unfortunately lost touch with, because we’re all so busy but now we’re all stuck at home (though some have quite an active virtual social life!) I’m trying. Like we’re all trying. But I’m sad. And I just have to say it. I’m sad for all of the people who are losing their lives in Italy because there are not enough hospital beds. I’m sad for my friends stuck in New York City who are terrified of going out to get food because few are taking the shelter is place seriously there and the hospitals are overwhelmed. I’m sad for my son who cannot go on the playground that he finally has gotten brave enough to climb on. My son who can’t see his grandmother or grandfather in person after seeing them very frequently for his entire life to date. My husband who misses his parents. Myself who misses being around people and the things I’d do to calm myself like window shopping at the mall and going to a coffee shop and listening to the cacophony of conversation around me. Everyone who has an ill family member, or who worries they soon might. I mourn a time of not having to think any of this. It was only a few weeks ago. And if turning 36 didn’t make me feel like I’ve turned the corner into my mid life, this sudden shift into calm chaos certainly does.

Politics, Etc.

And So. We Wait.

by Life With InterestLeave a Comment on And So. We Wait.

The lights go out, one city, one county, one state at a time. That’s how I envision it, a rolling blackout overtaking the life we once knew, just days ago. Sitting in a coffee shop and enjoying the soft buzz of conversation is somehow a memento of life before, a sweet memory of last week, tinged with the eerie, stomach-churning nostalgia of something that happened far too recently to qualify as nostalgic.

Yesterday, son in car seat, husband in driver’s seat, we set out to find an empty space where we could all run and forget the surreality of our reality. Park number one was too crowded, and the field at the local school packed with a handful of people, far too many to qualify for frolicking and social distancing in tandem. So we drove on, to another park, one that I thought might work. We found an empty soccer field and jumped and skipped and threw frisbees and although I was there with my family never had I felt more alone in the world. I felt grateful for having my husband and son, and sad for friends I know who must truly socially isolate, without others to run with or laugh with or hold into the darkness of the many nights ahead.

Our world is indeed upside down. It is incredible that so many in this country don’t know it yet, but it’s coming. Those rolling blackouts, each light of the life we have come to assume to be the only life we’ll ever know is put out, twinkling bright until it’s not. We are breathing fresh air and then sucked into the depths of the sea, suffocated with little warning.

But this isn’t a death sentence–for most of us. This too shall pass. We’ll dig out of this darkness at some point–in 3 months, in 6 months, in 18 months–but soon, soon enough, the lights will flicker on again, and there we’ll be, expected to move on and forget about how we’ve all drowned and resurfaced in our own reincarnation. Those of us who make it. The many of us who do. As we mourn those who did not. There, on the other side.

The darkness is upon us. It is not as scary as a tsunami or hurricane or tornado or earthquake, but with it is the same danger, at far greater scale. We see the waves pull back from the shore and stare out at the sand admiring the vast landscape of emptiness and loneliness. We take a breath and it feels like the waves will forever recede as we walk six feet apart from each other and question our agreement to not embrace or come near each other. And then, with the rumbling of the angriest gods, a tidal wave so big comes racing to shore, to us standing frozen still, staring at it in denial it could ever tackle us down so viciously.

How many of us believe it will come? It doesn’t matter. For it will.