Tag: COVID

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From Ordinary to Narrative

Detour

photo of pathway surrounded by fir trees
Photo by James Wheeler on Pexels.com

A wise woman once told me the only way through grief is straight through. While this is no doubt true, a new distraction surely isn’t cheating. Four months into the grieving process, I sought just this. I won’t say it was altogether clear to my disordered mind but it was happening all the same. My initial attempts at distraction consisted of partaking in obsessive late night depressive gorging and almost regretfully forgoing the gluttony of alcoholic oblivion. My email seemed bombarded with lonely ladies from China and Eastern Europe vying for my attention. Although feeling like quite the catch I decided to forgo these generous advances. Exercise was a possibility although a foreign idea as of late. I found it difficult to muster more than a shuffle with my heavy heart. Certainly calls with loved ones helped. Frenetic cleaning of closets and storage areas helped briefly but all were riddled with emotional traps. 

Then possibly because it was ridiculous, inconvenient and chaotic I came to the brilliant conclusion that what this grief stricken mind needed was to adopt a furry dependent to absorb into an already busy four-child, three-pet house. My husband, needless to say, did not feel the same way. His grief sought order. A much more reasonable approach. Nights of discussions and heartfelt pleas – on both sides – ended in my husband ever willingly but against his better judgement saying yes. Enter stage right – the object of my obsession, ahem, attention, became a 12 week old Newfoundland and Labrador puppy. While not exactly tiny, I’m not sure if he understood the weighty emotions he was going to carry on those furry and ever growing shoulders. 

Before passing judgement please be aware that in no way did I believe a puppy and all of its demands and needs was a cure for all that ailed me, but I reasoned in the long dark hours of the night that it seemed appropriate to add some joy where so much had been extinguished. And yes, getting a large breed was probably necessary to carry the emotional burden waiting to greet it. I have no regrets at all about adding another creature who wakes me up and competes for my attention. I would recommend a puppy to most anyone who understands the work involved. I would not, however, recommend getting a new puppy the same week one discovers they and their entire family have COVID. This was the reality for us.

We had a very happy ride to pick up a gangly and carsick puppy and about 26 hours of lively debate to discuss enthusiastically as children do, what its name would be. I am raising staunch supporters in various name camps. At an oddly advanced time of ownership, his name was Puppy with no resolution in sight when we had our first positive Covid test. That was about the time Puppy peed on the floor. 

For the next two weeks, IT came for us all. Some had fevers, the throw-ups, sore throats, runny noses or some combination of them all. The only thing it did not bring was sleep it seemed. Then there was the worry. As a parent I have scoured the information about COVID and yes, most was reassuring but there is always a sliver of doubt which makes just enough room between the cracks of certainty for all manner of monster to creep.  Through it all Puppy went outside approximately every 7.5 minutes being potty trained, ate a myriad of kleenex – both fresh from the many boxes available to him and those containing hazardous waste, – bit fingers and toes of the unwell and discovered one of the greatest joys of being a puppy – the cats. 

Mostly I stumbled sleep-deprived around the house during this time holding buckets, dispensing meds, reassuring sad, sick children, replenishing empty kleenex boxes both from Puppy and tiny sore noses, all the while attending to Puppy who although perplexed by his new surroundings was quite willing to fall into a puppy slumber beside a little child who felt terrible about most things except the fact her fingers were entwined in puppy fur. 

I suppose that is the problem with both grief and distraction. It isn’t orderly. It isn’t linear. It takes you places you can’t foresee. As a mother I dodged COVID as long as I possibly could and it came for us anyway. Also as a mother I sought distraction and I certainly achieved it just not how I envisioned. The grief, of course, remains. But alongside it are small but not inconsequential moments of joy. That I didn’t see coming either. 

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From Ordinary to Narrative

Loss

A few weeks ago I walked straight into the edge of a door. I hit it squarely and the impact of it bounced me back and onto the floor collapsed in a heap and stunned. I could feel the swelling immediately upon staggering back to a standing position. This was the least painful thing I had done that week. My mother had just died. 

Like walking into a door, the news of my mother’s passing blindsided me. I suppose it shouldn’t have in some ways. People die and die unexpectedly and my mother has had a very tough last 15 months. And yet this news hit me far worse than any mere door to the forehead. I fell down then too. Unfathomable. This could not be true. And yet it was. And while I got up and walked down the hall to find my husband I could not believe I was about to tell him something that I could not believe myself. And then I started to throw up and did not stop for hours. My body was in agony reflective of my heart.

I ached for myself, my father, my children, my sisters, my aunts and uncles and my mom’s friends. And I ached for my mom. There was a selfishness there for me. I wanted more of my mom. I wanted to talk to her. I wanted to say important things and have the luxury of saying unimportant things. I just wanted more. Not uncommon I know. I wanted more for my children. I wanted their relationship with my mom to continue. How can that be broken? They are so young and even if they can’t understand it, they feel it. The first loss. A big one.

I could call my mom and tell her anything about my children, her grandchildren, and she would light up. She would console. She would advise. She would reassure. She would find the humour and importance in it all.  My children and I have lost that. Without warning and no preparation. In a sense I  don’t think we can recover from that. 

There is more than sadness. There is rage. I’m angry for my mom. She was robbed. She struggled for over a year to be healthy again. She had hopes and dreams to be reunited with family under the strain of daring to live in a pandemic. We talked about seeing each other in the summer. No, the fall. Surely, Christmas. My eight year old daughter, sobbing many times, said she was afraid she would never see my parents again. I promised myself I would always be honest with my children but I told her, “Of course we would.”  We just needed to be patient and keep calling and writing letters. We will see them on whatever next important date hadn’t yet passed. And while I said these words I shared the same fears my daughter did and yet there wasn’t anything we could do. We waited. We called. We facetimed. We cried. And despite these fears we had hope. Hope to see each other again. What a reunion it would be. And then my daughter realized her mother didn’t know everything and couldn’t promise to protect her from this pain. 

Helplessly trying to help my mom we called for long chats. We called many times a day for just minutes or marathon calls. We cajoled and encouraged. We disagreed and cried for sad evenings after. We tried our best to carry on with school and groceries and work all the while knowing there was a real fear that my daughter had been right. We wouldn’t see each other again. 

The rage comes and goes. I have been plenty angry in my life but until now I could not say truthfully that I had known blind rage. One night I went from beaten down crying to another feeling altogether. I felt it wash over me just as someone might have suddenly poured a bucket of water over me. Blind rage. Named appropriately. I couldn’t see but only felt out of body and out of control. The feeling lasted mere seconds and then was gone. I was left crying again, but it was there and it was real. 

Prior to being hurt in a car accident my mom was an avid hiker, a forceful personality and a ferocious mother. She loved her family fiercely. While my mother’s death won’t show up on COVID statistics, she like most of us were isolated and scared and remained that way for an unbearable time. Her accident and the following pain was too much for her body to withstand. After so long fighting through surgeries and disappointment and loneliness, my mother should have had more time. Not more time battling medical issues, but more time seeing who she wanted to see, hiking those beautiful Cape Breton trails, regaling her grandchildren with stories from her childhood, sharing a laugh with her own children she gave up so much for, and making retirement plans with my devoted father. Instead she died.  And it is this that I can not grasp.

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From Ordinary to Narrative

One Woman’s Garbage…

The other day as we were walking both the dog and the kiddies during these strange times, something in the grass caught my eye. The grass around these parts is mostly uniform in length and wouldn’t dare stray into crevices. It’s the well-ordered suburbs for us and the grass knows its place. Laying unperturbed by the seeming orderliness of the surrounding area was a rectangular cardboard box. It was a pregnancy test box laying out for all the world – or at least anyone not attached to a screen – to see, looking rather defeated but unashamed that someone took out its innards and peed on them. 

It was the fact that there was garbage boldly and haphazardly strewn in the well-shorn and obedient grass and also it was the intimate nature of such an item in such an open and public sphere that caught my attention. I should note as a mother of four, let me be clear, this time it wasn’t mine. 

The world it feels at times has gone mad with Covid and Covid fear, leaders flailing and floundering, slow roll outs, mental health crises, tragic stories unfolding of the innocent dying and suffering from Covid, Covid related issues and other sources of anguish, important people being brought down by disturbing accusations and a general dread. However, looking around as we trudge our well travelled route, I see the same houses. Same suburban men ritually cutting the grass in the evenings like it’s an understanding among them, same houses, same cars going too fast, same people committedly walking their dogs. However, there in the grass lay real evidence that something dramatic was happening in the area. True, someone could have planted said evidence in the grass. Perhaps the grass looked so inviting that someone decided to pee on the stick right then and there as they simply drove through on their way to…well people aren’t really going anywhere too much so that last theory doesn’t seem to hold water. Or pee in fact. So with my keen detective skills I deduce someone close by right now is either filled with delight, dread, fear, depression, happiness, nervousness, relief, or some combination of any or all of the above. My detective skills are keen, not pin-point accurate.

This one piece of cardboard meant an awful lot to someone or someones. It also meant something to me. It means despite the appearances of somewhat normality, life behind closed doors is still happening. 

The results of the pregnancy test may have made someone feel so happy and blessed. For the more secular, happy anyway.  Maybe because they have been trying for years to have a baby and finally their dream has become real. Maybe because they do not want a baby and the result was negative. It could be the baby was planned. Or unplanned. This too doesn’t determine the outcome of the person’s emotions. Is the woman worried about having a baby? Having a baby in a pandemic?! Is the woman concerned about her job? Her job in a pandemic?! Was this baby conceived in a loving stable relationship? Was this baby conceived by people not wanting a partnership? Was the baby conceived during an affair? Recently I read about a baby conceived after a Tinder hook-up and now there are custodial rights being argued in court. If there ever was another reason for careful birth control…Was the baby conceived at a fertility clinic? Did this test belong to Jlo in the Backup Plan and all will be well and seriously fit? Was this test bought after a rape? How old is the woman taking the test? If there is a partner, is the woman worried about their reaction to a possible baby?  Is this woman financially secure? Is she healthy?  Is there a partner? Is that a good thing? 

The juxtaposition of the box laying in the 4.5 inch grass shed a new light on our walk, at least for me. The children and dog seemed unconcerned of my musings. 

Norms exist as a way for society to function. It would indeed be nerve-wracking to wake up each day and not know what the expectations of behaviour are for that day. Have they changed how we are supposed to greet one another? Will curtsies be expected? Do we now gesture wildly so people can read our masked expressions more accurately? Will we wear placards to say “I am smiling openly at you to suggest good will and community support” or “I offer a faint smile bordering on grimace not to encourage closeness physically or emotionally”? Are we following the lead of so many and now expected to openly sexually harass others? Covid seems to have thrown a wrench, or perhaps a mask, into the works. Changing rules, changing etiquette, changing understanding of the science or at least the convenience of the science has left many people wondering how will the world function today? This one piece of trash reminded me of all that. 

Most days in my very narcissistic state I assume most people, other than perhaps the Tinder couple, are having similar days like I am. Someone who owned that box, was not. I hope for them and the possible new life, that all is well. In this time of isolation, it reminded me there are so many lives doing their best to endure and while this long crisis drags on, life is happening. 

For all the unanswered questions I do have about this piece of trash, I do know I would have an absolute field day at the dump. Ahem, waste management facility. I just need it to open.