From That to This

I was recently talking to someone about the early days of Covid and all that has transpired in our lives since then. The day we were sent home from the office, I had to send my boss a list of what I would be doing that justified my getting paid while working from home. There were things that needed to be fine-tuned and/or revamped, but my job was student focused and I was winging it when it came to accounting for my time. In those first few weeks it felt surreal for everyone in the neighborhood to be home all day every day, and there were offers of grocery runs, puzzles dropped off on porches, and long distance gatherings for wine and talk of how long this quarantine thing could possibly last. Four weeks tops is what we thought at the time.

After weeks of not seeing anyone, my son called and asked if he could spend the weekend with me. He was also alone, working from home, and climbing the walls. I told him to come over and the minute he walked in the door he burst into tears. “Oh, buddy,” I said, “I know.” None of us understood what was going on, and if there ever was a time we needed Mark’s knowledge it was then, but we didn’t have that so we watched movies and reset our attitudes when it became clear this wasn’t going to be over any time soon. Will came every weekend after that, and when he wasn’t here I’d dive into a junk drawer or closet with gusto. Twenty years from now if I’m asked about the Covid years, I will say that’s when I incessantly read the news and organized every inch of my life.

Things started opening up, I got let go from my day job, and my fun weekend job took center stage. Slowly a new normal began to take shape which wasn’t nearly as terrifying to me as the new normal after Mark died. I went with the flow because if you learn anything in grief it’s that the more you fight it the more it controls your life. In the process, I have found out I’m more suited to a quiet life than I ever thought possible. Now that most things have returned to close to where they used to be, I’m overwhelmed by normalcy. Everything seems too much, too loud, too crowded. Relationships that were always challenging have run their course. I can’t do them any more. My energy reserves are at an all time low for problems that aren’t my own.

One of my favorite gifts this Christmas was an amaryllis bulb dipped in wax. I loved it so much I bought two for gifts. Every day I checked its progress and by centimeters it grew. I’d rotate it so all sides got to face the sunlight and when it bloomed I was as happy as my mom would be when her Christmas cactus sprouted color. It was gorgeous and I’d say “Look at you,” like it was my kid learning to ride a bike. In talking to my therapist, I wondered if this contentment from something so small was from grief, age, or Covid. “Probably a combination of all three,” she said.

During that awful time when Covid was ravaging the world, I watched a news report about a woman whose mother died, like most alone in a hospital ICU. The funeral was held in a parking lot and she sat on a folding chair underneath a canopy next to her mother’s casket where friends and family drove by to pay their respects. Such a contrast to Mark’s funeral, and I wondered how it is possible to survive the heartache of not only losing your mom, but then having to say your goodbyes on top of asphalt while people shouted condolences from car windows.

And yet somehow, I, like so many others have survived the heartache of the unimaginable. I’ve learned, I’ve changed far more than anyone realizes, I have oh-so-delicately dipped my toes into the pool of life and tested the water. This go ’round, though, is different. Because I am too familiar with how fragile this all is, the best approach for me is to live smaller and quieter. Will it always be like this? I don’t know, but I do know it’s the reason the beauty of a single blooming bulb in the darkest time of the year made me yearn for more of that.

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9 thoughts on “From That to This”

  1. Me too, I notice that I get overwhelmed by the smallest of things. I want quiet all the time. I want to downsize and rid my life of everything except the essentials. I love this piece. Your picture is perfect for it. Thank-you.

  2. Once again, beautiful thoughts and sentiments. As I sit here in my Michigan State University neighborhood home, reeling from the pain of last night, I find immense comfort in your words. And from my amaryllis waxed bulb my cousin gave me that is blooming. Thank you for being a writer of stories and comfort.

  3. Love this ❤️
    I had to work 24/7 for those first 18 months.
    I’m a completely different person now.
    I love my peace and quiet.
    I realised how over scheduled and overcommitted my life had been.
    I also realised there were a lot of people in my life whom I also had challenging relationships with.
    The liberation of moving away from all the chaos has made my world an infinitely better place.
    I always knew we had very little control over what happened in our lives, other that how we chose to respond.
    2020 2021 just reaffirmed my belief.

  4. Kathy – This is so true and totally transparent in our current life circumstances.
    Thank you once again for giving us hope.
    Tom & Judy xo

  5. Beautiful! This is why we left a big city of noise, traffic, people, crime and high costs, when we retired when we moved to a small rural mountain town. We will never leave. There is no price for peace. Less is more.
    I hope you find this too. ❤️

  6. My husband suffered with kidney cancer that had metastasized to his brain and lung. He lived a little over 4 years and died last September. We lived through the COVID time basically alone for about 2 of those years. We only went to Dr appts and I went grocery shopping through these years. Now everything seems so overwhelming for me, from people who ask me to do and go, holiday’s, and the things that have to be taken care of after your husband dies.
    I have been reading “A Speckled Trout” for awhile and have felt that reading about your feelings and how you have dealt has helped. Thank you.

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