On the Passage of a Year

Hi friends,

A year ago today, everything changed for the second time. Our child was born at the end of November, and the end of February brought the end of my maternity leave and my gradual return to work. In many ways we'd been simultaneously profoundly isolated and drowning in people: we were so lucky to have an almost constant merry-go-round of visits from family and a few very close friends for those three months, but we also barely left the house for fear of exposing our sweet and as-yet unvaccinated newborn to any possible wayward germs. The prospect of leaving him to go out into the world everyday again was predictably gutwrenching.

On February 29th, we took our child to a restaurant--one of our favorite brunch places that always plays funk and Motown and has delicious pancakes--for the first time during my mom's third or fourth visit to see her grandson. That same visit, Mom accompanied us to pick up a gigantic grocery order because we'd heard about that alarming mystery virus and, since we were already in hunker-down defenses-up mode because of our new baby, I think we were primed to overreact. The workers at the store were so sweet and helpful as they fit groceries into every corner of our car, clearly and reasonably, at the time, thinking we were going a little overboard. I don't remember exactly when Mom's next visit was supposed to be, but the wait wasn't supposed to be long.

My first day back was at my once-a-week hospital gig, then I started to see some out-of-state teletherapy clients who I could mercifully see from home, and then, at the beginning of March, I returned to my private practice office with my plants and my client charts. Although it was hard being away from home, it was so nice to see my office--the first office I'd ever gotten to fully furnish and decorate myself--was as I had left it. I was so glad to see my clients for the first time in months, and share a few greeting hugs after not seeing each other for a while.

I remember calling my mom a few days later because I was feeling panicky about the virus making its way with almost perfect invisibility through various points in the States, again wondering if I was overreacting.

I called my brother one particularly anxious night to ask his advice on doing an additional grocery store run after putting my child down for the night, and went ahead with it. A woman in the beans aisle told me her recipe for a delicious meal using coconut milk, and the woman behind me in the checkout line was loading up on packets of ramen noodles.

On March 12th, I called my dad on the way to Target for one last supply run to talk about the WHO declaring a pandemic the day before. He had a work trip to the East coast coming up and had planned to use it as an excuse to come visit us again. Once I had rounded up a few snacks and basics at Target, including diapers and formula, I chatted with strangers in the checkout line for the last time in over a year. I put on a cheerful face, knowing everyone was spooked and on edge. The shelves were already so bare. The woman in front of me in line was buying diapers for her friend's child, and I told her she was being a great friend. You don't want to go without diapers.

Later, I would be grateful I had the foresight to take my charts and still-alive office plants back home with me that night, out of what seemed like an abundance of caution. My private practice partner and I scrambled to draft an email explaining the abrupt transition to teletherapy to our clients in a way that demonstrated our conscientiousness, considered optimism, and care for everyone's safety, and I updated a teletherapy consent form we could both use.

On March 15th, perhaps perplexingly, I went to get a massage. I've relied on monthly massages for years to keep my ever-accumulating somatized stress at bay and they're therefore a foundational part of my self-care. They'd been essentially the only thing that had drawn me out of the house alone during my maternity leave. Either after or before, I talked with my best friend about the bizarre dissonance of being terrified of what seemed like a looming tidal wave of catastrophe but also engaging in the seemingly absurd bourgeois indulgence of a massage. I teased myself, asking, "Which is it?? Are we preparing for the apocalypse, or are we hanging out in a room with another person for an hour to work out the bullshit in my shoulders?" The next weekend I had a haircut scheduled with a note from my stylist that I should bring my baby to introduce them to everyone. That was canceled by the salon.

My hospital is an excellent place to work, but most institutions tend to be a bit underly nimble in the face of abrupt, world-sweeping, unexpected change. Just as my first day back at work was at the hospital, so was my last day, on March 16th. I anxiously Purelled and washed my hands at every conceivable opportunity. Despite my recent massage (or perhaps demonstrating their necessity?) I carried myself as tightly as possible, tensing my shoulders to keep from superfluously brushing against any surfaces. I promised my families I'd tell them as soon as possible whether the hospital would transition to teletherapy. Thankfully, by my next day working for the hospital, they had.

I got home that day and immediately changed out of my work clothes. I may have rinsed off. The Governor had announced a temporary statewide shut-down starting that evening to fend off too much revelry--too much uninhibited togetherness--on St. Patrick's Day. Husband, Child, and I got in our car and drove into the county, into the woods, bolting like frightened horses and grasping at what, on some level, we knew would be our last foray out into the world for a long time. We thought about getting pizza, but the pizza place we liked was closed on Mondays. We'd be cooking for ourselves for months to come. After three months of seemingly unending visits from loved ones, we braced ourselves to be, for an undetermined span of time, alone. And now a year has passed.

I miss you all. This year has been horrible, lonely, terrifying, and sad. But, thanks to whatever compassion and grace exist in this world, we've made it this far. I can't wait to hug you again, to share space at work again, to eat together again, to visit each other again, to get massages and haircuts and to introduce you to my on-the-cusp-of-no-longer-being-a-baby child. Stay safe and well until that's possible again, hopefully soon enough.

{Heart}