Grief is weird.
I can’t keep a thought in my head.
Not for very long, anyhow. It’s like Tron all up in there, with neon thoughts zipping around and pinging off of walls. (Wait, that’s Tron, isn’t it? Or am I thinking of Pong with with the addition of laser sounds?) We should have the kids watch Tron, once I remember what it is. But definitely not Blade Runner– too real.
This is my problem.
This is one of my problems.
My biggest problem- one I’m extraordinarily lucky to have- is that my biggest problem isn’t really a problem. My privilege has its own privilege, it’s so large.
P.J. has worked from home for years- his job is secure, and we’re secure in that we’re not newly navigating the whole “home together” thing for the first time during a quarantine. (It was hard enough back when we had the ability to go walk off any frustrations in the hallowed halls of Unique Thrift.) I’ve been able to see some of my own clients virtually. We- weirdly- had enough random technology to piece together a working school set up for my kindergartener, second, and fourth graders.
I even remember enough math to help the first two kids.
My kids are healthy. My kids enjoy puttering and open-ended games and building things out of found materials. (They even do some semblance of chores before “fun” screen time options are back on the table for the afternoon, though you’d definitely think they were being asked to tuckpoint the Great Wall of China with a toothpick.)
Our work keeps us away from the frontlines and out of harm’s way in a neighborhood with an abundance of safely distanced food sources and in a city (and state!) with exceptional leadership.
So why…
…does it feel like I need to throw up each night.
My anxiety, worthy of a whole ‘nother series of posts, takes up physical space in this house. It’s keeping my brain stuck on fast-forward, jumping from worksheets to internet connections to Zoom meetings to clients to shelf-stable meal planning to laundry to things I should be doing, to things I should be letting myself take a break from (so says the internet), to necessary tasks related to the imminent move, to keeping my kids safe and happy-ish, to grief, grief, grief. And then back to worksheets.
Wash, rinse, repeat.
(I kid. There’s very little washing, except for our hands.)
I worry.
I am so worried- about our country, my loved ones, and my kids’ futures, both immediate and long-term. I worry about people for whom I don’t even need to know in order to empathize and sympathize. I grieve for parents mourning their children. I grieve for children mourning their parents. I grieve for families being unable to celebrate or comfort or experience milestones together.
I rage at an ineffective, reality show administration, and devout followers sowing the seeds of hatred. I choke up at people spreading good news and deeds, and marvel at the Americans who are finding new ways to innovate and help. (And then I grieve some more because, with the proper infrastructure and and leadership, this all shouldn’t have happened this way, this deadly, and no amount of goodness that comes out of this pandemic will ever amend the lives lost.)
This shouldn’t have happened.
This should not have happened.
And then I grief-rage even a bit more with the knowledge that, there will forever be citizens who, unless they are personally affected, will not care. Will not change. Will not believe.
I don’t know about you, but I’m no longer appreciating the kind of narrative at the end of a disaster movie where the bad guy finally sees the light, where he finally wants to be part of the solution, and where he extends a hand in a desperate plea to be given the last seat on the rescue helicopter.
I’m finding it very hard to muster up patience and acceptance for the glacially slow dawning that’s occurring to folks one at a time in the Twitterverse and on Facebook. You’ve seen it, right? As people realize that their situation is not unique. That their loved ones are not above the “acceptable” level of thinning the herd. That they- weirdly- are not in the 1%. That maybe- maybe– they’ve been lied to. That perhaps the easily dismissed hatred towards people who “made bad choices” might. Not. Be. Such. A. Sturdy. Lifeboat.
Call me old fashioned, but I’m not feeling a ton of sympathy towards anyone who hasn’t, you know, BEEN USING BASIC KINDNESS AS A DIVINING ROD THE WHOLE DAMN TIME.
I’ll eventually be glad to have them aboard, but holy shit, even my six year-old grasps the “do unto others” thing better than many, many (many) adults lately.
(This should not have happened.)
Speaking of my six year-old, this might be how we get to remember Chicago.
But, like so many other things…
The only way out is through. Right? So we’ll continue to quarantine, mostly patiently. We’ll pack up our lives in Chicago with the heavy knowledge that we might not get to do even a fraction of the things we’d dreamed about with even a fraction of our beloved community here.
And I’ll keep reminding my kids that, even though there are gigantic problems in the world, in Chicago, in their neighborhood, their individual problems are legit. (You can weep over large-scale atrocities and acknowledge that your broken arm really, really hurts.)
When my Dad was dying and had just entered hospice, a colleague remarked to me that he hoped I’d make the most of that “truly beautiful experience.” At the time, that sentiment did not land well. Oh yes, I’ll be sure to seek out the beauty of my Dad starving to death. But here’s the weirdest part:
He was right.
There were moments during those incredibly sad weeks where the simplicity of a gesture or the quietude of sitting in a sunbeam took my breath away. I was able to hold my Dad’s hand with the knowledge that, right then, in that very space, I was just being with my Dad. And it was a gift.
It doesn’t take away in the slightest the cruelty that had preceded or would follow, but it did provide me with snapshots that still manage to bring me comfort amidst the grief.
Now, again, I’m not saying that this quarantine will have been worth it because of the times I’ve gotten to snuggle my six year-old to sleep or the fact that we’ve followed through on a long-held goal to paint alongside a Bob Ross episode, but I do know that this long (long) time has beauty aplenty.
That brings me a small amount of comfort.
I hope that, when I look back on this time in the far, far, out-in-the-world future, I remember the beauty and the gratitude and the comfort.
And- if I may be permitted one more hope to add to the pile? I hope that these are the kinds of things we carry into re-opened society with us. Beauty. Gratitude. Comfort. (Alongside “believing scientists and medical professionals the first time.” Too sci-fi/fairytale too soon?)
No, you know what? I’m definitely hoping for some hope, too. Yep, I’m going all “wishing for more wishes” with this one.
I’m tired of anger and fear. I’m ready- or almost, almost ready- to go with hope. But it’s going to have to be the active kind. The aggressive “verb” kind of hope. That’s what I’m going to choose to bring back out into the light of day.
(And maybe one or two Bob Ross-esque canvases that’ll sell for a tidy profit.)
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