For many years, I have made a family calendar as a Father’s Day gift with photos from the prior year. The calendar starts in July of the current year. Of course, some of the photos must be older than one year because I start putting the calendar together a few months early to get it ready and printed. March is that border. The photos are from one year old until April then they are two years old.
As I turned the page on my calendar, the photos shocked me. This was no April fool joke. They were from the first month of the pandemic. I had a moment when I thought I messed up and included much older photos. I had the opposite of déjà vu is: I felt like the photos could not be only two years old. They felt ancient.
I have written about the experience of having my adult-ish kids return home and leave – several times during the first year of the pandemic. I have written about my fears of COVID and working hard to get everyone to take precautions. But this was different.
What struck me, as 2020 appeared on my calendar, was the power of doubt and distance. We are just returning to a kind of normal. I am still wearing a mask when I go to a store, which I am doing more often than I did in 2020, but still infrequently. Yet, there are people who act as if the whole horrible situation is over and gone. I hope they are right.
I can’t say the second year of COVID moved quickly, but those photos from two years ago feel further from my present. Did this year feel like several years? It didn’t feel that slow while I was living it. I was busy and days flew by. But now, as I glance backward, the reverse route seems to stretch back well beyond only two years.
Part 2: Weight
I don’t think the issue is just about my perception of time; it is also about the enormity of the past two years. There were many major milestones. If I had to carry them all, it would be more than I could handle. Maybe it is the emotional weight of the past two years, the anxiety, fear, relief, and hope – and that cycle repeating over and over.
I remember riding a Superman roller coaster at a theme park many years ago. Instead of sitting in a seat, the riders were placed in a prone position, as if they were Superman flying. However, it didn’t feel that way. I felt like I was squatting on all fours and the only thing preventing me from dropping to a horrible death was the support under my belly. With roller coasters restraints that pushed me into a chair, I had the illusion I could hang on to something if the bar in front of me released. If this Superman tummy thing broke, my only hope was that I really could fly. I guess I’d fly for a few seconds. When the ride ended, all I felt was relief.
I haven’t become accustomed to that lack of control, helplessness, and unpredictability. I carry them with me. My mask may come on and off, but I am always carrying the concern and worry (and the mask!). And when hope appears, I am suspicious and tentative. When nothing bad happens, I am grateful and relieved.
Part 3: Balance
Right now, we are in a COVID sweet spot. People are behaving as if they believe this whole horrible two-year-long episode is over. I hope they are right, but I feel certain they are wrong. I want to take off my mask, but I am afraid of what might happen to the people I love.
Predictability is one of the many causalities of this pandemic. Uncertainty has become a permanent resident. Every choice feels like placing a bet in a casino, without the fun thrill.
Reading news of the world is horrifying. I give to charities and do what I can to assist, but it never seems like enough. I am frustrated by politics. I scream at the television and lament my fellow citizens’ clannishness. It is overwhelming. I face the issue and then, having looked at it, wish I could close my senses and retreat.
I am tempted to quote Dickens (and some of you know my deep relationship with the work I am about to reference), but I am so grateful that these past two years were not the worst of times – for me. They were for so many – and continue to be horrible! There were some moments that ironically felt like the best of times. My children were home, then they left. We were all together and could support each other - and then we were apart and on our own again.
Part 4: Now
It was two years ago that the world got sick. It has only become more so and in ever-increasingly complex ways. Denying what we have experienced feels disrespectful to all of those who have suffered. Selfishly focusing on my people will not protect them. I wish the pandemic were truly over. I will do what the public health folks tell me is best for our collective health, but I am painfully aware that this is a group project – and like these projects back in school, too many members of our group are not doing their fair share. The good may not balance out the bad. Our current health may not protect us against future illness.
Yes, I must learn to cherish now – and consider how to help others while preparing for an uncertain future. But I should not sacrifice present joys to future anxieties and horrors. I can be grateful for my good fortune, help those who are struggling, and stay grounded in this positive potential. These past decades, I mean years, have taught me how agonizingly fragile the present might be.
No comments:
Post a Comment