Last night, I came home after an intense couple of days. Spoiler: I’m fine, my mom’s fine, no need to read further unless you want to share in some processing about aging and life in general.
I have been given an amazing gift that I never take for granted. My mom is 90, healthy “for her age,” sharp, and at the moment, living independently in her own home. A few years ago, she and my father moved from a state away to be 15 minutes from my house. My siblings supported the move, which I’m grateful for. I am 16 and 12 years younger than each of them and have always been a bit jealous that in the end, they would have had that many more years with our parents than I. So I figure I’m getting more “quality of time” now.
The pandemic made things a bit harder, of course. All efforts were on keeping Madame safe, so no one went in her house, and she didn’t come into ours. I met her for our thrice-weekly walks on her sidewalk, and we’d visit in her backyard. My sister, who lives about an hour away, would come for short visits (no using her bathroom!) in her backyard, and when it was cold, they sat, masked, in my mom’s garage. My brother once drove straight through from Missouri to stay in a motel and come over for backyard visits. Longer visits were coordinated with 2 week windows of scrupulous quarantining on both sides. I probably don’t have to tell you – you’ve done similar with your family.
But we made it through and are all vaccinated. Madame and I revel in being in each other’s homes again, grandkids (all vaxxed) soak up time with her. She and I have begun slowly making our way out into the world, masked, but going in stores and such.
And then, Thursday, I got a call from my 16 year old who had spent the night with Madame. “She said to tell you she’s confused and can’t understand things.” I asked if she could smile with both sides of her mouth (she could), then jumped into the car. Picked her up and we shot over to the ER near her house, the ER we have visited at least 4 or 5 times this past year for a fall (tip: sit down before pulling a tshirt over your head), high blood pressure, those kinds of things.
They ran her through the tests – CT, blood, ekg – to see if she was having a stroke or heart event. The doctor explained it was most likely a TIA and advised her as to the set of tests she would need to have over the next couple of weeks, or, we could go to a full-service hospital and get them all done at once. Which would also be a little safer, as she’d be under their observation. Mom is always one for efficiency, so she chose the latter.
(Insert boring but stressful details involving my dear sister-in-law who was already on her way for a pre-scheduled visit thankfully, parking lot exchanges of checkbooks and cell chargers, gripes about medical personnel not communicating well, a million texts between family members, my spouse racing back from being out of town, and 2 pugs. Life is messy.) The hospital was not fun, no surprise. We got through it. There were arguments about me staying with her (Madame does not live up to the title I have jokingly given her – she hates being treated like a queen and despairs at being a burden.) I work very hard to make sure that we honor her right to make her own decisions, literally turning my head down when doctors come into a room so they talk to her, not me, but as I explained to her, me deciding to stay with her was in my dance space and unless she kicked me out, I was staying. She admitted to being grateful, especially when her night nurse turned out to have a strong Russian accent, and that combined with a mask was just beyond Madame’s ability to comprehend her speech, so she appreciated me serving as interpreter.
Some notes specifically about “when someone you love, maybe-but-they-can’t-tell-and-probably-didn’t” have a stroke: if the person was on high blood pressure meds, they will stop that, as the high blood pressure could actually be helpful at moving a clot. And they will come in every 4 hours not only to take vitals, but also to lead the patient through a series of tests involving describing what they see in a picture, speaking certain words, lifting up legs and arms, touching nose, answering questions, etc. Even at 4 in the morning, they will do this. “I’m not sure my mom could do that at 4 in the morning even on a good day,” I said doubtfully, but Madame succeeded, albeit with a rather annoyed tone of voice. She has never been a morning person, a trait shared with her youngest daughter.
Ageism is an issue starting much younger than she, but let me tell, the ageism on a 90-year-old is pervasive and infantilizing. Medical professional after medical professional would come into her room, commenting with amazement at how good she looked! And she still lived alone??? She was independent???
“What is that like, on your side, receiving those ‘compliments’?” I asked her.
Madame doesn’t roll her eyes, I’m not sure if she knows how to, but she communicates the feeling with a simple direct look.
(Please do not treat our elders like freaks of nature because they’re still living their lives and looking good while doing it.)
We finally got the golden ticket to go home, hopped (okay, carefully climbed) into my pickup, and took a quaint backwoods trip home, with Madame trying to direct me, and me insisting that we “trust the machines, Mom!” aka follow my GPS, which kindly avoided traffic and gave us an enjoyable hill country drive. She admitted “the machine” did a good job.
I left her in the capable care of my dear sister-in-law and the two pugs. As I said goodbye, she repeated her constant refrain of the two days, that I just couldn’t know how much she appreciated me.
In one of those moments back at the hospital, when she was feeling frustrated and a little low, I tried to explain. “I guess this is just the price we’ll pay for you being 90 – but it sure is worth it, at least to me.” All of this is new to both of us. My dad died 5 years ago, and her own mother died in her 60s. Neither of us has experience, firsthand or secondhand, of going through one’s 90s. We are, each in our own way, going through it together, figuring it out together. With every new experience, we debrief together afterwards about what we’ve learned. (Key learnings from this episode: keep a small “go bag” with toiletries for her and me, snacks, and a cell charger. Insist on better communication from doctors. Insist that when an ER doctor agrees to a plan, that the nurse in charge come into the room so that everyone is on the same page.)
And BY GOD, you’d better believe this is worth it. I know so many people who lost beloved parents far younger who would give anything to have this. A few times a year, dealing with a medical event in exchange for getting to share in the life of a loved one who is still enjoying life? Pretty slick deal, if you ask me.
She’s the only one who can decide if it’s worth it to her. We talk often about what it’ll be like when the bad days outnumber the good. She’s still in the driver’s seat and her kids will never ask her to suffer for us. But for now, she’s choosing to keep up our walks, meeting twice a week with a physical therapist (“and doing those mmph! exercises”), eating her vegetables, taking her meds.
Because living is worth it.
The next 5 months are probably going to be kinda weird. Uncertainty and anxiety flying all over the place. Duck! And then after that ... it's also going to be kinda weird, but a different kind of weird, as we move into the After Times, and figure out what exactly they're going to be like, and what exactly WE are going to be like.
It is in times like these, that I like to turn to art to help make sense of it all.
I refer, of course, to the art known as the television series Doctor Who. I mean, if we know things are going to be weird, we probably should look at some art that deals with the weird, right? Now's the time to examine Hieronymous Bosch and Marc Chagall. And Doctor Who, that time-traveling, face-shifting hero.
Part of the Doctor Who story (and why it's been able to keep going so long) is that rather than die, the Doctor regenerates, retaining who they are, but with a different face, body, and to a certain extent, a different personality.
Immediately after the regeneration into actor David Tennant's Doctor, the character mused:
I’m the Doctor. But beyond that I just don’t know. I literally do not know who I am. It’s all untested. Am I funny? Am I sarcastic? Sexy? Right old misery? Life and soul? Right-handed, left-handed? A gambler, a fighter, a coward, a traitor, a liar, a nervous wreck?
We have survived a global pandemic. We have experienced a year like no other. Who are we now? As individuals?
Cartoonist Emily Flake did a strip about this for The New Yorker, sorting through feeling different about hugs, being around other people, and her feelings about herself. I don't know about you, but "I eat flies now," may be how I introduce myself for the next year.
What this means: we cannot assume anything about each other anymore. Our ourselves, for that matter. So for a while, we need to learn to communicate very clearly and directly about what we want or don't want, and most importantly: do not assume.
Do not assume that your friend who was always a hugger still is.
Do not assume your extroverted friend still is.
DO NOT ASSUME THAT WHAT YOU ARE FEELING, EVERYONE IS FEELING.
DO NOT ASSUME THAT PEOPLE CAN KNOW WHAT YOU ARE THINKING.
One of the positive things that may come out of this pandemic is if we will take more seriously the entire issue of consent. Not just sexually, but all touch. Everything, really. For the next few months, I can see "Do you mind if I remove my mask?" becoming a fair question, even when everyone together has been vaccinated. Our threshold for risk, and for comfort, will not be the same.
Like everything, there is opportunity in this. Including opportunities for ourselves.
As humans, we have evolved to be wary of change. In a church, you see this all the time. I like to jokingly remind our leaders that if we change brands of toilet paper, someone is liable to leave the church over it.
Welp, this year our theme could be the line from one of our hymns: Don't be afraid of some change. Because whether you were afraid or not, change was here. Time to learn Zoom. And Youtube Premiere. And in non-church life, curbside pickup for everything from dinner to craft supplies.
We changed. We didn't have a choice in the matter. Trust me, if we'd had an actual choice, if the alternative was not literally potential death, we would have held lots of committee meetings, weighed the pros and cons, and decided nope, we were not going to change.
But we did. And now, slowly I hope, because it's the right and healthy and covenantal thing to do ... we will change again. We'll come back to church. Go back to eating dinner inside a restaurant where people put hot plates in front of us and then whisk them away when they're empty. Realize we're out of that one ingredient and run up to the grocery store to grab it.
In some ways, we'll go back to what used to be, but in so many other ways, we can't really go back, and shouldn't. We have learned things. We won't just do things because we've always done them that way, whether it's Thanksgiving at Grandmas, or shaking hands with everyone we meet.
So, again, we are facing change, and doesn't it seem like it's going to take a lot of energy? We may not particularly like our routine now, but after a year, we've gotten it down. It's familiar. And boy, we like familiar. To change now means going back to uncertainty - how will things be different, how will they be the same? We will have to make decisions, choices, again.
In 1816, Lord George Gordon Byron wrote his poem, "Prisoner of Chillon," telling the real-life story of François Bonivard who was imprisoned in the Castle of Chillon for his political activism. Byron imagined himself as Bonivard, telling the tale of despair, and wrote of when men came to set him free: "And thus when they appear'd at last, And all my bonds aside were cast, These heavy walls to me had grown A hermitage—and all my own!"
We have repurposed our homes, making them into offices, daycares, and entertainment venues. We've lived multiple days, never leaving. And we have been shaped by this time. Our relationships have taken on new dimensions through this. In the good moments, it has been a new privilege, to spend so much time with loved ones. In difficult moments, we have learned more about ourselves, and what we need to feel centered and mentally healthy.
Of course, our feelings right now are complicated.
Lord Byron ends the narrative poem with:
We have grown friends with aspects of this lockdown. And it has made us what we now are.
It's okay to sigh.
We are hopeful that the end of the pandemic and a return to some of the things we've missed is on the horizon, even if it's a few months away. But we may feel confused at our own feelings of not being happy, or being anxious at the thought of things getting "back to normal."
And then there's the feeling of camaraderie, of sharing an experience with many people.
Going through something difficult together - even if we are in separate houses while doing so - is often a bonding experience. For those of us who have chosen to take the pandemic seriously, even if our individual circumstances have been different, we have still had similar challenges. It has been reassuring, as a parent, to hear that other families have had some of the same frustrations, like when blogger/author Jen Hatmaker shared on Instagram, "I just cannot look at the grades. I can't do it. I can't look at the missing assignments or those that scored under 70%..."
Solidarity, Sister-Parent!
My beloved grandmother, whom we called "Mama Lanie," used to pat my hand when we were doing something ordinary but fun, and say"We're making memories." Well, this year, we've been doing many things, and many of them decidedly NOT FUN, but we have, in point of fact, been making memories. And many of these are shared memories. Years from now, like veterans getting together for a reunion, we will talk about 2020 and 2021 or the Great Pandemic, or whatever the future will name this period. We will swap stories of searching for toilet paper or creating homemade proms and graduations, and there will be threads going through all these stories that link us all. Unlike the veterans, this happened to all of us, all around the world, except you Australia, with your highfalutin mature and responsible government.
The movie The Breakfast Club is about 5 high school students, seemingly very different, who spend a Saturday in detention together and learn things about themselves and each other, and bond. But at the end of the day, one of the kids asks, "What is going to happen to us on Monday? I mean, I consider you guys my friends. I'm not wrong, am I?"
What's going to happen on Monday? This year, we've faced harrowing decisions. There is a deep and soul grief that over 2 million of us have died from this, half a million+ in the United States. Black, Indigenous, and other People of Color, and those with the least financial means have been affected disproportionately, but it has affected all peoples. We haven't all been in the same boat, but we've all been in the same ocean, even rich celebrities.
And there has been some sense of a shared purpose. Of helping each other out. Of getting a vaccine, and getting those shots in arms.
We've lifted up those who have been on the frontlines, our heroes, teachers, grocery store clerks, nurses, and spoken of how they needed to be better compensated, treated with more respect...
What's going to happen on Monday?
We are looking ahead, now, to things getting back to normal after this long, long year of detention, but we wonder: are we going to forget the feelings of having a shared experience? There has been an odd sense of togetherness, ironic considering we were so apart. We laugh at hearing how Prince Philip closes his laptop when he's done with a Zoom call or watch a video of Dolly Parton getting her vaccine.
As you walk on by
We have the hope that the covid-19 pandemic's end is in sight ... and it's bringing up a lot of feelings. Not all of them happy.
Many of us are feeling some level of anticipatory anxiety.
The anxiety is rooted in a fear that almost all of us have, in some form or another. The fear that others will make us do something we don't want to do. Whether it is through what can feel like the aggression of "your job depends on this," or the polite friendliness of social obligations, we pre-emptively worry about being dominated.
Look, the pandemic made saying "No" to in-person events super easy. So easy, in fact, that we didn't even have to say no, because no invitations were forthcoming. We didn't have to send regrets, we were all living in a world where responsible people didn't get together. Heck, those of us who before might feel we were being antisocial could now feel self-righteous! A win/win!
I kid, but only a little.
We anticipate that people will have expectations of us. Expectations that we will come into the office building, show up for church, the PTA meeting, family gatherings. Expectations that we'll put on pants.
Combine those anticipated expectations with how we may be feeling, and it all adds up to a heaping serving of anxiety.
We've gotten pretty accustomed to this life we've been living the past year. It may not be fun, per se, but it's familiar. And humans love familiar and fear change.
Shame, too, may be mixed into this. Fear that we didn't "make the most" of the pandemic time. We didn't become buff like Sarah Connor in Terminator 2 or Uncle Iroh in Avatar: The Last Airbender. We didn't learn how to play violin or read A Brief History of Time. Worry that we're going to have to clean the house.
Frankly, a lot of us are softer than we were a year ago, and our minds duller.
Well, duh! We were going through a global pandemic! I mean, who looks back at the people who survived the London Blitz and asks, "Yeah, but how was your yoga routine during all that?"
Give me a break.
Give YOU a break.
The work that is to come will be to separate out the genuine have-tos (like your boss saying you need to come back to the office, or your doctor saying no more tele-health) from the expectations of family and friends. Take it slow with the latter. Make it short social visits to start.
And ask "why?" Why does the PTA meeting need to be in person? Why do I need to work in the office rather than at home? There were assumptions made pre-pandemic that we have proven don't hold true. Ask lots of questions.
And know that you're not alone in this. A lot of us are sharing our anxieties. Let's make it acceptable to say, "I can come over, but just for a little bit. I don't want to get the Covid-Bends."
And we'll all nod knowingly.
Hello, I am the Pandemic Elf. I am your trail guide through the Holiday Path winding through the Pandemic Forest. My job is to point out detours, sinkholes, and other dangers so they don't catch you unawares.
Today's issue: Holiday Movies!
The tradition is our family is that the first holiday show to watch is the How the Grinch Stole Christmas. The original and the best, the 1/2 hour long special voiced by Boris Karloff. It is so much our family tradition that when my son was a senior in high school, and way too cool for family things, I jokingly asked him if he wanted us to wait for him the next year (when he would be away at college.) He sort of smirked and said nothing as we watched it. Then that night, as he headed for bed, he paused at the foot of the stairs. "Wait for me," he said softly.
We settled in, after our Thanksgiving dinner, for this year's viewing. Aforementioned son, now 24, was staying away because he is a very good and ethical citizen, and takes Dr. Fauci's advice seriously.
But the rest of us watched the beautiful little morality play about how Christmas doesn't come from a store, it's all about being together with people you care about, holding hands in one giant circle and singing. Fah who foraze! Dah who doraze!
Well, ____ (insert expletive of your choice).
Well, THAT is kind of ironic. The three things you really MUST. NOT. DO. in this time of covid-19 are as follows, and I quote:
1. Be together with others.
2. Hold hands.
3. Sing with others.
Stink! Stank! Stunk!
Later on in the weekend, we watched Elf. The message wasn't quite as ironic, but both The Husband and I expressed discomfort at watching Jovie and Buddy walk, carefree and joyous, through the crowds of New York. It's just impossible, I think for most of us to suspend our disbelief. I mean, an elf from the North Pole, Santa and his sleigh ... completely believable. I mean, even narwhals are real, so I've been told, though I'm still a little doubtful.
But walking through a crowd, no one wearing a mask? It looks ... naked. Unsafe. Like watching someone on a roller coaster without the safety bar pulled down.
Sigh.
Look, the movies were all made in the Before Times. And so prepare to be pulled up a little short. To be reminded that what we are living in right now is decidedly not normal.
When you are ready to face that full-on, and maybe even deal a little with your grief about how hard this is, grab a box of tissues, plan a pity party, and watch Meet Me in St. Louis.
This is the musical that the wonderful song, "Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas" comes from. I have had issues with the sanitized version of the song for many years ... and 2020 is the YEAR THAT PROVES ME RIGHT ON THIS.
Because the words as they are sung in the movie are exactly what are needed this year. It's like the song was written by someone who was living in 2020 and had a time machine and went back in time to give it to Judy Garland.
Are you ready for this?
Got tissues?
Have yourself a merry little Christmas, let your heart be lightHello, I am the Pandemic Elf. I am your trail guide through the Holiday Path winding through the Pandemic Forest. My job is to point out detours, sinkholes, and other dangers so they don't catch you unawares.
First up: MUSIC!
So I was hurtling down TX-130 (literally - the speed is 80, and judging by the vehicles around me, that's a minimum speed) to meet my best friend, the BFF-DRE, in La Grange, which is more or less the middle point between her house in Houston and mine in Austin. I turned on a Spotify playlist of songs from Firestone Christmas albums which some dear soul compiled to kind of jump-start my holiday spirit.
Oh my.
Oh my my my.
This is not 2019. Things are different this year.
As each song came on, I couldn't help but talk back to them, and rather sardonically:
♪ It's the Most Wonderful Time of the Year!
Yeah, dude, but this is 2020. Pretty low bar.
♪ Here We Come a Caroling ...
Ack! You're not wearing a mask! And singing in one of the biggest ways to spread covid! (slams door)
♪ City sidewalks, busy sidewalks ...
Nope. No, they're not. And if they are, they shouldn't be. Call your governor and demand lockdown.
So, forewarned is forearmed. When listening to the classic songs of yore (yore=every year before 2020), you have three choices:
1) Laugh out loud and mock those lyrics which SO do not work in this time of Pandemic;
2) Ignore the pandemic, and be transported to pre- or post-covid world;
3) Cry.
Frankly, all the choices are good ones. I intend on a carefully orchestrated combination, depending on the song and what I'm feeling in any given moment.
Interesting note to my religious liberal friends. You know who you are. The ones reading ahead in the hymnal to see if you agree with the next line, ready to quibble over word choices:
The songs that still work this year are actually the religious ones. Silent Night and Hark the Herald Angels Sing and O Little Town of Bethlehem. So listen away. Use your universal translator and translate Jesus or Baby or King into something that gives you hope, maybe Dr. Fauci or Stacey Abrams or Ron Klain or Cyrus Vance.
Let every heart prepare him room.
Or just enjoy the metaphor of a baby being born into a scary, unjust world who would grow up to talk about peace and healing people and loving your neighbor and overthrowing corrupt systems.
Strawberry Tattoo, Jen Carroll |