Finding Peace

04/10/2020

I promised myself to write as close to daily as possible through this strange time. I feel that a record of events is necessary to reflect back upon later, for better or for the opposite of better. Within my mind, there are varying versions of this story from day to day, as if there is more than one author in there; one eternally optimistic and one in full-blown, apocalyptic panic. I try not to give the latter much time at the keyboard, but the rain beating on my window and dark gray sky grab the reigns of my mood.

Trevor is working at his job daily. He works at a facility where sterility is a requirement, so gloves and goggles are normal protocol. Nonetheless, he is the only one leaving the home front and returning these days and out of an abundance of caution and remarkable consideration for his family, he has stayed in his room for weeks. He eats in there. He comes out only for the bathroom.

Yesterday he told me that masks are now mandatory and that one of his employees is staying home because he is exhibiting symptoms. Trevor doubles down on his resolve to keep us safe and tells me that I must bleach light switches and door knobs when he comes to use the bathroom. “And by the way,” he says, “be extra bleachy because the kid who is sick lives with his mom who is a nurse caring for Covid19 patients.”

“Shit!”  I think. “Shit, shit, shit!”

The calm version of me departs and the panic one takes over. The wall of confidence that I surround us with to keep this out is crumbling. I begin gaming out the possibilities, in spite of the odds. It’s the opposite of the gaming I do when playing an over-sized mega millions jackpot drawing. With the lottery, I know the odds of my winning are very small, an yet I indulge the fantasy of buying a beautiful home with rolling hills and horse stables as well as in a long list of philanthropic ventures that I would undertake. In this Covid19 lottery, I know our chances of infection are low, but the gaming spins a tornado of 'what ifs.'

What if?

What if Trevor gets the illness and I must care for him from the other side of a wall, unable to be maternally hands on? What if I get it? Or Brad? What if several of us fall ill? What will I do if extended family members test positive? What if my mom gets sick in NC? Or Bruce? What if Bruce goes to the hospital and my mom is alone? Could I drive there? Will I be allowed to enter their community with my CT hotspot license plates?  

Breathe.

And again.

And again.

I begin a systematic bleaching of high touch surfaces because it gives me a sense of control; chemical weapons against the panic in my chest. A frenzy of cleaning and I begin to feel myself slowing the spin, settling back onto solid ground.

Panic Nancy departs and I sit down beside a brooder of baby chicks. And just like that, my heart rate slows and my anxiety lessens. They scurry around eating and trilling and pecking at nothing in particular. I sit beside the warmth of the heat lamp and watch innocence. Chicks are unlike other baby birds. They do not hatch featherless with closed eyes and open mouths, unable to stand or fend for themselves.  Chickens are strong, resilient, ready creatures. They hatch feathered, eyes opened and able to walk. Within hours, they are pecking at hard, dry crumbles and drinking water from the trough. They are pre-programmed to scratch and peck and do so from the very first hours out of the egg. And yet, in this artificial setting without natural surroundings and a mama to warm them, they are dependent on me to provide heat, food and water. That is all. And as they do what chicks do, eat, sleep and grow, they are unaware of their most important job. I scoop one up as she calls loudly for her sisters, then settles quietly into the warmth of my hand. I am dependent on them. Three little balls of life that remind me every day that life is all around me; that we are all fine. They help me find the peace that passes all understanding.