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Care in the Age of Corona

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A few weeks before exams, Thing1’s school sends around a mailer that lets parents fill out a greeting card and select an assortment of “healthy” candies and snack foods to get through the rigors of studying and testing. Most of the letters from Thing1’s college are pleas for money for one reason or another, but this one always gives me the giggles.

The first mailer instantly had me mentally grumbling, “When I was your age we used to walk 50 miles in the snow without any care packages to take our exams”.  College these days seems a bit like summer camp but with amenities like all night cookie delivery and bubble tea joints on every corner (and, in the case of Massachusetts, actual joint joints on more than a few corners).

Care packages seem more than a little redundant.

But this week there’s something I didn’t have when I was his age. In addition to the suppressed immunity I never had at any age, Thing1, who has faced his mortality more than once in the last two years, is hearing all the same news we are about the new Corona virus going around.

The new virus which has people suddenly washing their hands (who were these people who weren’t buying hand soap before last week?) and giving Vulcan “Live long and prosper” greetings instead of handshakes is the next thing we’re worrying about for him.

Thing1 takes things in stride, but his school has decided to keep dorms open over spring break to encourage people not to travel. His hospital has reported cases and is discouraging scheduling of new surgeries, including the next one he needs, in anticipation of an increased case load. I know that, despite his ability to take life’s little challenges one day at a time, this virus and all its potential implications are at least in the back of his mind.

Most of the time, COVID-19 news interests but doesn’t overly worry me. I’m mostly healthy. Thing2 is abundantly healthy, and the Big Guy is a rock.

The implications for Thing1, however, are on the top of my mind when I think too long about this new virus. So, even though I’m going to remind him that, back in the dark ages, we had to study for exams by candlelight and write our essays on bark using charcoal when we were his age, I’m sending him a a little care in the form of some hermetically sealed candy and snack food.

And there will be at least one giggle when I hit send.

Rest for the Working

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During the first week of my recovery I wrote constantly. When the second, unexpected week of incarceration began, I still wrote more than usual, but, after teaching for almost a year now, I discovered I suddenly missed being around people. Ten years of working at home once had me trained to prefer solitude, but last week I went searching for social interaction in the worst possible place — social media.

At first it was a quick check of the latest news from friends and family. Then it was looking for silly memes. And then it deteriorated into watching videos about all that’s wrong with the world and how to be afraid of it making me wonder if it’s just an accident that S&M and Social Media ended up with the same initials.

After a day or two, despite the exhaustion of living with the pain in my recovering foot, I began having trouble sleeping. Then I started getting antsy when I opened my laptop to write. I started kvetching over homework assignments from my online class and all the things that we should be fixing in the world.

Monday I got back to work — to my girls. There were the initial hugs and greetings, and then it was back to the usual, constant redirecting and behavior management that goes with working with students with emotional disturbances. For the first time in two weeks there was drama and tears, occasional profanity and impromptu after-school meetings. There was still homework online and more comforting of teenagers.

There was suddenly far less time to peruse the feed telling me what’s wrong with the world — or at least I stopped worrying about trying to control the things I can’t. There’s still a daily dose of S&M (or is it SM?), but, like backing off of percosets after surgery, I’ve stepped down. And, diving back into work, putting my effort into the things I can control, or at least influence, is suddenly enough good vibes to start putting me right to sleep as soon as my head hit the pillow.

 

Betting on the Winners

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It just started to switch over from droplets to an active drizzle to a steady drumbeat of rain when I pulled into the only open spot just across from the abandoned gas station near the Townhall. There were at least eight cars parked at different spots in the ankle deep mud, and it was clear this is an election that has the interest of everyone in town. After all, there was a pretty vital school district issue on the ballot.

It’s also Super Tuesday for us here in Vermont as it is with the rest the nation.

I opened the front door of the only administrative building in our town stepped into the wood paneled meeting room. Two neighbors (everyone in town is a neighbor even if I they live 2 miles away) sat at a table near to the door handing out ballots. I took one for the Democratic primary, one for local school district issues, and the one that always tells me my vote matters, the town ballot.

I have been mulling over my choices for the Democratic primary for the last 24 hours, and as I walked into the white wooden voting booth and drew the green, red and yellow Paisley curtain that I have pulled twice a year every year for the last 20 years, I still wasn’t sure which bubble I would fill-in.

I filled in the school ballot relatively quickly and put the presidential ballot on the bottom of the pile. Then I turned my attention to the ballot that keeps my faith in direct democracy and representative government alive. I — and everyone else in town — has known each person on the ballot for at least a decade.

The names on the town ballot are Democrats or Republicans, but they are also so much more than that. They are the people we run into at the country store. They are the ones who donate hours of their time each year to make sure of the road crew gets paid and road projects are evaluated. They help us figure out when we need a new school bus and how we will fund our share of the school taxes. They are the people we meet at the yellow farmhouse at the edge of town to hitch up flower festooned wagons and horses on the Fourth of July, and they are the people who come together at the end of the summer and the holidays to share potluck dinners and news of who has passed away and who is doing well in school.

I filled out the town ballot and then turned to the presidential primary ticket. I thought for a while and filled in the bubble the person I thought would make the best president. Then I opened the curtain and went to the table at the far end of the meeting room where several neighbors were collecting completed ballots and checking off names of who had voted.

At the table our town constable, a republican, asked how my foot was. He told me my husband had done a great job moderating the town meeting the night before and the school board meeting earlier this morning. Another one of the collectors, a Democrat, chimed in with more compliments for the Big Guy. I spent a few more minutes catching up with them and with our town clerk and treasurer, neither of whose party I know because it really doesn’t matter.

Introducing Thing2 to Voting in Vermont 2008

I know that regardless of the names I chose on that second ballot sheet, “my guy” will win because in that room, even on election day of all days, no one in that room was really a Democrat or Republican. In that room we are all just Vermonters who want the best for our town and who want each other to be well.

I’m going to try to remember that in November when I don’t have a town ballot to take into the voting booth with me to keep my faith in the process and my fellow Vermonters alive.

Baby Stepping

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Friday was a big day for my big foot. The stitches came out and the big bandages went away. There’s still Darth Vader-chic boot and a crutch in my daily ensemble, but being able to take one or two baby steps from wheel chair to the bed felt as good as running a 5K.

The first few steps were pretty painful, and the foot still looks like a balloon in the horror section of the Macy’s Day parade, but each time I put one foot in front of the other, it gets just a little bit better.

Walk With Me

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It’s my second week of being bed or chair-bound as my foot recovers from a total overhaul. It’s been really inconvenient, but, ironically, it’s give me a chance to take a different kind of walk with one of the best people I know.

This time last year I was still writing mostly about Thing1’s journey with Ulcerative Colitis. We thought, at the time, that journey was almost over and that he was starting a newer, more adventurous one. Then his body recently reminded us that a diagnosis of a chronic illness is a permanent one.

His chronic illness is classified as a disability. It took me a little while to really understand why it’s classified that way, but as I watched his disease derail a year of his education and govern so many other major and minor life decisions, I gained a better understanding of how invisible illnesses can cause impairment. It wasn’t until the last two weeks, however, that I understood how that feels.

As someone diagnosed with bipolar disorder, I can sympathize and empathize with some of the impacts of invisible illness. Depression can impact your ability to function at work and your ability to parent effectively. It does not, however, turn the simplest activities, such as showering, into activities that need extra equipment or preparation. It doesn’t keep you from reaching the microwave. It does not have you planning your schedule when you might want to go to the bathroom next, let alone how to return to work.

Thing1 is less than half my age and wrestled with all of these issues and more in the last few years. These questions have determined where he would live and if he would go to school on any given day. They are determining if he may miss yet another year of school and when he will begin his adult life.

Spending a few weeks navigating the activities of daily living that are usually take for granted has been a pain in the neck, but it’s also given me a chance to walk with T1 in a whole new way.

OTT (Orange Tabby Therapy)

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The doctor strongly recommended keeping my foot up for another week, and I’m having to swallow my pride and some heavy guilt as I get ready to let work know I have a few more days before returning. The cats, as can be seen, are glad I’ve finally heeded their advice and opted for more days of OTT (Orange Tabby Therapy) with a little grey fuzzy thrown in. 

Silly Things Before Drifting Off

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Thing2 is cleaning his room, occasionally coming into see me to show off long-forgotten souvenirs from trips or country fairs (The giant inflated pickle he attempted to leave in the corner will certainly cause a nightmare or two). The Big Guy is listening to midday news as he does dishes. And, as the pain med I’ve taken after today’s doctor visit kicks in, lulling me to sleep in our sunny bedroom made even cozier by the sound of a snoring dog and purring cats I can only look at the new buckle-festooned boot wrapping the leg that has caused this moment and wonder if, like Luke Skywalker, I’m too short to be a stormtrooper. Should make for some epic daydreaming.

Accepting Rest

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I got my homework for the week out-of-the-way yesterday, and, by 10 o’clock last night, I was glad I had. I would be even more glad today.

Last night around 10 PM I read of the death of a friend. It was not a surprise, and I had already mourned, But that sort of news, all too frequent this year already, always demands reflection. I took some time to think about our last conversations, read other friends tribute to this woman and, feeling the pain in my foot throbbing again, took my pain medication and went to sleep early.

This morning I woke up fully intending to spend the day writing, but my foot had other ideas. I don’t have trouble remembering that recovery is not linear, but there’s a big part of me that has trouble accepting that rest is a part of it.

Today was about accepting rest. It was about accepting that recovery of body and spirit can’t always be planned. Sometimes it just needs time to happen.

Mother’s Little Helper

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Driving by Fields on a Snowy Day

Today was the first time I’d been out of the house since the surgery. I figured out how wrap my cast and get a shower before the Big Guy chauffeured me to my follow up appointment. I’ve been using the enforced break from the activity of daily life to get a better handle on my priorities, but today, trying to get back into it, even just for a couple hours, gave me an unexpected lesson in empathy.

My doctor prescribed Percocets and Ibuprofen for pain management. Paranoid about getting addicted to any opioid, I’m usually pretty pigheaded about avoiding leaning on Vicodin or Percocets. This week, mindful of the kids I now work with whose lives have been completely upended by adults struggling with opioid addiction, I’ve been even more stubborn about disciplining myself to rely mainly on ibuprofen or Orange Tabby Therapy, and I’ve been pretty lucky with the pain.

Until today.

By the time the doctor finished changing my dressing and cast, I could feel my Frankenstein foot gently begin to throb. The Big Guy and I got out to the car, and the pain was amplifying. There were a couple errands to run, and, even though I sat in the car for them, having the foot not elevated seemed to help push the pain up and down my leg.

By the time we got home, the three hours of ordinary activity had turned my leg into a constant throb, wiping out any hint of energy. I got back into the scooter chair and then into bed, knowing I was going to take the opioid and not the ibuprofen.

And then it hit me. Before any relief, before the purring of an orange tabby on my chest could lull me to sleep.

This is where the stories of those kids begin. They begin with a person in pain, with all the best intentions, looking for relief. For help. They may get it for a time until help becomes a disease and the disease a source of shame and judgement.

I’m guilty of passing those judgements. Of seeing only the impact of the disease on the people around the addict. Of forgetting that anyone could become the addict.

I used the help in the orange bottle this afternoon and knew I might use it again this evening. Tomorrow I will go back to the non-addictive pain management with purpose but also a little more humility and empathy. Recovery is not linear, and, in the setbacks, there are potential pitfalls that can upend anyone’s life.

I don’t know what makes the difference between the person who becomes addicted to these miraculous, terrible drugs and the person who uses them for a brief time and moves on. I know I won’t find the answer as I reach for my orange bottles over the next few days, but I’m determined to keep asking the question rather than living in judgement.

Blessed Boredom

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I got as much homework as possible finished before the surgery, leaving a little to do on Sunday. Sleeping off the anesthetics and first round of pain killed time on Friday night, but Saturday was completely unscheduled. The unusually un-booked day unexpectedly gave me one answer to a question we’ve all asked ourselves every time the Super Lotto reaches fantasy levels:

“What would you do if you won the lottery and you didn’t have to do anything at all?“

Most of the worst pain from the surgery has receded. Ibuprofen and snuggling with Jim-Bob takes care of the rest. For the next few days, I am cursed–or blessed–with hours to fill.

Normally, I fill Saturdays with a rush of errands and housekeeping (what I call housekeeping) and, occasionally, a night out with the Big Guy and the kids. When the sun falls, witching hour begins, and I retreat to my office to write or paint, often feeling as though picking up the brush is more something I should be doing even on nights I desperately want to.

Saturday morning I got myself into the scooter wheelchair and retrieved sketchbooks and watercolors from my office. I grabbed a journal and iPad and made sure all my supplies were within reach on my nightstand before hoisting myself back into bed for the rest of the day.

This was the creative time I have been trying to carve out of the frenzied schedule that I’ve built. Somehow, however, even surrounded by supplies and time, I couldn’t think of anything to draw. Nothing on Netflix or Facebook or the Internet held any interest, and I knew I had hours of restlessness ahead of me.

The boys were still in bed. The Big Guy was making breakfast and getting ready to go to the dump, and I was alone with thoughts and daydreams and all the other flights of ideas that happen when you start to get bored.

I stared at a painting on the wall for a few minutes, trying to think of something to draw. Then, without thinking,I picked up my phone. Instead of opening another social media app or webpage, however, I automatically opened the Notes app. I hit the microphone and started to write. For the rest of the day, I migrated between my journal and iPhone, posting and writing poems and making an attempt at flash fiction.

By one in the morning, I was still writing and reading and writing, and I laughed, trying not to wake up the Big Guy. I spend so much of my hectic schedule trying to carve out creative time, knowing that the frenzy is partly a search for whatever it is I was born to do—that thing we are each driven to do. It’s also the excuse for not trying or, subsequently, failing.

It took winning the surgical lottery, being thoroughly bored to cut through the chaos to give into a more creative fervor and, now recognizing the continued process as its own reward, enjoy the blessed boredom.