Thursday was my last day sharing a workspace with this guy. Or at least I think it was the last day. Maybe a small part of me hopes it’s not. I am still feeling a little scared and vulnerable right now.
At the beginning of all of this, I was terrified. We didn’t leave our house except for Jason picking up groceries, which he then spent an hour sanitizing before it all came into our house. We sprayed off boxes and packages before we opened them and then wiped down whatever was inside. We obsessively washed our hands all the time, even though we didn’t go anywhere. My kids got so sick of me saying, “Alexa, set the timer for 20 seconds.” But once we brought in the food and packages, we felt safe. Back in our bubble.
I miss our old life so very much. I feel like I should feel happy that things are opening back up. Talk of baseball, maybe marching band in the fall. Eating outside. Stores opening up for nonessential things. Travel. Togetherness. I miss all of that so very much.
But it has all changed for me. I am scared to do those things. I find little comfort in things opening up because it makes me feel even more vulnerable. We have masks hanging up by the door, paper masks in the van in case we somehow forget ours from home, disposable gloves to pump gas or get money from the ATM, hand sanitizer in cup holders in the car. I find Clorox wipes online at 3am when I can’t sleep. I find hand sanitizer that way too. Delivered right to my door, safe. I wear masks whenever I leave the house, even when I am outside. I stay at least six feet away. I send my love without a hug.
I think that the loss of security and freedom of my old life is one of my greatest losses during this time. I see others, more confident than me, resuming the life I so desperately miss. But I am not ready. Yet.
As we learn more, I feel better. And we have learned a lot more. But in just four months, we have lost nearly 120,000 people in the United States. We lost 57,000 people in all of the Vietnam War. And we have now lost twice that many people – in four months. That is staggering to me, that kind of loss. And I know I have to learn how to life with this fear, with this uncertainty. But I think I am struggling most because I know too much. Because I know what the worst case scenario looks like.
I know what it’s like to see your kid in the intensive care unit. Sedated and on a ventilator. Completely and utterly helpless. Praying to God for mercy and begging medical professionals to help your child. One day, I remember walking into the ICU after Ian had a pulmonary hypertensive crisis, which is essentially when his lungs seized up and pushed his blood out, rather than giving him the oxygen he desperately needed. They gave him medicine to paralyze his muscles to force his lungs to do their job. I had just stepped out of the ICU and strolled back in to all these people around my son, exhaling. I am grateful that I didn’t see that, that moment in time where they saved my son. But I saw the aftermath, and that terrified me enough. I remember those ICU days… the roller coaster, the waiting, the helplessness. I remember it like it was yesterday. And whenever the memory starts to fade, the smell of that damn hospital soap brings it all back. I have lived the worst case scenario.
I never want to ever experience that again — my greatest love and my greatest fear, all in the same bed. So here I am and here I stay. At home, safe. I will likely have to be pried out of our home and gently shoved back into life. I joke that we used to never be home and now we never leave.
I miss the joy of going and doing. And I will get there again. I hope. I have pushed back all our doctors’ appointments to the fall, thinking if we are back in school then, we can go to the doctor. I am making hair appointments for late August for the same reason. Rationalizing when and how to push myself back into our old life.
So maybe Thursday really was my last day sharing a workspace with my husband. Time will tell. But I will miss it. For as much as our sense of order and organization were at odds, we were together. Safe.
One day, I will need to move forward. But for right now, this is where we will stay, where we feel safe. Home. Together. With my greatest loves, tucked away from my greatest fear.