When I Thought Quarantine Was Cute
Two weeks. That’s all it took for my son to become infected by COVID-19 after he returned to college. He wasn’t terribly careless. He wore a mask in public and washed his hands regularly. But in his apartment with his roommates and a handful of girls they hadn’t seen all summer, they dropped the masks and most likely any sense of social distancing. Three days later he developed a sore throat and a fever that hovered around 101 degrees. The fever only lasted one day, but the achiness remained for a few days thereafter. The only remaining symptoms seem to be a stuffy nose and some fatigue.
The day his temperature spiked, he told me one of the girls at the apartment that Thursday night tested positive over the weekend. I had him call for an appointment to get tested, and to no one's surprise his results revealed he had COVID.
When my boss called me to the conference room on March 12 to discuss the closing of the two high schools where I work due to the increase of COVID-19 cases, I felt a mix of dread and excitement. The novelty of this virus caused a mild case of anxiety, but I also felt a slight surge of excitement at the thought of working from home for a couple weeks where I knew I would be most productive.
I was joined by my high school junior, and soon thereafter by his two college-aged brothers who were sent home for at least two weeks. In the midst of life’s ambiguity, one thing felt somewhat normal: our upcoming spring break trip to my mom’s place in Florida. After what seemed like an exceptionally long and dark winter, we had been looking forward to this trip for months. But each day the news from Florida became bleaker. Cases were rising, beaches and restaurants were closing, and only days before we were to fly out, I decided to cancel our trip. I would never forgive myself if I had jeopardized my 82-year-old mother’s health.
A couple days later, I started to keep a gratitude list in hopes that it would keep our spirits up despite our cancelled trip. I bought colorful markers, and had the boys join me in keeping a list of things we were thankful for. On April 6, I wrote, “Sunshine” in pink. Eli added “Cheesecake” in orange, for the cookie butter cheesecake he made from scratch. “That I have a job, Mom 4/7” in red. “Coffee, Asher 4/7” in blue. “That school is ending earlier, Jaden 4/8” in green.
After a few days the list became nothing more than a pretty piece of paper on the fridge, but we found other cute things to do. Like baking. Asher took days to perfect croissants, and Eli nursed sourdough starter and baked bread. We demolished the inside of our fireplace and Asher painstakingly rebuilt and tiled it. I made an epic playlist that I titled “Getting $hit Done During the Pandemic” which got me through painting three rooms with 12-foot ceilings. I wrote letters to friends with my new markers and mailed them to their homes. I started a book club. I challenged myself to read more about the racial issues that had come to the forefront of our world, and protested with my mask pulled up around my face. I scheduled Zoom calls with my extended family and then my college friends. My bff Shannon and I made live Instagram videos that we thought were hilarious but made our children cringe. I even went so far as to make a couple Tik Tok videos.
And we were careful. I wore the colorful masks my friend Monica made while I cautiously shopped for groceries, wiping every surface I touched and every item I brought into our home. We kept our social circles small and even then, I didn’t allow anyone inside the house. Look at us, I thought, we are making our way in this crap storm.
Soon we ventured out to hike at local and state parks. Then in June I apprehensively let the boys take the trip out west they had been planning for a year, as long as they promised to adhere to social distancing and other guidelines. In the meantime, I headed to Northern Michigan for a long weekend with my boyfriend, Mike. The usual crowds that populate the small Lake Michigan enclaves were smaller than usual and the restaurants and shops that remained open were obviously struggling to stay afloat. Nonetheless, I drank in the beauty and embraced the silver linings.
But it’s getting harder to shake this low-grade depression. Especially today when Asher confirmed he had COVID. I had hoped, even against all odds, that his fever was the result of some 24-hour bug. Now Jaden and I must continue to quarantine for the remaining 14 days since we saw Asher on Sunday when he came home to collect some things for his apartment.
It’s tiring to hold the space for our collective losses: From the seemingly little things (although not so little to them) like Jaden’s prom and spring travel soccer season, Eli’s cycling season and Asher’s shortened freshmen year, to the big things like the loss of my brother’s beloved girlfriend and our inability to attend her funeral, or the boys missing out on visiting their immunocompromised father because they cannot risk giving him the coronavirus.
I just want to shake it off. Shake off the sadness and the fear. I tell myself things aren’t really that bad because I know there are those who have suffered - and are suffering - through some terrible situations and losses, and for all of those things, I am so sorry.
I am also sorry for those like me, who find yourselves in a melancholia world. COVID isn’t cute. All the pretty markers, or kick ass playlists, or freshly painted rooms won’t help. In fact, no person, place or thing will help. At least not for me. Not long term. The one thing - the only thing - that I have found remotely helpful is seeking God. Maybe you don’t have a God. Feel free to borrow mine. He/She/It is full of loving kindness, gentleness and warmth.
But knowing that doesn’t make the sadness or fear wash away in an instant. Surrendering all of this is a process. Part of the process for me is to sit outside and listen to sad songs so what’s on the outside matches what’s on the inside. I won’t need the sad songs forever, and I look forward to the day that the malaise brought on by this pandemic will be a distant memory. But for now, you can find me in my hammock listening to “Sailboat” by Ben Rector.
