Day 17

This is a time of holding so many dissonant experiences and emotions at once, making of myself a container vast enough while not losing myself into the mess. This weekend, we passed the point I didn’t realize I was waiting for, fourteen days past the last time any of us were around groups of people at school or work. As cases appear in the people we know from those spaces, we are both saddened for them and relieved to be so far without symptoms ourselves. I try to limit my consumption of news, but my concern for friends in New York City has me checking for updates more frequently than is strictly necessary. Even as I am grateful for the way that Maryland’s swift actions seem to be slowing the virus’s spread here, I am horrified to see Detroit, another home of my heart, be so inundated.

As will no doubt become common, I have started to think of life prior to this March as The Before. I measure my reactions and emotions against how I might have responded in The Before. Particularly precious now are those things that bring joy now at a level that would have also registered in The Before.

Along those lines, we discovered that our quince tree is blooming for the first time! The house next to us has a clump of very old quince trees that grow in such a way as to drop at least half their fruit in our yard. As a result, we’ve learned to make quince jelly and membrillo and it’s become something we look forward to each fall. A number of years ago, a volunteer tree started growing next to the back of our house; three years ago it became clear it was too close to the foundation, and we hired someone to relocate it to the front yard. They’re lovely little trees, with patchy cinnamon-colored bark and nice red-orange leaves in the fall, so I was resigned to the possibility that a tree started from seed might never bloom but could still add to the yard.

However, it did bloom! Lovely pale pink flowers in the top half of it that are covered in bees today. Which means that we might get fruits from it in the fall if the weather cooperates. I was so excited that I did an (allegedly) “extremely embarrassing” happy dance on the porch. I was already pleased to see that the redbud is absolutely covered with flowers this year, seven years after we planted it as a dormant twig that came free from the energy company for Arbor Day, but the quince was so unexpected that it was a true moment of joy.

I hope this spring is offering you moments of what my friend likes to call nature therapy. Beauty is still here, may it be a small solace as we grieve.

Day 13

This week has been rainy. We have still gone outside every day, but the lack of sunshine has exacerbated the depressive aspects of our family quarantine. I’ve been reading too much news too often for too long and it’s definitely negatively affecting my spirits. On the other hand, not regularly reading the news enhances my fear that I will miss something important and be blindsided by it when it’s too late to prepare. Usually that’s an unfounded anxiety I can reassure myself out of, but lately not so much.

Last night, my partner had to go into his office building to get his computer, as the work computer that lives at home crapped the bed, to use the 70s vernacular of our parents. On the one hand, only a handful of people have been in the entire building in the past 12 days and the computer has been locked in a closed room since then. On the other hand, just yesterday one of the people who works in my partner’s division reported that they are sick. The risk of an earlier transmission is small, as that person had already been out of the office for 3 days when the entire agency went to telework. Nonetheless, the abstract knowledge that unknown people around you are carrying the virus is qualitatively different from the concrete knowledge that specific people around you are carrying the virus. So. That was anxiety-inducing. Now we’re home again and I’ve logged the trip in my daily planner, which has been repurposed as a backward-looking record of our trips now that we have no planned events in the near future.

Looking out the window by my desk, I have a view of the most secluded corner of the garden, the little stretch of the back yard that is wedged in next to the basement stairs and bordered on three sides by fences. I converted it to a garden from scruffy grass about ten years ago by adding some shrubs along the border fence and various ferns and what have you. It’s a favorite spot for birds, with various places to land or perch and an ever-present leaf litter full of–I can only assume–delicious bugs and seeds. If I’m lucky, I can catch a hummingbird visiting the coral honeysuckle or the seasonal visit of the migrating Yellow-Bellied Sapsucker snacking in the dogwood. Thanks to a little bit of planning, there’s almost always something flowering to catch my eye.

It’s a beautiful spring out there. When the sun comes out we head out for our daily walks and it’s truly lovely. Flowering trees, all sorts of daffodils, the little clumps of spring bulbs that my neighbor brought back from Martha’s Vineyard so many decades ago now. Once it becomes even a bit less chilly than now, and the hibernating bees have all emerged and the overwintering eggs have all hatched, we will go out and clear up the stalks and sticks and spend some time with the dirt. Peace peace peace.

Day 10

Last week I read an interview with an Italian man where he said, “Be prepared each day for life three days before to be unrecognizable.” Today, the governor closed all non-essential businesses and ordered us to stay at home except for essential trips. Trips to the grocery store and pharmacy, checking on relatives or at-risk neighbors, and (thankfully) runs, walks, and bike rides are essential. Everything else is not. Today in the park, people were much more conscientious about moving off the paths and waiting at intersections for people to be able to clear the area before trying to move through.

While he didn’t announce it today, we all know that our kids won’t be going back to school this year. Virginia made that announcement today and I expect DC will follow shortly. Right now we are in a good place, as it is spring break so we are home but without remote learning to remind our child of how much things have shifted. Today he stayed in pajamas all day, throwing a rain jacket on over them to go on our walk to deliver a letter to his best friend on the next block, and read two books in The Secret Series, a box set we bought when the library closed with the books still languishing in the hold queue.

We will tell him later in the week that he’s not returning after break, and honestly it just breaks my heart. He loves school, feels so comfortable and strong there; of all the things we are doing as parents, being able to offer him the peace and freedom of Quaker school has been a real gift that we don’t take lightly at all. I know how devastated he will be, how of all aspects of this massive reorganization of his reality, that will be the one that hurts the most.

Just as the shift to remote learning made this real on a new emotional level for me; having to accept the loss of the rest of third grade in the classroom will be another layer of the reality we are reluctantly grappling with. This is not what I wanted for his childhood, for any of these children’s lives. This experience will be the collective trauma that shapes their entire lives from here on out, and I feel for them. We adults will weather this global crisis with varying degrees of trauma based on what we ourselves experienced in the past, which structural and health challenges we’re dealing with now, and what supports and resiliencies we have in place. But for those whose nervous systems are still growing, this is what will shape them, and it’s such a profound and general loss of whatever childhoods we’ve been able to protect for them that I can’t look at it squarely without just being awash in grief.

Of course I know that too many children already don’t have what they all deserve, a safe and secure place to grow and learn, be it in school or at home. Children who rely on school for food security are at particular risk with these challenges. This crisis will only exacerbate those lacks for so many vulnerable people. I grieve especially for the lost opportunity to cure our ills ahead of such a crisis, for the chances we thought we still had, those of us who fought for our schools and our children. We will not stop fighting and hoping, but it’s undeniable that the terms of that fight are changing drastically and rapidly. I only hope we can keep up.

Day 9

Weekend. What even is that in this context? For us, it meant none of us had any online commitments or paperwork of any kind to be doing. It meant sleeping in a bit, baking, walking in the park, and generally trying to be as normal as possible.

One thing we learned is that our objectives in walking in the park are different for each family member. While taking a family walk was a nice break in the work day during the week, I am looking to relax and my child is looking to explore and those are fairly diametrically opposed to one another. Today, I relaxed on the porch with my (decaf) coffee while the other two rambled all around town and over to the nearby duck pond for an hour and a half. I plan to get back to my usual schedule of going out by myself first thing in the morning, when the birds and trees are just waking up and the day is crisp and quiet.

Following my own advice, we baked blueberry-lemon muffins and froze half of them for later in the week. I have been aiming to cook three things each day and mostly succeeding. Following the advice of friends, we unearthed a couple of craft kits from the closet and plan to do them this week. The guys already got the slime lab going, making all kinds of jelly worms and tadpoles and eggs. In the kit was set of kid-sized gloves, safety goggles, and mask, so there you go. The other activity is glitter snow globes, which we will do some time after we do acrylic painting, which is what my child has requested. Apparently I do not allow enough time for messy, potentially staining, activities in our regular lives, so spring break during family isolation is when it’s all going down.

As much as I had hoped to spend more of my own time on art, I haven’t had the oomph for it. I’ve been puttering around, recycling and shredding some of the various piles of paper and putting things in order, but I haven’t had the bandwidth for more than that. Keeping your spirits up, or at least even, so that the youngest member of the household doesn’t intimate how terrified the adults are is quite exhausting.

We’re doing okay, but the time away from friends is starting to wear him down and the sadness is bubbling up. I am a somewhat terrible liar, so I know I am not being as reassuring as I might be because I can’t convincingly say, This will be over soon and we will be fine. It doesn’t help that my extremely sensitive child does not want to only know that we will be fine, they want to know that everyone they love will be fine, that this will go away as if it had never been and hurt nobody. Truths such as “all the adults are doing everything they can as fast as they can” don’t go far enough to soothe the worrying completely. But we muddle on.

Each day new, every day above ground.

Day 7

Yesterday, I needed a beat. The cherry trees are gorgeous here, all up and down the block. We’re fortunate to have a park at the end of our street with a creek that can be forded by children at numerous places. Every day, and often twice, we take a family walk down to the park, peering into the Little Free Library without touching it, crossing the bridges without leaning on the railings. Nature is still here, and it’s a beautiful, perfect, mild, early spring outside.

Over the last year, two of my 90-year-old relatives and three friends my age have died, two from cancer and one from suicide. Yesterday, I couldn’t stop thinking about them. About how frightening this situation would be for those five specific people who would each be particularly vulnerable. I couldn’t stop thinking about the versions of those people whom we all have in our lives right now, who are facing this crisis, whom we are worrying about while trying to keep sane alone in our apartments, or stay upbeat in the face of a child we’re trying to protect from knowledge.

I have lived with anxiety my whole life, in conjunction with or as a corollary to my PTSD. I have never used pharmaceutical medication, despite periodically asking my care providers if they thought I needed to. Always I’ve been told that I’m coping well enough for the potential negatives to outweigh the benefits. Always I have reluctantly agreed and I’ve weathered the ebbs and flows of strains on my mental health.

It’s been several years since my strategies have been as severely tested as during this past week; this experience is already one of the most challenging of my life, and I have no doubt it will continue to rise in the ranking. So, I needed to step back from media that has, up until now, kept me connected with writers, thinkers, and social analyzers around the country and world. I needed to step back from other people’s heartbreak and worry while I took stock of my own.

What, then, of days six and seven? We went to the store, successfully stocking up on frozen vegetables, a category of food it had not occurred to me to buy when I initially stocked up two weeks ago. I hope I was only mildly stressful to my fellow shoppers as I nervously babbled my way through my shopping trip with fairly wild eyes. We completed the first week of remote school, capping it off with a music lesson where an entire class of kids played recorders along with their teacher. (Thankfully, she had each child mute themselves so we could only hear her and our one child, which was surprisingly bearable.)

To celebrate the arrival of spring break, such as it is, I baked a crisp and we pushed back bedtime, allowing the child to swing on the tree swing in the cooling dusk. It was nice. It would have qualified as nice before. I hope everyone is able to take a beat when they need it too.

Day 5

The best thing I did today was successfully avoid checking the news on my phone for the entire morning. After my exhausting anxiety spike last night, I woke up before dawn so tense that I couldn’t breath without crying and I realized that I am going to need to make some drastic changes to my media consumption to get through this with my health intact, virus or no virus. I can’t let my nervous system get stuck in rapid cycling and crashing without weekly access to acupuncture or physical therapy for the first time in over a decade.

So, I turned the phone off and stashed it in my bag. I remembered being on the daily path of our neighborhood fox a few years ago and sitting out on the porch to watch for it each day, so I went outside and enjoyed the chilly morning wrapped in my decades-old wool tartan blanket. No fox, but I watched a family of young squirrels romping around on our maple tree and listened to the crows get going. (As much as I love doing that with a cup of coffee, that probably should go too.)

The morning was taken up with school, which wasn’t nearly as bad today as it was yesterday. We both knew what we were doing and he was able to work pretty much independently. I went in a different room entirely and sorted all the papers that have accumulated over the past few months, recycling many and shredding more. For the past few years we’ve been hauling our shredding in to the work shredders in small batches, but since that’s not an option I resorted to actually using the small, slow, incredibly loud home shredder that’s been sitting in our basement this whole time. No more cash advance checks for us!

With the rest of my not-copious-enough spare time today, I read. I love to read; with the library closed indefinitely, this seems like the perfect time to read all the books I have purchased or free-libraried. Typically, I struggle with choice paralysis and end up ordering new releases from the library. Yesterday, I decided that I would just go to the shelf of books I haven’t read–because I loosely grouped them that way a few months ago–and just start on the left and begin reading. Which means that today I finished Exit West, by Mohsin Hamid, and moved right on to All Passion Spent, by Vita Sackville-West. Next up is (I think) the flight memoirs of Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. I have eclectic reading taste, to say the least. At some point on this shelf is also Hitlerland, and relating this tidbit to my partner prompted him to say, “That shelf is a perfect example of why I only read science fiction and fantasy.”

For the rest of the day, I tried to make things seem as normal as possible for a nine-year-old while not panicking about how long this is going to need to go on. I also reached out to the woman who cleans our home and got an address where I can send her payment. I don’t know how long we’ll be able to continue to afford to do that, but we will pay her for as long as we are being paid ourselves. I hate to think of all the small businesses facing abrupt closures and loss of income.

Tonight I’m hoping that we’ll see quick and effective action by our elected representatives and that we’ll continue to join together in communities to advocate for ourselves and protect the most vulnerable among us. Not just from this deadly virus, but from houselessness, hunger, and destitution. At the end of the day, we are all we have.

Day 4

I’m not going to lie, today was rough on me. Managing the flood of emails to read, attachments to print, photos to take and send, and an eager child who just wanted to be allowed to spend all day on the computer was a lot. The start of online / home school made the whole situation feel real in a way that it had only abstractly been this weekend. Anxiety is high. Existential dread is high. Desire to climb under the covers and stay there for the next six months is high.

During my less than desired six months curled under the covers today, aka afternoon quiet time, I really missed my grandmother. She passed away in December, just shy of her 93rd birthday; today I wished I could travel back in time to the comfort of her and the brusqueness with which her younger self would brush off any concerns about the state of the world that I could raise. She survived a lot by the time she was 30 and it took more than a recession or three to rattle her. This, though. I don’t know.

Today I inspected my garden, fairly neglected over the past few years but the native perennials are still thriving. It could use a lot of weeding, edging, dividing, and general attention. With nowhere to go and nothing to do, I’m hoping we can spend time together getting our hands dirty once it warms up for good. (In typical post-global-warming DC fashion, it’s going to be 80 on Thursday and Friday and then possibly snow on Sunday.)

For now, we will do some school projects, check out some websites, and just keep breathing. Tomorrow is another day to try to be better at explaining the transitive property than I was today.

Cooking for the apocalypse

This morning I realized that I have skills and experience relevant to surviving this apocalypse without losing our minds. Namely, cooking all your meals for yourself in your home without having it take all your time and energy. For most of my adult life, I’ve been limited in what I can eat out. For the first decade, because I was a vegetarian. Then my body took a turn and progressively stopped tolerating the majority of the foods I used to eat, requiring me to start cooking for myself just about everything that touched my lips.

With a child whose system is as reactive as mine, I have years of preparation for what we’re facing. In our family, I’m the cook because I have the most experience cooking with food restrictions and experience translates into speed in preparation. I also hate cleaning, so I’d much rather be the cook. In the spirit of helping everyone not freak out, I offer up what works for us.

Eat the same thing for breakfast every day. Each of our family members eats the same thing for their breakfast, although not the same thing as each other. I eat yogurt with raspberries and honey. My partner eats cereal with milk. My child eats turkey sausages with buttered toast or oatmeal. All of these things are easy to get out of the fridge and prepare when you’re still mostly asleep.

If you love scrambled eggs, bacon, and pancakes–and let’s be real, who doesn’t–I recommend making those foods as a breakfast-for-dinner meal. Frittatas are also a nice way to get eggs and vegetables.

Keep your other meals simple. This is a necessity for us, since we can’t eat a lot of the things that make sauces delicious (onions, garlic, peppers, tomatoes).

Dinners consist of rice (or rice noodles, although those don’t reheat as well), meat (or occasionally lentils), and vegetables. Ideally, we have two vegetables per meal, sometimes three, and sometimes the vegetable is pickles. Most of what we eat is roasted, as I like the flavor and it’s the easiest way to prepare them (in my opinion).

For lunch, I have the same thing as dinner, and my partner and child choose between dinner food or PB&J sandwiches with a side of chips, popcorn, or pretzels. Snacks are a choice of carb plus fruit, and nuts or cheese for me. (I seem to have the only child alive who doesn’t really like cheese.) We keep a stock of all the snack food my child can eat and then I try to bake something a couple of times a month for snack food, usually muffins.

Plan to use your microwave. The biggest shift in our style of cooking has been to cook everything ahead of time and reheat portions as needed. Basically, we are constantly eating leftovers. We always have rice in the fridge, as I make a large batch at a time; I feel less bad about this since reading that cooling and reheating rice causes the oil to bond with the carbs and improves the nutritional content.

On the days I have the energy for vegetable chopping, I prepare and roast or sauté three vegetables at a time. Most commonly, I roast cauliflower, broccoli, rutabaga, brussels sprouts, butternut squash, and sweet potatoes, and sauté chard, bok choy, cabbage, and mushrooms. When I can get good green beans, I steam those.

We cook meat as needed, most commonly bratwurst-style sausages or roast chicken. I have a ground beef dish I made up that doesn’t meet anyone else’s standards for food but I like it. (Brown ground beef in a covered pan with garam masala spice and salt, add finely chopped zucchini, cook until the zucchini is mush, eat with rice. Yes, this was originally a way to get zucchini into my food, but now I have come to like it.) I bake chicken thighs which my child and partner then slather with Adobo salt (green, natch).

All of this goes into the fridge and gets assembled into individual bowls of foods that each of us can and will eat for dinner and then heated in the microwave.

Make a double batch of anything that requires extra effort and freeze half of it. About once a month I make soup, lentil or squash, and put half of it in the freezer. We do the same with meatballs. Then when the rest of the family is tired of eating chicken and rice, we can pull something different out for a few meals.

Baking definitely requires extra effort and most families will devour baked goods in less than 36 hours. In our case, my kid really likes muffins for snacks but also runs out of steam for them after a few days. I always freeze half the batch and then (wait for it) warm them individually in the microwave for 30 seconds. Cookies and brownies freeze well too, if baking for relaxation is something you like to do. I’ve never tried to freeze cake or bread, but I hear it can be done.

Rely on processed food when you just don’t have it in you. Sometimes I want to eat cheese for dinner and don’t have the bandwidth to cook. On those days, my child gets chicken tenders and fries, or tuna salad and a bread and butter sandwich, with pickles as a vegetable. My partner loves those days because he can eat all the food we can’t, like frozen pizza and burritos. Normally I’d suggest mixing in tacos or pizza out if you can, but since all the restaurants in our state just closed, we’re going to have to rely on our wits and our homes.

Lastly, just make sure you eat. The most important thing is to just make sure you get fed. I can tell you from experience that your adrenal system is not going to love subsisting on fear, coffee, sugar, and alcohol. All of those will probably play a role in our lives in the weeks and months to come, but food is necessary too! Be fed, be safe, stay well.

Day 3

Today, I’m exhausted. Part adrenaline crash after the past week of high anxiety and running on cortisol, part staying up too late night after night either glued to the news or trying to avoid the news with bad TV. Oh, and there’s the small matter of my chronic illness that leaves me with maybe half the energy of a typical healthy person on a good day, which I’ve just been ignoring while I rush around trying to prepare for our lives under voluntary quarantine. (I continue to believe that “social distancing” is insufficient to capture the risk of contact and how absolutely critical it is for people to isolate as much as they truly possibly can, but I also want to emphasize that we have not been identified as at particular risk based on contact with someone sick. I am sadly sure that will change.)

In addition to all the physical stressors that made me crash out and need a nap at 2pm, it’s been emotionally challenging to provide honest but reassuring support to a sensitive and worried child while trying to take pains to protect my own sensitive self from worrying too much. But it’s impossible not to worry! At least, I tell myself, this is (finally) something real and significant for my brain to worry about. Instead of worrying, I just keep moving.

One of the things we did today, once my partner went up to start his work day, was sitting meditation and a little bit of yoga. I need daily movement practices if I’m going to get through this without increasing pain and decreasing function, as I don’t expect to be able to get my regular physical therapy or acupuncture treatments for the foreseeable future. In addition to my own (still frustratingly unclear) risks, all my practitioners are over 60 and I’m wholly unwilling to contribute to their risk of death.

So, we stretched. We walked. We sat. We rested. Then we played a board game before bed that I was mildly petulant about losing despite trying not to be, because I am the most sensitive and easily frazzled of the three of us who needs the most space and time to myself–like, most of every day–and whoo boy am I not going to be getting that need met for a long time.

Tonight, I’m hoping everyone was able to find shelter, food, and all the loving supports they needed today, particularly the children and families who rely on the apparatuses of the state for basic needs. I know we fail so many people every day, but I continue to hope for everyone’s safety and security. Hope at night, fight for change during the day. Peace peace peace.

Day 2

I don’t know if I’ll be able to keep up the habit of daily writing, as I have almost never in my life been able to sustain a habit of daily anything. But for now, writing is what I have always done to process my life and still my whirring brain, so writing is what I will continue to do. I’ve been going to my desk first thing in the morning, with coffee in my favorite mug from Acadia on my rustic wood coaster from Wexford. Rather than the endless cycling of worries and rehashing, I’m making a concerted effort to record what’s going on outside my head. Will I be contributing to the historical record in any meaningful way? Probably not. But I’ll be contributing to not losing my ever-loving mind, so there’s that.

On our first day home together yesterday, we had a bit of a manic rah rah go team energy going all day long. Today, I think we all had a bit of a rah rah team energy hangover. My edges were fraying with the growing awareness that 2:30pm on March 13th was the last time I was going to be alone for a very long time. My partner’s edges were fraying with the awareness that I was going to be incessantly bossy–despite my best efforts–for a very long time. Our child was beginning to see that having two parents in the house with them at all times could mean seemingly endless opportunities to be assigned a chore when you were just innocently walking around in a costume trying to find something less boring to do.

Also, both of them neglected to eat a meal in the morning, breakfast and snack respectively. I didn’t think that an item on our family meeting agenda needed to be “no skipping meals!” but apparently I am not the perfectly insightful team leader I believed myself to be. We clarified that over a double-sized lunch.

Lunch is also when we agreed that nobody is allowed to have their feelings hurt when mom puts on her noise-cancelling headphones. Even if you thought you were in the middle of talking with her. (Speaking of noise-cancelling headphones, Roxane Gay deserves credit for probably saving my family’s lives during this period of household isolation, as I followed her recommendation in requesting said noise-cancelling headphones for my birthday a year ago and they are proving to be indispensable.) We’re all adjusting, some of us to being with fewer people all day and some of us to constant human contact.

Still, today was in many ways just another weekend day. We cooked, we cleaned, we planned for the week. We set up an admittedly haphazard work-from-home area in the bedroom for my partner, who spends most of his day talking to people about confidential stuff. We agreed that academic work (i.e. that chunk time that requires me to be actively involved in what my kid is doing) would take place during my best time of the day, which is in the range of 9:30am to noon. Most of our morning routine will stay the same, as the rounds of wake-up pills, waiting, empty-stomach pills, waiting, with-food pills and breakfast, then waiting to feel normal is a fairly non-fudgeable process for me.

Today, despite the “dampish coldish” weather, I am grateful for our porch and yard. So many people do not have outdoor space that is not shared with other people and being cooped inside is no joke. I am grateful that it is spring, that we have so much we can do in the garden, having fairly well neglected it beyond the bare minimum for the past few years. I am grateful that my health is relatively stable; the prospect of going two months without the weekly treatments that keep me moving is daunting and not ideal, but it does not throw me into a panic of wondering if I will be able to get out of bed or walk up and down the stairs a few weeks from now.

On our walk through the park today–during which we assiduously moved well off the path the rare times we came across other people–I collected a fully intact tulip dogwood blossom from the ground. I love these trees, so bold and colorful, blanketed with silky petals before their leaves come out. So many worries are weighing on me, the virus already affecting work and travel plans and starting to appear in people I know in a variety of cities. Most of them will be ill and then recover, but I fear for those few who will not. I’m not a churchy person, but I am also grateful for the several ministers among my friends and the heartfelt prayers I know they are sending up on our collective behalf. All the world fears, all the world grieves, and still beautiful flowers rain down around us in this uncertain spring.