Waiting for "normal"

I’ve learned a few tricks living with chronic back pain for a couple of decades. Key among them is the blissful effectiveness of distraction.

It wasn’t a deliberate, calculated approach; it was more learned from necessity and desperation. For years now, I know my pain is getting pretty intense when I find myself packing my schedule and rushing with a sense of urgency from one innocuous activity to another. While an outsider might assume the pain results from all the busy bee-ing, it’s actually just the opposite. As long as my mind is occupied, I don’t think about the pain.

Of course, this works until it doesn’t. Eventually all the appointments and chores and must-dos take their toll, leaving my back spasming and whimpering and begging to be noticed and cared for. It’s a great ride of denial while it lasts.

Our Governor-directed statewide quarantine began on Monday, March 16. I know that because I put it on my calendar for posterity.

The past 20 days have been a great ride. Among my urgent projects, I have:

Redesigned our church’s website, learning just enough CSS programming to make things pretty; figured out how to institute and collect donations online; joined the bandwagon of newbie videoconferencers in time to become an unofficial trainer for family and friends; watched endless YouTube videos from heavily accented Microsoft wizards to learn how produce a spiffy new membership directory with photos and everything.

That’s in addition to implementing new systems for anything other than Rob that wants entry to our home. We have new ways to handle our mail and deliveries and groceries. Our garage is a staging area, reeking of Lysol and Lemon Scented Clorox Wipes and 409 and Purell.

It’s all very time consuming. And distracting. Which was exactly the hope.

Common wisdom says it takes 3 weeks to establish a habit, 21 days for the completely unfamiliar to start to feel somewhat normal.

I can’t say that life feels at all normal at the moment. I mean, I am having to cook dinner…multiple times each week. I’m making progress, though. The knife cut on my thumb is just about healed, and I’m setting off the smoke detector with less frequency. Our dishwasher, on the other hand, has no idea what to make of things. It is used to being largely ignored and something of an ornamental knick knack in our kitchen. This every-other-day usage has all of us a bit perplexed.

Nevertheless, there does seem to be something of a new rhythm to things. My walks are more leisurely and less focused on “getting my steps in.” I’m reading more. I’m drinking more tea. My Facebook feed is filled with fun games and amateur photos and jokes, and blessedly less politics and complaints. It’s feeling more personal and communal, like the old days.

I’ve been thinking about those wintery occasions when the power goes out at Woodhaven. Life suddenly gets quiet. Candles and blankets come out. Dinner becomes simple. All creatures great and small huddle together on the couch.

This disruption is almost always inconvenient. And yet, there is almost always a flicker of disappointment when the motors and lights and electronics suddenly whir back to life. There is something very restful and peaceful in the slowness and quiet of a home uncomplicated by electricity.

Although I long to be able to grab a coffee and a long chat with a friend…and get on an airplane and fly to somewhere warm and sunny…and gather in a group of people to share an experience shoulder to shoulder…I also get the sense that we need more time with our lives disrupted. We may have burgeoning new habits, but I think most of them would be ditched in a heartbeat if the lights suddenly came back on and the world proclaimed an All Clear.

And so we wait. And rest. And learn. And adapt. And grieve. And accept. And grow.