Therapeutic deletions

After nearly 4 years of steady, mostly trouble-free service, Rob and I nonetheless recently decided it was time to upgrade our cell phones. When I mentioned our plans to a fellow Gen Xer, she gave the most appropriate response possible: “I’m sorry.”

What a hassle! I am not a technophobe, but I also don’t particularly enjoy trying to hunt down that one deeply buried setting that must be toggled in just the right direction to suddenly get my handheld answer box to behave the way I want it to. I am the Geek Squad of Woodhaven and it’s a job I dread and try to avoid. Hence the 4-year-old phones that still have touch id and headphone jacks.

Among the tasks I assigned myself to get ready for The Upgrade was to winnow down my phone’s photo album. While I thought my nearly 3,000 photos were a lot, an unscientific poll of my Facebook friends suggests I’ve done a very impressive job keeping my cellular album manageable over the years (the average number of photos among my friends who replied was 13,394).

So over the course of about a week, I sifted through my many photos of vacations and fairs and sunsets and a particularly photogenic black cat. Downloading the images to organized files on my laptop, I am pleased to announce I got it down to just 702 photos that I want to keep at my fingertips.

Among the photos I pulled off and put in a new album were various scenes of Pandemic Life. I had photos of grocery stores with arrows on the floor, parking lots with hastily spray-painted numbers, lines of people 6 feet apart waiting outside a restaurant that deftly pivoted to “To Go” orders, church services with pews removed in place of “family groups” of chairs, screenshots of Zoom chats and meetings, Band-Aids over vaccinated arms, a positive Covid test, and so many selfies that featured face masks.

It was an unexpected relief to delete those Covid-era photos from my phone. I am no longer reminded of those surreal, fear-laden moments as I scroll through my collection looking for a specific non-pandemic photo. I didn’t realize the baggage-y impact seeing those images on a pretty regular basis was having on me until they were gone. While I don’t necessarily want to erase the past, I don’t need to frequently revisit it either. Especially that past.

The photo release inspired me to make another Covid clean sweep. Although I don’t remember the date, I do clearly remember putting up two rows of hooks in our laundry room so I could better organize our growing collection of Pandemic Masks. One row was for Rob, the other for me. For a seeming eternity, we were using those hooks daily. Thankfully, though, for the past couple of years, the hanging masks have evolved into odd décor as we have replaced any masking needs with higher-quality disposable ones.

Top row is Rob's. I clearly
decided to view masks as accessories.

When I installed the hooks, I recall wondering how long we would be living in masked times. It was with great hope and optimism that I attached the units to the wall with temporary tape and Velcro, desperate for the day we didn’t need them anymore.

I was filled with relief, gratitude, and a confused sense of “Did that time really happen??” as I removed the masks and hooks a few days ago. I looked at the masks that I made, remembering how frustrating and incredibly bloggable that little DIY adventure was. I looked at the masks that I bought as utterly bizarre souvenirs when we finally dared to venture out into the world again. I looked at the masks that I bought at a great price when the manufacturer had more confidence than I did that the height of the insane times was behind us. It was a very strange trip down a very strange lane of memories.

No pictured: an array of odd supplements like
metal bendy nose pieces, foam nose bridges,
and pipe cleaners. Masks + glasses = so much
annoying fog.

Deciding that the mask collection is a fascinating snapshot of all that was unprecedented (remember that overused word?!), I resisted throwing the masks away. Instead, I pondered a place I could store them that I wouldn’t visit often, a place that wouldn’t catch my eye as I wander about Woodhaven, a place I could forget even existed.

With a surge of inspiration, I trotted upstairs to a largely unused bathroom, heading for the storage cabinet under the sink. I opened the wooden door, ready to toss in my plastic bags of masks, and laughed out loud at how me I am.

Greeting me in the cabinet was my hair coloring kit circa 2016 – the last time I dyed my hair that dark brown Truffle #50 color.  

I wondered where that bell pepper
timer went! And the blue tape? I put
it on my face around my hairline to
minimize the post-coloring scrubbing
I had to do.

Yep, I indeed found the perfect spot. Out of the way and forgotten, where artifacts of Times That Were can collect and be visited…or not. I think I’ll move our tower of at-home Covid tests in there next.

That blank wall just breathes peace now.

Not a unicorn after all

For nearly three years, I have been so very careful. I have worn a mask, I have washed my hands, I have avoided large gatherings, I have canceled plans, I have turned my car into a dining room, I have skipped weddings and funerals and graduations and vacations.  

For nearly three years, every cough, sniffle, headache, and barely-there sore throat has put me on High Alert that I might have finally Caught It. And yet, despite so many “you might have been exposed” texts and phone calls, I miraculously stayed Covid-free. I frankly started to wonder.

Wonder if maybe that cold I had in February 2020 was actually Covid? Wonder if maybe I was one of those blissfully clueless asymptomatic carriers? Wonder if maybe I was a “Superdodger” or a “Never-Covider” – a magically immune unicorn in the midst of a potentially deadly virus?

Well, back in December I got to wonder no more. Turns out I am very decidedly not a unicorn.

It started innocently enough. All I noticed was slight soreness in the upper part of my throat. And it wasn’t sore when I swallowed. This was not typical at all for any “I’m sick” sore throat I’ve ever had, so I chalked it up to dry, wintery air and cold winds and maybe the side effects of some exhausted snoring the night before that Rob assured me was absolutely adorable.

Then a couple of days later, while sitting in the passenger seat while Rob and I were running errands, I felt a weird shortness of breath. I could breathe just fine – no wheezing or feeling pressure on my chest or panic that I couldn’t catch my breath. Instead it felt more like I just couldn’t get a good, deep breath without thinking about it – my breaths were sort of shallow on their own. But, that weirdness passed after a few minutes, so I decided it was just another peculiar health moment that seems to define being in your 50s.

The next day, though, yowza.

I woke up with the worst sinus pressure of my life. I had a massive headache and my whole face hurt. The sore throat was gone, but I had a light, dry cough and was sneezing and had a runny nose. I was tired and didn’t feel great, but aside from the headache I didn’t feel terribly compromised either. But the sinus pressure – it was pretty distractingly awful.

Ever the optimist, Rob saw the look of panic on my achy face but was certain I did not have Covid. He hadn’t been feeling 100% for a few days either, but he had decided he had a sinus infection due to his head and teeth hurting. Urgent Care had even provided him antibiotics that seemed to be helping despite uncharacteristically leaving a bitter taste in his mouth for several days.

With enough snot and phlegm plaguing my head, I decided it was time – for the first time ever – to dip into our Jenga tower of at-home Covid tests. I had enough symptoms and organic material in my nose, I was confident a false negative was impossible. 

Perhaps now is a good time to get a 
handle on the expiration date recommendations

Feeling like I should be wearing a lab coat and goggles, I swabbed and clicked and carefully applied the vialed reagent drop by drop. As I stared at the test on the bathroom counter, I had a moment of déjà vu and was filled with relief that a possible pregnancy was not at stake. 

I spent the next 20 minutes trying to figure out how long the wait at Urgent Care might be so I, too, could get some spiffy antibiotics for the insane sinus infection I seemed to have brewing. I also lightly pondered if I would need to use the other test in the box just in case. Because the instructions said the positive test line might be a very light pink color and therefore a little iffy to read.

Returning to the bathroom, I adjusted my glasses and got ready to intensely discern whether or not I saw a faint pink line. And the universe laughed.

For the untested, the bottom line is
the test result. You know, the deep
purple line that is more prominent
than the control line.

I spent the rest of the day on the couch staring into space. I didn’t feel like reading or listening to a podcast or playing mindless solitaire games. I didn’t have much motivation to do anything other than fantasize about what life would be like with a new head because the one I had was full of snot and was dreadfully annoying.

That first day of confirmed positivity ended up being the worst day of my Covidom. Each day after that was remarkably better in weird and wonderful ways. By the third day – and by my retrospective count, the sixth day of symptoms – I was feeling pretty much back to normal other than being tired. But I’m always sort of tired (hey there, painsomnia!) so that really didn’t count.

Over the course of the three most intense days of Covidity, I – at various times – had a light cough, a massive headache, and my ears were plugged. For one day, it felt like my tongue was coated in butter. The next day, the tip of it felt fuzzy like I had burned it on some hot soup. Both of those days, I couldn’t taste anything sweet and was overwhelmed by how salty everything was, especially Kraft mac and cheese (I love salt but that orange bowl of intended comfort was so disgustingly salty, I fear I may not ever eat that childhood favorite again.) 

I wasn’t able to smell anything for a few days, but that could have been all the congestion. In months past, I had wondered – and even Googled – what “brain fog” was. I can now describe it as feeling slightly drunk – like, you know what you are doing and saying but you have to double-check everything and go a lot slower and work a lot harder to make sure you aren’t forgetting something. Far as I can tell, the brain fogginess only lingered for a few days.

The common theme here is “a few days.” Thank God that’s all Covid really amounted to for me. But that was the terror in the thick of it: I did not know if anything I was experiencing was incredibly temporary or would linger for weeks or would become a new chronic issue that I would have to learn to live with. Not knowing how long the symptoms would last, not knowing if I would end up with long-Covid, not knowing if new symptoms would appear, not knowing if I was going to end up in the hospital. The uncertainty was by far the worse symptom. It was indeed like having a really bad cold, but more like having one for the first time in my life and having no idea what to expect from it.

I tried not to panic over thoughts of never being able to enjoy wine again or having to swim through the rest of my life feeling like my ears had water in them or having to build in extra time to do every little thing to allow my brain to keep up. I am so profoundly grateful that all of that was truly just a few days. And that I was able to treat my symptoms at home with the only-recently-expired stash of OTC meds Rob and I stocked up in April 2020. Tylenol, Mucinex, and Afrin for the win!

Speaking of gratitude, there is an enormous and unexpected relief to having finally Gotten It. For the first time in three years, I am not terrified of getting sick. I no longer wonder how my body will react to this unpredictable virus. I no longer fear adding to my list of chronic adventures. It was fascinating to watch my body learn how to fight the virus from the hints I shot into it four times. It learned quickly.

And for the first time in nearly three years, I can not tell you what the current Covid case number is in my county. That number is published in our local newspaper every Thursday, but hyper data freaks know where to find it on Wednesday night. But I incredibly do not know what that number is – and if it is trending up or down or largely holding steady. And I haven’t known – or cared – for a while now. 

That honestly is even better than being a unicorn.

 

 

Enduring

There’s a commercial in the Portland Metro that has been running for a few weeks (yes, we still watch live TV – mostly football).  It features a young teacher in a classroom talking about things we can all do to help keep kids in school this winter.  She’s wearing a mask and talking about distancing and hand washing and face coverings.  All the regular stuff.

But what caught my attention was how the commercial starts.  She commiserates that we are all tired and gives our collective exhaustion its name:  Pandemic Fatigue. 

Then this morning’s news included an interview with a local psychologist giving tips about how to stay sane-ish as we get ready to enter Year 3 of this Covid nonsense.  She suggested things like going slower, not trying to control things, going easy on yourself, and finding ways to safely socialize (like chatting with a friend on the phone while you both take walks in separate locations).

Apparently, we are at that point in Covidom where it’s deemed helpful to be told that it is totally normal and possibly universal to be utterly, completely depleted. And raw.  And fried.

I admit, it does help.

I haven’t gotten Covid yet.  I feel like it’s only a matter of time, though, with Omicron so ridiculously contagious.  I have once again lost count of how many people I know who currently are or have recently been sick.  Gratefully, none have died or needed hospital attention this time around.  But even super careful friends, vigilant mask wearers, and those with three entries on their vaccination cards have gotten Covid in the last month.  Unless I barricade myself inside Woodhaven like it’s March 2020…which brings its own set of concerns…chances seem likely I will be initiated eventually.

But having made it this long without a positive test has come at a price.  I have been ninja-stepping through life for two years, and I am exhausted.  Nothing seems particularly predictable – how much sleep I will get each night, how hungry I might be, how exposed my emotions are, if I will be motivated to finally clean that closet, if I will be optimistic about the future or just sort of meh.  Fatigue indeed.

I recently realized that I have been tightly holding onto as many things as I can figuratively grab because I want to control something…anything…since Covid is so uncontrollable.  That tight grip is draining, both physically and mentally.  The stress and anxiety of trying to control the uncontrollable have been gradually mounting and taking a toll on me.  This awareness alone has brought some much needed relief as I am slowly releasing and letting things be.

And then a couple days ago, I had a Divine conversation in which I was given the word “endure.”   According to Google, endure means “to suffer (something painful or difficult) patiently.”  Endure acknowledges this stuff is HARD.  It also suggests that I can not control it. And there’s an implication of waiting, connoting that this challenging season is not permanent.  Thank God.

And so, instead of playing Hot Lava around the floor of life, trying to deflect invisible microbes like Wonder Woman, I am loosening my grip.  I am slowing down.  I am letting things be.  I am giving myself permission not to thrive every day.  I am waiting.  I am enduring.

 

Pandemic in Paradise

I am sure all of us have had various carrots dangling at the end of the longer-than-fathomable Covid Stick over the past 20 months.  You know, those plans that have kept us motivated and sane and mostly suitable for polite company while stuck in quarantine and conducting life behind Zoom screens and face masks. 

For Christmas last year, Rob gave me a gift certificate to my favorite hot dog stand on the planet.  While it altruistically furthered our commitment to support small local businesses during a global pandemic, the basic white piece of paper printed from an email also – and, selfishly, more importantly – gave me tangible hope.  Its pixelated letters read, “Because we will eat again!  In Kauai!”

Kauai is one of those places Rob and I visit repeatedly.  Our first trip was back in the mid-‘90s.  We’ve frolicked on the Garden Island a dozen times, give or take.  Enough so that seeing the familiar green rock face of my favorite mountain range near the airport instantly infuses me with a sense of Home. We have a favorite condo place and even a specific unit we prefer if it’s available.  We know where to shop, we know where the eat, we know where to snorkel, we know which roads to take.  Short of having a dentist and a hair cutter person, Kauai feels more like a second home every time we arrive. The familiarity of it all eliminates a lot of the stress and uncertainty that comes with travel, so camping out in Koloa for a spell is one of our surefire ways to relax.

I decided I should know the name of this mountain
instead of just calling it "My Favorite Mountain in Kauai"
The interwebs tell me it is called Mount Haupu.

Last May, after we had both recovered from the promised side effects of our second vaccine doses, Rob and I got to work planning our “The Pandemic Is OVER” celebration trip to Kauai.  The first of many travel plans we defeatedly cancelled in 2020 was a much-anticipated cruise to Hawaii with some dear friends.  Although we weren’t quite ready to cruise again (still aren't...), a victory lap around Kauai sounded like a perfect way to celebrate the return to normality.  We didn’t want to go in the heat of summer, so we settled on November.  Certainly Covid would be a past-tense trauma by then.  Would we even remember what we were celebrating??

Twenty months into this adventure and I still amuse myself with my hopeful optimism. I’m adorable!

So here it is, November 2021.  I don’t know how things are where you live, but in my county Covid is still very present tense and deadly, with case rates about the same as they were in January. At one point less than a month ago, Rob and I lost track of how many people we knew – and had recently seen – who were sick.  We even got tested due to a very likely exposure.  Covid became even more real really fast.  Suffice it to say, we – and especially me – have been a touch edgy for the past few weeks.  What was originally planned as a celebration trip to Kauai quickly morphed into an escape from the closing rings of viral sickness.

And so, here we are.  In Kauai.  Celebrating not being at home.  It’s warm and lovely but also kinda odd. It still feels familiar yet so much is different. 

One of my favorite things to do here is walk walk walk.
I'm averaging about 5 miles per day so far!

Ahhhh....

There are fewer tourists than we are used to, but restaurants are super crowded and luaus are reportedly sold out for months.  Hotels are at capacity and day-passes to resorty pools with waterfalls are sold out until January.  You can make reservations at restaurants, but it’s best to do that at least a month in advance…assuming they answer the phone. Otherwise, waitlists are 45-90 minutes long.  Like everywhere, it appears challenging to find people who want to fill jobs here.  So the hotels and the restaurants and the entertainment are as full as the limited staffing allows.

After arriving at our mostly well-appointed condo, I nonetheless had a short list of needed items…like ice cube trays and laundry detergent and an inflatable pool floaty to serve as a lounge chair cushion. Excited by the recent addition of a Target in Kauai’s largest town, I left Rob to his homework (he’s in grad school and is studying as I type) and made what I assumed would be a quick and successful shopping trip.  What I found at Target – or, more appropriately, what I didn’t find – was shocking.

Remember back in Spring 2020 when store shelves were bare of toilet paper and Clorox Wipes and flour and bottled water and rice and canned green beans? Well, the biggest thing in stock at the Lihue Target is bare shelves.  It all looks good when you first walk in – clothes and shampoo and Christmas decorations (SO weird to see while wearing shorts and sandals).  But as I searched the inner aisles, there was so much white metal, so few employees, and so much bewildered wandering.  The housewares section was so empty, I wasn’t even sure what department I was in. 

I eventually ended up at Walmart, which was in much better but still compromised shape.  It occurred to me that being in the middle of the Pacific Ocean is not a very big – or critical – link in the supply chain.  These poor islands are clearly lucky to get what they can.  We chatted up a young employee at our favorite ice cream shop who confirmed as much.  On our first of mostly nightly visits, we were sad to see only one case of delicious island-inspired flavors instead of the typical two.  Mopey that our beloved Banana Fudge Ice Cream was not offered, I asked the scoop jockey if the flavors in the lonely case were the only flavors they are currently making. 

“No, when a tub runs out we just replace it with whatever has been sent to us by the [local] factory.”

“So you might get Banana Fudge within the next 10 days??”  SO MUCH HOPE!

“Oh, we haven’t had that flavor in months.  Bananas are really hard to get right now.”

Hope dashed.  Last night’s Chocolate Macadamia Nut ice cream almost made up for it.

One big weirdness that I am quite enjoying is the pervasiveness of face masks. I have been pretty dang compliant with all the masking requirements and suggestions since March 2020.  I’m happy to ditch them when The Powers That Be deem it safe to do so, but I also get really twitchy when I am among naked-faced rebels. 

For the first time ever, I lost a mask!
I'm not entirely unhappy to have an
excuse to get a festive local one.

The Kauaians take their masking SERIOUSLY.  I have yet to encounter a maskless face indoors nor one worn defiantly below a nose.  Locals seem so accustomed to this accessory, it is not uncommon to see folks wearing masks alone in their car or outside.  There’s no hassle, there’s no argument, there’s no picketing, there’s no tension.  Instead, this community seems to be of one aloha spirit to try to keep Covid at bay until they can kick it off the island completely. It’s rather refreshing, although I strangely feel like a slacker when I walk around outside with my mask in my hand instead of on my face.

I have yet to see someone at the pool wearing a 
mask, but folks do seem to be aware of keeping
some distance.

To be granted access to The Islands, all visitors have to jump through quite a number of hoops.  The hoops weren’t difficult, they just required attention to detail – which is one of my specialties.  Rob and I each had to create an account on a State of Hawaii website, enter all our travel arrangements including flight numbers and which specific condo unit we had reserved, and upload photos of our vaccination cards.  This allowed us to request exemption from a 10-day quarantine or providing proof of a negative test result within 72 hours of arrival. 

24 hours prior to our flight, we each had to log in again to fill out a health questionnaire.  This resulted in a QR code indicating we were screened.  When we arrived in Seattle for our flight to Kauai the next day, we stood in line for an Alaska Airline rep to check our codes and photos and IDs.  Our prize for successfully jumping through that hoop was a snazzy turquoise wrist band that allowed us to bypass the Hawaiian airport folks 6 hours later and waltz directly to Baggage Claim and the start of our vacation. Somewhere in there, our condo complex was supposedly contacted to confirm we were registered guests…and while waiting for our bags, I texted them the requested updated QR code that proclaimed us Screened AND Exempt and therefore allowed to stay on their property. Goodness!

The whole process was sort of like filling out a Publishers Clearinghouse Sweepstakes entry.  Just the right stamp had to be placed in just the right box, another box needed to be checked, etc. And honestly, once we were in our freshly sanitized white Impala motoring away from LIH, I did rather feel like we had won a Grand Prize.

When we stopped at the grocery store
on our way to our condo, I spied another
shopper with the same wrist band.  What used
to be fresh leis are now wristbands proclaiming
your very recent arrival in Hawaii!

All that rigmarole just to set flip flop on the island has given me confidence that I am surrounded by healthy people.  Although there are Covid cases here, most are among the community.  The only community I am interacting with are masked restaurant servers and store merchants.  We are also outside almost all of the time.  The only time I have been inside a public space for more than 15 minutes was Target, Walmart, and the grocery store -- places my mask and I visit at home frequently.   I have found myself finally breathing deeply here, with comfort and security for the first time since July.  I finally feel safe again, which is a blessed and desperately needed vacation in and of itself.

We’re pretty sure the people staying in Unit 38 – our preferred condo – are the owners.  We keep shooting them dirty looks while they are lounging on their lanai.  They’ve yet to notice.  But I can’t say I blame them for hunkering down here to ride out the wild waves of Covid.  I would if I could!  I am already dreading flying back to reality in a few days.  But the blissful escape from it could not have come at a better time.  And that’s worth celebrating.

Pandemic fatigue

Is it just me, or is this pandemic thing endlessly exhausting?

Back in July -- when Delta was just an airline -- I dared to exhale with relief that Covid was in the rearview mirror.  I started having lunch dates with friends.  I mapped out in my head all sorts of travel and fun getaways.  I bought new lipstick.  I even started using the term “post-Covid.”  

I was so adorably naïve.

Within a few short weeks, I was once again wearing a mask and avoiding hugs and saying no to indoor dining at restaurants.  I was once again holding plans very loosely and declining invitations.  I was once again making the heartbreaking and gut-wrenching categorization of people and circumstances as “safe” or “not safe.”

I hate it.  And I am so very weary.

It’s harder this time around.  Covid’s sphere of influence is creeping closer.  At one point several weeks ago, Rob and I had 13 members of our extended family in four states sick with Covid.  Last week, one of them died.  Twice we have received the dreaded “I need to let you know I was exposed to Covid and am getting tested” phone calls from people we interacted with.  Earlier today, I earnestly prayed for a young friend as we anxiously await test results from what is unfolding to be an outbreak at her job.

All this while I am also surrounded by people who are understandably over it.  Completely, utterly, exhaustingly DONE.  They are done making compromises and saying no to things and cancelling plans and postponing events and being alone.  They want to live life, virus be damned.  They are willing to take the risk of getting sick because the costs of staying safe have proven too great.  I get it.  I’m just not there yet.

And so here I am again.  Batting away fear as I try to cling to the bigger picture.  Cautiously hoping I get to attend a wedding and a baby shower and go on a beachy vacation.  Wondering if I will get to hug my parents for the second time since 2019 before it’s 2022.  Sighing with resignation that I must wait a bit longer before presuming to say “post-Covid” once again.

A Flood of Firsts

I’ve been fully vaccinated for about a month now.  And ooooh doggies, what a month of freedom and firsts!  Things that were once so mundane, just tiny threads in the fabric of life, are now monumental and worthy of taking a moment to soak in the sweetness.  I cry much more easily from gratitude than despair.  I’ve been a bit of a blubbering mess lately.

Rob and I celebrated our vaccinated status with a quick overnight trip to a riverside hotel nearby.  We ate in their attached restaurant.  Inside.  A restaurant.  Pre-Covid, Rob and I were in restaurants several times per week.  We don’t like to cook.  We didn’t know how to cook.  We lost weight during Covid because despite how unhealthy tortilla chips might be, if they are all you are eating, you start to see your jawline again.  Restaurants were a huge part of our pre-Covid life and we missed them terribly.

Sitting at a table, in a booth, with a server checking on us was a bit heady.  Service!  Someone asked me what I wanted to eat, made it for me, brought it to me, and cleaned up after me.  It’s like I was royalty!

Mid-meal and mid-sentence, I asked Rob to give me a moment.  We sat in silence as I listened to the sounds of a restaurant:  conversational chatter of strangers; metal silverware clunking against porcelain plates; wine and water glasses tinkling together; kitchen door swinging back and forth; adult beverages being shaken and stirred.  Sounds I never noticed before, until I spent a year not hearing them.

I have SO missed salads.  "Salad" at
Woodhaven is spinach, feta, and dressing.
SO missed eating ingredients!

We’ve had other restaurant firsts.  Sitting inside a favorite pizza place and a favorite fast-food joint, marveling at the spaciousness of a laminated table spread out before us instead of our lap trays bumped up against the steering wheel and dashboard.  Being able to throw away our trash right away instead of carting it home.  Not worrying about crumbs and greasy fingerprints decorating our car.  Spectacular!

Still in a cardboard box and on paper plates, but 
TABLE! 
(Note:  Woodhaven is too far from this restaurant
to get the pizza home hot.  So tired of car dining...)

After more than a year of toenails cut sideways and polish jobs that were “good enough” and much better viewed without my glasses on, I finally got a pedicure.  My back was so much happier.  Not to mention my feet.  And my spirit.  Ahhh….

She was kind enough not to ask what the
heck had happened to my feet and nails.

I have been venturing into stores with my mask in my hand instead of on my face.  Every store has different rules, so for the first time in months, I am actually stopping to read the signs on glass doors establishing rules of engagement. 

It’s been many years since I blindly followed a crowd, but I am nevertheless letting popular opinion guide my mask wearing in places where they are optional.  If most people are wearing masks, I put mine on.  If most people are baring their smiles to the world, I stuff my mask in my pocket.  

Instead of peer pressure, I am operating under the “love my neighbor” philosophy.  If you are wearing a mask, I will wear one, too.  If you are wild and free, I will join you.  So many of us have spirits weary from hiding in fear-dripped caves for a year.  I am trying hard to come out of my cave while reaching both in front of me and behind me, to help those behind me emerge with more confidence and allow myself to be helped by those who are a few steps ahead. 

Maskless in Costco!

I tried on clothes in a dressing room last week.  In a store instead of my bedroom!  Without need for return receipts and original packaging!  I was so dang excited, I actually bought a pair of pants because apparently skinny jeans aren’t a thing anymore?  I’m sure my high-waisted flared-legged ankle jeans will be out of style by next summer, but I don’t care.  It was so fun to try them on before buying them!

The last time I tried on something at
Target, I ended up with an epic 
prairie dress.

I have been hugging people.  Friends, cousins, parents.  Parents!!  After 20 months of texts, phone calls, and the occasional FaceTime, I finally got to hug my parents and breathe the same air as them!! It was spectacular.  I had never gone that long without seeing Mom and Dad.   Even when I was 2 years old and Dad was in Vietnam, he got to come home on R&R. 

I was barely inside their front door before I collapsed into their arms in tears.  We spent four days talking, laughing, watching TV, eating.  We had Thanksgiving dinner, twice.  The first Thanksgiving was traditional turkey and gravy and stuffing.  The second Thanksgiving was family-traditional tacos and tortilla chips and salsa. We drove home with my heart and stomach full.  Our visit was even better than I had hoped and even more needed than I had realized.

Mom even decorated for November!

Visiting my parents was a bit mind-blowing.  Not just from the overwhelming emotion of seeing them, but also experiencing the wild freedom of Idaho.  Despite signage, the only people at our hotel wearing masks were me, Rob, and the hotel staff.  The fully-booked hotel of high school track and tennis players…and their associated entourages…roamed and frolicked about maskless and in close proximity like it was 2019.  It was a bit jarring.

Our first night there, arriving after a long drive from another time zone, we decided to go out to dinner at a favorite pub grill.  We had experienced dinner inside a restaurant the week before, so I thought I was prepared. I was not.

We opened Jakers’ door to find a completely full, noisy, unmasked crowd of Boise-area eaters.  Three bare-faced hostesses, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, greeted us and asked if we wanted to add our name to the 30 minute waiting list.  Rob assessed the panic in my eyes and said, “It’s up to you.” 

“I can’t do this yet,” I whispered between stilted breaths.  We quickly left, returned to the car, and I broke down in tears in the passenger seat.

I was overwhelmed by the normality.  I was caught off guard by the sensory overload.  I was shocked being amongst more people in one room than I had been in in over a year.  I was terrified out of habit by not seeing a single masked face.

We eventually found a smaller restaurant with an area set aside to wait for takeout orders.  We took our dinner back to our hotel room where I finally calmed down while realizing I wasn’t quite ready to jump into the deep end of freedom yet. 

However, as jolting and anxiety-ridden as that moment in Jakers was, I am grateful it happened.  I returned to Woodhaven much more ready to swim mid-pool, no longer hesitant to put my toe in the water, no longer thinking I need to ease my way slowly out of the fear-driven habits I have spent over a year honing. 

I’m still washing my hands when I get home and using hand sanitizer when I get into the car after each errand.  I think those might be healthy habits worth keeping.  But suddenly (or not), I am ready to rip off the fear of the past year and embrace all the big and small firsts of post-Covid life with new appreciation and lots of gratitude.  And probably a wad of Kleenex.     

A Couple Shots in the Arm

It finally happened at 5:05pm in a little office next to the condoms and Tampax.

My appointment was scheduled for 4:45pm, so I spent 20 minutes lingering nervously in the “Feminine Hygiene and Family Planning” section of Costco’s pharmacy.  I was convinced that somehow the pharmacy staff was not finding me “In the System” (which does not actually exist) and was moments away from telling me that so sorry, I wouldn’t be getting my first COVID vaccine today after all.

Gateway to Freedom

In reality, they were short-staffed and running behind.  When the pharmacist finally arrived, toting a little plastic basket of paperwork, alcohol wipes, and a syringe of hope, I nearly fell into the Shot Chair from relief.

I listened as best I could as she reviewed the paperwork and explained the side effects they would be watching for as I settled in a freshly sanitized plastic chair for 15 more minutes.  It was a little hard to concentrate on her words with the incredulous “IT’S REALLY HAPPENING!!!!” screaming in my head.

The shot itself was nothing extraordinary.  I might say it was even easier than a flu shot.  Of course, I might have been numbed by adrenaline.  And of course, it was in fact all kinds of extraordinary.

With a sticky note confirming my second shot 4 weeks later, my paperwork and I plopped down in a specially designated “Under Observation” chair with a prime view of facial masks, face shields, and rubbing alcohol.  Just a reminder of the real reason I had a new Band-Aid on my left arm.  As if a reminder of the past more-than-a-year was necessary.

My eyes were a little watery

I mentally scanned my body.  The vaccine site felt a little warm and itchy, but only for a couple of minutes.  My knee and back hurt, so that was normal.  I also felt a little dizzy.  The dizziness psychosomatically increased as I read it on the list of “You might be having an allergic reaction” side effects. 

My head spinning, I realized I was on the verge of tears, desperately trying not to cry while Under Observation.  I was relieved, I was grateful, I was numb.  I was not elated, I was not celebratory, I was not smiling under my mask.  I actually think I was in a bit of shock.

Kayla came by a few times to ask how I was doing.  Through watery eyes, I told her I was ok.  When my 15 minutes were up, Kayla returned.

“Should I set you free now?”

Oh, she had no idea.

I told her I was feeling emotional, that I was a bit dizzy but I knew it was from being overwhelmed by what had just happened.

“I felt that exact way after my second shot.  I had a hard time describing the feeling.  It’s a very emotional thing.”

I put the paperwork and the coveted Vaccination Card with my name on it in my purse.  I pulled my jacket on to cover my Band-Aid.  Strangely, the fact that I had just been vaccinated against death from a global pandemic felt like very private information.  I felt somehow reborn, but I didn’t want anyone to know yet.

I tried to stay focused as I located the AA batteries and paper plates…because, you know, I like to trip link.  As I walked through Costco and stood in line, I realized that although I was still taking all the highly practiced distancing precautions, my urgency to do so was subsiding.  Of course, I knew that 20 minutes of antibody construction was not providing any protection whatsoever.  Nevertheless, I noticed that the emotional tightness I had been carrying for over a year was slowing releasing.

I drove home listening to Spa music to help soothe the fast flicker of thoughts and reorganizing my brain was doing.  I was holding it all together quite admirably until I got into my town’s city limits and saw the Walmart parking lot.

Looking at the Walmart, I saw flashes of being terrified to go inside.  I saw employees spraying down shopping carts with disinfectants. I saw empty shelves where toilet paper and Clorox wipes and hand sanitizer used to be.  I saw myself waiting for a curbside delivery and popping my trunk and talking to an employee through a mostly closed car window.  I saw Rob and me sitting in our car in the parking lot, eating so many fast food meals on our laps, watching people in the parking lot simply for something else to see and to be reminded what other people look like.  I saw the past year and I burst into tears.

I cried most of the rest of the way home.  I cried on Rob’s shoulder soon after I arrived.

The tears were mostly of release.  Until that moment, I didn’t realize how tightly I had been holding onto things the past year.  Tightly holding onto staying safe, tightly holding onto following the rules, tightly holding onto anxiety, tightly holding onto fear, tightly holding onto rolling with so much uncertainty, tightly holding onto sanity.

The next day my arm was sore, and I accompanied Rob to his first shot at a medical clinic.

For the next week, I found myself lapsing a little on my highly-attended COVID protocols.  Twice I came home from errands and absentmindedly walked right past the kitchen sink without washing my hands to the ABC song.  I allowed myself a masked hugged with a fully vaccinated friend.  I left the house without a mask and had to dig into my Emergency Mask Stash in the car’s console.  By the second week, though, I was back on task, vigilantly washing and sanitizing my world.  But it was with a distinct reduction in sustained terror.

Eighteen days after Shot #1, we had reservations for seven trips from near to far, from driving to airplanes to boats, from summer to winter to 2022.  My spirit instantly filled with light and sunshine and optimism with new plans…ANY plans…to look forward to.  Our calendar was blessedly peppered with confirmation numbers of hope and freedom and normalcy.

As the date of Shot #2 approached, I found myself fantasizing about the reported possible side effect of hoooouuurrrs of sleep while my body’s immune system kicked into high gear.  A full night’s sleep is a distant memory (hello, menopause), so a fever induced semi-coma sounded quite lovely.

The Second Shot

I woke up the morning of Shot #2 feeling excited and a little nervous.  I was concerned that I hadn’t been inundated with confirmation emails like with the first shot.  I had just one confirmation email for Shot #2, which felt like Willy Wonka’s Golden Ticket.  I was also a little nervous about what my side effects might be.

Receiving the second dose was even faster and more overwhelming than the first. 

It's easier to take a selfie when
you aren't crying.

I didn’t start crying until I was in the car…but the tears continued until after I collapsed in Rob’s arms back at Woodhaven a half hour later. 

Amongst the sobs, I realized I had been holding my breath for over a year.  The trauma of the past year (with full understanding many people have suffered much worse) finally became more clear in its sudden release.  I know life will never return to exactly how it was in January 2020…but Lord willing, it will never be like April 2020 again either.

I spent the next 20 hours waiting to feel something other than a sore, heavy arm.  I cleaned out a drawer, I tidied up the kitchen, I did some light yard work, I lounged in the sun.  Waited, waited, waited.

Finally around the 21^st hour, I started feeling a bit off.  I had a headache and I had goosebumps on my arms despite being happily in shorts in the warm sunshine. 

By the time I went to bed at 9:30pm (not a typical bedtime for my night-owl self), I had pretty constant chills, my body felt like one big bruise, a variety of joints hurt (knees, fingers, elbows…ELBOWS?), and my energy level allowed for two episodes of “Young Sheldon” before I fumbled for the remote control and lamp switch. 

I slept for 10 glorious hours.  Not only that, I was wearing long pants and long sleeves – a first in a several hot flashing years.  Having the chills was sort of nice.  It was so novel to be cold!  I kinda liked it!

The next morning, I was only left with a slightly sore arm. All other symptoms were gone.  And my long sleeves felt a little constricting.

Three days later, a new side effect popped up.  The area around the injection site was suddenly red, warm, and itchy.  It was about the size of a dainty tea saucer.  I had heard of “COVID arm” so I wasn’t concerned as much as curious.  

I slathered on some cortisone cream throughout the day.  The next day the rash was much smaller (about the size of a half-dollar…a reference for those of a Certain Age), no longer hot, less red, but so much more itchy.  I kept reapplying the cortisone cream but THE ITCH.  Goodness, it just wouldn’t go away.  Consulting Dr. Google, I redirected from cortisone to a topical Benedryl cream and magic!  So much better the next morning!

After four more days, the rash and itch were gone and I had nothing to report on the V-Safe app.  All that was left was to endure the rest of The Countdown.

I was in my car driving to the post office when freedom rang.  It was 4:40pm, two weeks to the minute that I got Shot #2.  As the minute flashed on my dashboard, it felt like midnight on New Year’s Eve.  I smiled and lingered at a stop sign.  

Just like that, in an instant, a new chapter started.  New beginnings, fresh hope, resolutions to do things differently, a deep breath with a full exhale.

Unmasked truth

The CDC, the President, and Washington’s Governor have all suddenly announced this afternoon that vaccinated people do not need to wear masks anymore.  Like right now, if you are fully vaccinated, you can pretty much stuff all your masks in the back of your dresser drawer to be pulled out only for travel or if you get sick.

What!?!?

Rob and I are both fully vaccinated.  A blog post about that journey was planned next week.  I suppose for posterity purposes I will still post it.  Nevertheless, this totally unexpected and liberating news immediately applies to Woodhaven.

I gotta be honest, I am sitting here pretty bewildered. 

Over the past nearly 15 months, my mask has protected me.  And you.  My mask has kept me healthy.  It has kept me safe.  It has given me confidence to tiptoe into an infected world and interact with other humans.  It has become a security blanket.  A blanket that I didn’t realize until now that I was holding tightly; one that I am strangely resisting being taken away.

I should be celebrating. 

I should be excited that I get see people’s full faces and full smiles again!  Excited that I get to wear lipstick again!  Excited that I won’t have to suffer through hot flashes under a sweaty mask!  Excited that I will get to breathe in all the distinctive and characteristic smells of my church’s building!  Excited that I won’t have to strain to hear and understand service workers trying to ask me questions or wish me a nice day!  Excited that interacting with the world will no longer come with a wide-spread, unescapable visual reminder that all is not well or normal.

And I am excited, about all of that.

But I am also curiously super nervous.  Without warning, I have been set free.  I feel like I am standing outside a prison after a 15-month sentence, looking for a ride and trying to compute what comes next.

I don’t want to throw off my mask and return to life as it was in January 2020.  I couldn’t even if I wanted to; neither the world nor me are the same.  We are forever changed by COVID and our individual and collective responses to it.  I don’t want the lessons of the past 15 months…nor the trauma…to be for naught.

But in the midst of those lessons were also habits. Habits that were formed from necessity or fear.  And in many cases, both.  Every human on the planet this past year has been in a battle whose scars we will likely carry for a lifetime, some more visible than others. 

Short of declaring victory – especially as other nations are being crushed under the weight of a terrifying crisis – it appears today, in the United States, the worst is behind us.  We get to start cleaning up, assessing, culling, rebuilding.  We get to start figuring out what a better “normal” is going to look like now.  And, with memories of a sore arm, we get to face it head on.  Some with cautious, wide-eyed, rattled excitement.

The Pandemic – A Year Later

One year ago today, I’m pretty sure I was doing what I am doing right now.  Lounging in my Day Pajamas, feet up on the recliner, cat and husband nearby, staring out the window, pondering a pretty empty calendar. 

But a year ago, I was staring out the window riddled with fear and confusion.  Today I’m merely weary and mentally exhausted from a Year of Pandemic.

It is bizarre how normal “pandemic life” can feel these days.  Life of wearing masks and dousing hand sanitizer and stepping back from people and eating restaurant food in the car.  Life of not seeing family or being in an airport or hugging people outside my bubble (aka Rob).  All this weirdness seems normal now, automatic, routine.

Looking at my friends…whose unmasked smiles I desperately miss…there seems to be a shared weariness.  There is still laughter, but it is tired.  There is still joy, but it is cautious.  There is still life, but it is muted.

But slowly…thanks to astounding advances in the development and distribution of vaccines…some of “normal” is returning here in the Pacific Northwest.

Kids are back in school…sort of.  Restaurants have indoor dining…sort of.  Outdoor sports are allowing spectators…sort of.  Airports are getting busier…sort of.

Rob and I are seeing all of these changes from a distance.  For the past year, we have been very careful about not putting ourselves or others at risk of unknowingly transmitting COVID-19.  We have stayed away.  We have missed family celebrations.  We have declined invitations.  We have hermitted like introverted pros.  So until we both get vaccinated, Rob and I remain spectators of the rebirth of “normal” around us.

Early 50s is a very strange age to be right now.  It is old enough to acutely grasp the mortality of a pandemic yet young enough not to have any conditions granting vaccine eligibility.  Gen-X gets short shrifted yet again.  Rad.

When the vaccines first came out in January, I literally teared up with shared joy when I saw photos of healthcare worker friends getting their first doses of hope.  I remained relieved and celebratory as elderly friends and family got in line.  But over the past several weeks, as eligibility has expanded and backdoors have been discovered, I have struggled.

I have struggled not to feel left out.  I have struggled not to feel jealous.  I have struggled not to be judgmental.  I have struggled to celebrate with my newly vaccinated friends.  I have struggled to enjoy their social media posts of travel and family visits.  I have struggled to be a 53 year old and not a 5.3 year old.

I read an op-ed article a few days ago written by a 40-something Seattle Times writer who is feeling similarly.  He assured me I am not alone.  In fact, millions are right there with me experiencing what has even been given a name:  vaccine envy.  Even the fancy people at Harvard Medical School have it.  (Check out this article).  I guess that makes me feel better?

When the day finally comes – the glorious day of freedom and hope and hugging my parents and eating in a restaurant…the day I finally get that highly coveted shot in the arm – I will absolutely write about it.  I expect it to be emotional and unquestionably blog-worthy. 

However, sensitive to others still forced to press their noses against the pharmacy window, I won’t post my musings until we are firmly in the All-Skate Phase of vaccines.  That triumphant phase when anyone who wants a vaccine can get one.  That phase when everyone is finally invited to the party.  That phase when life really truly might start returning to something resembling normal.  That phase that I have every hope and expectation is only matter of weeks or a few months away.  

 

The Year of the T-Shirt

According to the Chinese calendar, 2020 was the Year of the Rat. Since the Chinese Zodiac doesn’t include skunks or honey badgers, I’d say a rat is an appropriate metaphor for 2020. 

Here at Woodhaven, with so much time to surf and a memorized credit card number and an eagerness to have shipped boxes provide some sense of excited anticipation for the future, 2020 proved to be the Year of the T-Shirt. 

Sorting through my unplanned collection, I realize my array of statement tees provides something of a reflection on the weirdness, the struggle, the hope, the humor, and the reality of what I truly pray is a Once in a Lifetime year. 

Because New Year’s Eve demands some reflection, join me on a little tour of 2020 T-Shirts: A Year in Review.

April 2020

I made this t-shirt myself (well, the print, not the actual shirt).  After a month in lockdown, Rob and I were venturing out soooo veeery carefully into grocery stores and take-out windows and curbside pick-ups.  I was overwhelmed by the courage, dedication, and kindness of the newly understood "essential workers."  I wanted a shirt that simply but sincerely spoke my heart to reinforce my words as the dedicated workers bravely served me.  Oddly, the only "Thank you" t-shirts I could find online mimicked the white plastic bags with red lettering that so many retailers use.  While close, I wanted something a little more personal and heartfelt.  A homemade stencil, some fabric paint, and a shirt carefully placed in my trunk by a masked Kohl's employee resulted in the first t-shirt in my 2020 collection.

May 2020

Still in quarantine but the sun is starting to shine, more is being learned about COVID-19, and panic is slowly being replaced by determination.  But hair is still uncut and Clorox wipes are better than gold and the novelty of Zoom is beginning to fade.  But it's fine.  I'm fine.  Everything is FINE. 

July 2020

Not surprisingly, my favorite shirt of the year.  Rules bring me comfort so I have been pretty compliant about mandates to wear masks and stay distant and limit my bubble and not gather in groups.  A determinedly Zen llama proclaiming social distance pretty much sums up my 2020 self. 

State rules at the time allowed for
unmasked speaking behind plexiglass. 
That changed in the Fall.

My inaugural wearing of my Llamastay t-shirt was for a surprise introduction on a Sunday morning in July.  Our church had been holding very scaled down, compliant, sparsely attended in-person services for several weeks. Nevertheless, we were all super excited to see each other and we started drifting towards each other in conversations after church.  Llama to the rescue!  I found Rona the Llama online (God bless Amazon).  She is 6 feet tall to the top of her ears.  She wanders around our church building, appearing in different places every couple Sundays.  She is a visual reminder of what 6 feet looks like.  Her sign says "Social Distancing Pro Tip:  Rona the Llama is 6 feet tall.  If she can face plant between you and hit you, you are too close!"  And yes, I am grateful and a bit mystified that my church family has continued to indulge my desire to worship with a (cardboard) llama.

August 2020

My self-directed Fair At Home was probably the highlight of the weirdness that COVID-19 demanded in 2020.  I refused to let the stupid microbe rob me of my most favorite time of the year, especially as it had smugly absconded with so much already.  It was an exhausting 10 days -- running a Fair is hard work!  But I had an absolute blast.  Learning about friends' hobbies, playing with neighbors, deep frying Dollar Tree's candy aisle.  All of it so different than my typical week of Fair and a desperately needed escape from reality.  Although I can not wait to get back on the road exploring state fairs as we did in 2019, I am grateful that COVID-19 inspired me to approach fairing in a new way this year.

September 2020

Lots of larger fairs this summer offered a drive-in experience through their fairgrounds to buy favorite snacks and get a literal taste of The Fair.  My beloved Clark County Fair was not able to convince enough vendors to give it a try, but the larger Washington State Fair was.  So one day in mid-September, Rob and I drove nearly 300 miles round trip to graze on a guilt-free array of roasted corn and Monster burgers and Dole Whip and corn dogs and garlic fries.  While it sounded delicious in concept, the fact that we were not allowed to stop to eat anything until we had exited the fairgrounds meant that most of our bounty was tepid and coagulating by the time we were able to eat it.  And I still have corn juice splurts sprinkled on my dashboard, mostly for the memories.  The best vendor was the souvenir stand at the end.  I'm not sure there is a better shirt representing the Pacific Northwest in 2020.

October 2020

Try as I might, I only lasted about 25 minutes watching the first Presidential debate.  But I watched long enough to hear what I was certain was destined to be an iconic catchphrase.  More memorable and iconic than Adm. James Stockdale's quip during the 1992 Vice Presidential debate with Dan Quayle ("Who am I?  Why am I here?").  (Rob and I have quoted him with some frequency over the years.)  So I snatched up this t-shirt to commemorate a moment in political history.  I've only worn the shirt a few times and suspect it will eventually live in the keepsake drawer with other mementos like my "GO/SH Who Will Be President?" t-shirt from the hanging chad 2000 Gore/Bush election.  Some people collect political buttons; apparently, I collect t-shirts.

December 2020

I bought this shirt in the Fall, and I have worn it a number of times.  And I am wearing it right now as it seems a fitting outfit for the last day of the year.  2020 has been hard.  One of the hardest of my life.  But not the hardest.  That honor goes to 2017 when I spent far too many days in hospitals as a visitor and actually had a running tally of how many airports I had cried in. But much like 2017, the struggles and challenges and hardships of 2020 have also produced unexpected lessons and insights and blessings.  It hasn't been a great year, but the t-shirt undersells it.  Nevertheless, I doubt I will have any problems remembering to write "21" on dates starting tomorrow.  2020 you were a trip and a half.  Thanks for the memories.  And now...onward.