Does This Mean We're All Connected?

A long time ago, well not that long, but about 10 years ago, my oldest broke his collar bone. It seems like a very, very long time ago, when my kids were little, when kids were actually out playing, when we would actually drive places together. It happened during an ice hockey game. He was distraught. Now I am just thankful that's all it was. No concussion, no serious injury. Then, it felt like the end of the world. For him especially. He wouldn't be able to pitch for the upcoming baseball season. He wouldn't be able to play at all. He would be sitting on the sidelines. And sit on the sidelines he did. For every game for his team. Cheering them on as best he could. Kinda feels like that now, right? We've all been called out of the game, trying to cheer on our healthcare heroes from the sidelines. Wanting them so badly to defeat this enemy of ours.

When I took Jay to the Orthopedic surgeon and he gave us the news, we walked gracefully, quietly to the car. When we got in the car, Jay burst into tears. "Why?" he asked over and over. Why did this have to happen? He had dreams and aspirations that would fill a 12-year-old's heart, or any heart for that matter. This was not the plan. And when your 12-year-old's heart is crushed, your heart as a mother is crushed too.

After the doctor's office, I went to pick up my other kids at the babysitter's. Charlie was about 6 at the time. When he got in the car, he tried to tell me about how exciting and wonderful his day was. As it is for most 6-year-olds. When he saw that my reaction was less than expected, he asked me what was wrong. "I'm sorry, Charlie" I said, "Jay is sad. He broke his bone. He can't play baseball." Charlie kinda looked at me as if to say, "But you're not broken." I explained, "A mother can never be happier than her saddest child." Charlie nodded and looked out the window for a moment. Our whole car was quiet. Then he looked up and said, "Does this mean we're all connected?" It stopped me in my tracks, or I should say, tears.

"Yes, Charlie, we are all connected." I don't know if he meant all of us as in our family, or all of us as in our world, but he got it. He knew that one's pain affects another and another and another. He knew that he could be sorry for Jay too. He knew that we all bear each other's burdens and we all support each other in lifting each other up, binding each other's wounds. We all had a responsibility that day to help Jay deal with the disappointment and the pain.

I think that is the pain we are dealing with right now. So much in the world is broken. So many are hurting so deeply. We can't afford to turn and say, Buck up! It's fine! It is not fine. It. Is. Not. Fine. People are hurting. We all have to bear that burden. We all have to do what we can. Whatever we can. It is our responsibility. We are all connected.

I know I did rally later that night and join in the joy that Charlie felt about his day. And we can celebrate each other now too. I appreciate and celebrate the nurses and the doctors and the research scientists and molecular biologists. I celebrate the grocery store clerks and delivery people. I celebrate the military and the police officers. I celebrate those who are working so hard to just get food from the food pantry. They didn't want this. This was not their plan. We all have to do what we can. After all, one's joy affects another and another and another. We are all connected.

Morning: Normal

Saturday morning. Laundry. Yoga. Housework. Change the sheets. For some reason, my mental list grew exponentially longer the more I did. Clean the kitchen. Clean up the dog's spit-up.  Make student packets. Go for a walk. Get coffee. Plan a birthday party. Buy birthday gifts. Send emails. Get Venmo. Work on lesson plans. Place a grocery order. Return phone calls. "Visit" my parents. Go to the post office. Plant the garden. And I was already behind schedule. It was 10:30 and the day had barely started and it seemed to have gotten away from me already. I had too much to do. I had to stop myself. There was no timeline, no pressure. My parents weren't going anywhere. I still had two hours to get to the post office. And finally, I caught myself, wondering why I was so worried and why this felt so weird.  And I realized that just for an instant, these were Normal things to worry about. These were the things that occupied my mind not so long ago. And I felt normalcy return for just an instant. Gone were the new worries, worries about health, safety, and food shortages. Worries about my parents, about my husband, about my kids. Worries about my sister-in-law who is an ICU nurse. Worries about what would happen if anyone I know were to get sick. Worries about jobs, and schools, and money. Worries about the Fall. Worries about the news and politics and the economy. And those normal worries sure felt, well, reassuring.

In that moment I realized something else too: I was missing, even mourning, Normal. I am mourning so many things right now. I am mourning with the daily tolls of death counts that collectively and individually touch our human soul. I am so, so sorry for those that are separated from loved ones who are in the hospitals, either working or sick. And I am selfishly sorry for all the little losses too. I am mourning the celebrations of my son's graduation which would have been escalating right now. I am mourning for each of my kids who have two "boomers" to hang with all day and not their friends. "That's such a Boomer thing to say!" I mourning the daily interactions with my students. I am mourning my classroom - so silly, right? I am mourning so many little daily habits of hugging and touching and laughing out loud without covering my mouth and wondering if I perhaps have caught the virus. I am mourning with every commercial that comes on tv that thanks the people who are out there doing all those normal things we depend on, from doctors and nurses to the baggers at the grocer. I am mourning the extra little interactions in the grocery store. I am mourning holding the door for another person to walk through. And I know we are all mourning so many personal, deeply personal, Normals.

Then came another thought - life will go on. It's perhaps the best line in Steel Magnolias. Life Goes On. We will have birthdays. We will have sunshine. The calendar will turn to May, after April 85th. We will have to-do lists. We will send mail. And do yoga. We will clean up the dog's spit-up. We will keep going. And we will keep mourning too. We are human and our grief is a sign of our humanity and our love for one another. We will be mourning for a while I think. After my brother passed, I grieved for a long time. I never thought things would ever feel Normal again. But we can talk about him without crying now, the memories made richer each time we remember him again. And that is something special too, a small gift in the midst of grief. Our memories of school, of vacations, of times with family and loved ones and friends, have so much more meaning now. Our memories have become like gold, more precious now. We cling to them to keep us going, to keep being able to look forward while looking backward. (There's a wonderful children's book called, Wilfred Gordon McDonald Partridge by Mem Fox, about the beauty of memories.)

So while we are missing Normal and mourning Normal, new Normal will bring us small gifts. For right now, we don't know those gifts. It's okay to be mourning. And it's okay not to be mourning. It's okay to grieve the lives that we knew, that were taken away without warning. And some morning, not too far away from now, we will wake up and things will feel Normal again. We will smile, we will laugh, we will feel joy without guilt. A little bit of Normal.