Life in the Age of Coronavirus, COVID-19: Tuesday, 3/17/20

Tuesday, 3/17/20

My daughter who isn’t “supposed to be here” told me today was St. Patrick’s Day. I hadn’t realized it. On a normal weekday in mid-March, I would likely have been surprised to learn it was a holiday requiring specific attire the morning of as we were rushing to get to school and work on time, and WHERE IS IT? THAT GREEN SEQUINED HEADBAND I BOUGHT LAST YEAR TO WEAR TODAY! would have been expressed in profound despair from behind a closed bedroom door no more than four minutes before my own WE MUST GO NOW! declaration would add to the desperation of the morning.

But that was then. This year, it was quiet. The children were not even awake yet at 7:09 am, when all that would have been happening. No one particularly cared about wearing green.

I was sitting in front of my computer when she passed by to tell me and to give a sharp pinch. I felt its sting for minutes afterward. That was good, actually. I was feeling numb there. Blank. Not at my office in the Village, but at home at the dining room table. A bit disoriented. The house is more full than normal. The pincher is one of my college girls, home, presumably for the rest of the semester, as her college has closed dorms. She moved her things out yesterday. All but one rug and one shelf that she couldn’t manage to get. She might go back for them. She might abandon them.

Very exciting, planned-for-all-year, paid-on-all-year field trips to Atlanta and Chattanooga for the younger girls have been canceled. Our $550 so far investment may not be returned to us. No one knows how this is all going to work.

All three girls are waiting for virtual school to start: sixth grade, eight grade, and freshman university classes are all going online. My oldest chose to stay in her city, where she rents a house and has a job. Or had. She’s a senior, hoping to graduate in December—IF her summer internship, which is needed for credit toward graduation, doesn’t get canceled. She too is waiting for virtual classes to begin. Her university has already said that all in-person gatherings on campus are suspended through the end of the semester. No students will return to dorms or classes. Everything will be online. On-campus residents were asked to move back home. She chose to stay in her house with her roommates. I catch myself praying for her protection out loud as I rinse my coffee cup or try to make the ice maker stop that grating sound it makes or wipe the dog’s feet after she’s been out. Pray without ceasing. My baby isn’t a baby any longer, I know. But right now the mother hen’s wings feel her absence. I wish she was here with us.

We’re not going out beyond our yard right now. I needed soap. I ordered from a local craft soap maker. Her prices are now completely reasonable compared to the “market demand” prices for the supply available online. She brought my order in person, in a brown paper bag, and left it at the street. It feels like a treat even while it’s a necessity.

We have enough food to last us a few weeks, I’m sure, though we won’t love what we’re eating. Fresh vegetables for probably another day, maybe two. Fruits for three or four. And then it’s frozen, and then it’s canned unless things restock. Pickup for orders isn’t available at Walmart. No clue when it will be. Many of the things I would have ordered are not in stock anyway.

While I’m trying to work from home, there are interruptions frequently. We’re going to have to find a way to have a schedule, or a routine at least. Maybe once virtual learning actually starts we can define dedicated blocks of time. For now, it feels very fractured. I like order. I don’t like this, though I’m not as anxious as I might have expected to be. We’re doing what we can. We’re in. We’re supplied. We’re praying Psalm 91 daily at dinnertime together, asking for provision, protection. Expecting it. That’s comforting.

This is Day 3 of home quarantine for me. It’s only Day 1 for my college girl since she had to leave to go move out of her dorm. As the extrovert in the family, I expect to struggle the most with the isolation.

My fiancé and I have chosen to honor the time apart. His job still requires him to travel to various sites as needed. Yesterday and today, different sites. Tomorrow already has one planned. It’s less contact than normal but he is still more “out there” than I would like. So to protect my household, we are staying separate.

We text throughout the day and talk on the phone at night when we can. It’s something. Long ago, people wrote letters. They waited weeks for a reply. We can do this.

Our wedding is planned for August. At first we thought, “Surely…” Now we’re thinking, “Maybe not…” We may not have the wedding we’d planned—small though it was to be. We agreed tonight that even if we can’t have the wedding, we will still get married on schedule. “It will be,” he said. I love that.

At the end of the day we did the dishes—again. There are so many with everyone home all day. We played Monopoly. We’ll continue that tomorrow. And now we sleep. We’re really OK at home, without class and sports practice and physical therapy. For now. It feels surreal. It feels like we can’t see what’s happening outside, but we hear. We hear and we accept and we wait. For now.

So this is life. What a rapid, sharp turn it took.