113 Days (and counting): Waiting. Wondering. Wishing for Certainty.
I wrote this piece a few weeks back. Since then, I've revised it a dozen times in my head, scouring for more accurate details, questioning my memory, and trying to maintain both optimism and motivation. Ultimately, my perseverating on this one boils down to reminding myself we have all endured hard things. As we slog through the current hard things, our brains are searching for ways to find certainty. Remembering the hard things can provide a glimpse of certainty that we are craving.
It's been 113 days since we started SIP. The wet, gray days that were made brighter with March Madness's anticipation feel like a lifetime ago. In my mind, they are nearly are as fuzzy and opaque as the winter and spring of 1998. Both winters felt ripe with promise - the promise of sunnier skies, longer days, crocus popping up, and tiny humans reaching new milestones. Days and plants and sentient beings grow in spring. In both cases, life was far from perfect, yet comfortable, predictable, and with a certain rhythm that buoyed us through the uncertainties. But both springs took a different turn.
February 1998 would evolve from snowy and cold winter to 113 days of bed rest to protect and give my son time to fully develop before entering the world. This year, we hunkered down to flatten the curve, give science and public health a chance to protect us, and understand the elusive COVID-19. At the onset, both seemed simultaneously unfathomable and utterly necessary. When these parallels became apparent to me, it gave me pause to review how I have overcome challenges in the past. This was not to poo-poo our current reality, but a reminder to that part of my brain that freaks out when it realizes the path forward is gnarly, at best.
ICYMI, bed rest in 1998 was pre-wifi, pre-Amazon, pre-Door Dash. There were perhaps 200 cable channels, which seemed more than sufficient. There was dial-up internet, which (on our budget plan) was limited to 90 minutes between 9 pm and 6 am. I was to remain in bed, with trips to our single bathroom (thankful, across the hall from my bedroom) and could make one trip downstairs, generally in the evening. I was allowed a driver to take me to obstetrician appointments and to sit on my own deck once the heavy snows in Western New York melted away.
Under no circumstances could I go to school, Wegmans, friends, a hair cut. I had weekly nurse visits and daily monitoring of my uterine activity. Our daughter was to continue to go to daycare because chasing a 2-year-old would certainly induce labor again. My mother didn't blink at making the 200-mile round trip drive once a week to keep me company and take our daughter for their ritual "wadder boddle and French FRIIIIIES" on the way home from daycare. I protested at first, but it became their thing, a novel and exciting part of otherwise mundane existence. I was fortunate enough to work in a fantastic school with a skilled student teacher who masterfully stepped into a full-time role on our team, while I rested in bed. She came by several times a week to update me, ask questions, and generally, saving my sanity. Reading and six episodes of Law and Order just didn’t keep me mentally balanced.
I never once doubted I would get through it with a healthy baby, but I sure did fuss about the monotony and lack of agency that comes with sitting in bed and being cooped up in the house all day long.
These 113 days, while challenging, were a powerful reset. We had begun to move at warp speed as many young parents do. We weren't thinking past the next day and often felt overwhelmed. As the reality of being responsible to two tiny humans set in, I realized I had to listen to my body, to savor a bit each day. Along with stellar medical care and a rock star tribe, I made it to a full-term pregnancy. I awoke early on a Saturday, with time to drop off our daughter to a friend and arrive at the hospital. It turned out that our little guy was breech and again, presented a point of inflection where we had to pause and consider options. Ultimately, my husband was able to assist the doctors with the C-section and soon we realized the weeks of restraint, loss of autonomy and faith, and paid off. Our little guy arrived on his terms, healthy and already a teacher of patience and acceptance, among many other things!
Twenty-two years later, I am reminded of the lessons my son taught me - slowing down does not come easily to me, but it is often necessary. My eyes are open to how other elements of life surface to teach similar lessons. This pandemic has brought so much change for all of us. Uncertainty, scarcity, and fear abound. People are dismantling their lives by choice or by necessity. We are pausing to rethink our options, our choices, our relationship, our lives. We're poised to re-envision, out of necessity, so many personal, economic, and social structures. We're living the change daily (or hourly) in our emotions, needs, and world view.
I've been tired, and I've been an insomniac.
I've been apathetic, and I’ve been motivated.
I've been scared, and I’ve been optimistic.
I've reached out to others, and I've been sad to not be on the receiving end of the "how are you doing?" texts.
I've been chatty, and I've retreated.
I've tried to remind myself that there are some consistency and agency in the world. But, gosh, it's hard. Especially when we see so many others struggling.
During the spring of 1998, I was forced to SUBMIT to what my body and my baby needed. I had to listen to trusted experts and allow others to help me. But ultimately, it came down to my willingness to consider what was most important (the health of my babies and myself!), and change my behavior, attitude, and outlook. It's really not much different right now.
We're trying to do what is best for the greater good. It often means putting aside personal desires and wants. In the process, we're feeling all sorts of feelings. We're having to learn to be more patient, accepting, empathetic, and aware. It's time for each of us to dig deep and reaffirm or redefine what matters most - and what matters most may not be what matters most to us individuals. We must step up to make our communities safer and more whole, equitable, and inclusive.
I work with teachers to develop a toolbox of social, emotional skills for students. This includes modeling the language, the behaviors, and the outlook that allows students to be prosocial, demonstrate empathy and advocacy, and work with a growth mindset. Yet, these are all skills adults need to practice, particularly in times like these.
Sometimes the universe hits the pause button and we fight it until we are ready to listen to the messages that call us to make changes.
So what are you learning through the hard phase of life?
What skills are you learning or practicing?
What have you done that you didn't think you could do, and what are you rethinking?
PS I've got some monumental changes in how I work, how, and whom I serve. I'm not aiming to reach a vast crowd or make a significant mark in the world. Just like staying in bed helped preserve one human's health, I've been taking time to focus on small ways to impact a few others.
Some of the work I did in the community or with consulting clients will be available as we close out this crazy year, and I'd love to include you in the launch!
If you’re not on my mailing list - or if you’d be kind enough to forward this to someone who might be interested - sign up here to be the first to hear of this online, micro class to be offered later this fall!
