Tag Archives: Covid19

Oh My Heart—And Yours

1 Reply

I recently received inevitable bad news. Twentyish years ago, when I was treated for cancer, I had chemotherapy and radiation. Everyone thinks chemo is hard (and it is) but radiation is also a very big deal. Radiation affected my heart and lungs. I have worked hard over the years to keep my cardio strength up. But I can’t keep ahead of it anymore. Radiation has calcified my aortic heart valve. I will undergo open heart surgery in the spring to replace it.

(I’m begging you, please don’t send medical advice.)

I’m ok. I’ve always known this was a possibility. I plan on living through it. I’m grateful to all the people who gave me this last twenty years. I got to see my wonderful child grow up and become the most superb adult.

And let’s face it, when I’m given that long list of side-effects and asked if I understand, what I hear is “Do I want to die now or later?” My answer is always, “Later.” I have a feeling I’m about to sign off on another bunch of those.

I have things I say about this turn of events. “The chickens have come home to roost,” is one. When I’m feeling slightly bitter, I might say, “Cancer: the gift that keeps on giving.” And now, a new one via my friend Marnie, whose parter has had open heart surgery twice: “It sounds dramatic, but remember, for the surgeon, it’s their Tuesday morning.” Good perspective. Thanks for that, Marnie.

I will stay in the hospital for seven to ten days. There are a lot of things to worry about and contracting covid shouldn’t be one of them. Currently, there is a mask mandate for hospital workers in my jurisdiction, but who knows if it will still exist in the spring.

I honestly don’t know what kind of monster would visit a cardiac ICU without a mask on. Or any part of a hospital.

Can you imagine having that covid cough after your sternum has been cracked open? I can’t.

This is where you come in.

I hear people lamenting the state of the world. It is lamentable. They ask, “What can I do?”  Whatever the issue is that you are lamenting, the answer is to take action. Action (hopefully informed action) fends off depression, for one thing. It’s great for that. It gives you a sense of control and gets you out of your own head, often because you are helping other people.

If you are concerned about the suffering and sickness all around you, the first and easiest action you can take to lessen it is to wear a mask. I’m going to say something harsh here. Get ready. If you are not willing to wear a mask, take a hard look at yourself. You really don’t care about the sickness and suffering all around you.

I cannot think of a situation that is not made worse by the pandemic and that would not be eased if SARS-C0V-2 were brought under control. Palestinians are getting covid while being bombed to near oblivion. But if genocide is your goal, covid is your helper. Climate disasters are made worse by people getting covid. Any illness or weakness you have lurking in your body is made worse by this vascular disease that can affect every organ in your body, including your brain. The decimation of your immune system means you will be sick more often. These are all known things. Get your head out of the sand and do some reading.

I’ve been wearing a mask since the beginning. It’s part of my life now. It is my normal. It is me, living with covid.

I am no longer willing to cut people with privilege and means any slack on this. If you are unaware of the criminal obfuscation going on around the airborne nature of this disease by public health and our so called leaders, it is because you don’t want to be aware of it. That’s on you. I wash my hands of you (knowing that hand-washing doesn’t do much to stop covid.) And if you are one of those public health people or alleged leaders, start doing your job. Start with distributing free masks. Then work on cleaning indoor air in public spaces you are responsible for.

I’ll still be active here. I’ll continue to talk about covid, about this new foray into the heart of me, and I’ll carry on with The Grim Reader. The pandemic and covid are conjoined twins of disaster. It’s important we keep trying our best.

And for those of you who will newly mask or mask again, thank you. For those who never stopped, thank you. We are all connected. We can’t ever forget that.

On Languishing in the Pandemic

Leave a Reply

Month 13–or is it 14?–of the pandemic, and I am languishing. I did not have that particular word in mind until I read an article about languishing by Adam Grant in the NYT. I had been thinking maybe it was ennui, or maybe disinterest, and was sometimes even wondering if I had become hopelessly lazy.

That’s not it.

I told my husband I was unmotivated, which is true. Confessed it, actually. I am NOT normally an unmotivated person. In his article, Adam Grant says something about being indifferent to indifference and that feels right. I am indifferent to my indifference, disinterested in my disinterest. Maybe you feel the same.

I know I’m lucky. I can work from home and shelter where I am, relatively safe. I get groceries delivered. I am grateful to all of the workers who are keeping us all going and I advocate for their safety literally every day.

Part of it is certainly that while the world celebrates the arrival of vaccines (as do I), Ontario is worse off than ever because of a feckless provincial government. We have higher case numbers than ever and our ICUs are overflowing. Refrigerator morgue trucks are next. It didn’t have to be this way.

So, I try to focus on what I can control. I have a new project on the go. But I am not writing much now. My concentration is poor. It’s also my fifth crashiversary this week, which doesn’t help. Five years of brain injury. My lack of concentration isn’t just about the pandemic. I have been in some state of languishing for a while.

And even if my writing is stalled, there is other work to do. As two projects make their way through to publication, they need bits of my attention. I will get a galley to proof next week. There are questions about marketing. A plan must be made.

I have other projects I could pick up outside of work, things I would usually enjoy. I have wool enough to make six hats which I planned on giving as gifts next Christmas. I need to sew the collar on a summer shirt I am making (polka dots!) and then it will be done. Maybe ten minutes of work. It is sitting beside the sewing machine. Languishing. I could make an interesting dinner. Or I could just scramble a few eggs. I could go for a walk. There are people in my life to care for. Some of them are also languishing and how can I support them when I am too? A birthday cake must be baked. Doing things for others is usually something that cheers me up. The ingredients are all on my kitchen counter, waiting. My seedlings need replanting. The tomatoes are growing well, if a little spindly. Some of them are just lying down, like I want to. I have to stake them up with bamboo skewers.

Meh.

I need a bamboo skewer for me. What will that be? Sometimes, admitting you have a problem is the first step.

This is a “fake it till you make it” time if there ever was one. Time to fake some enthusiasm. Fake a sense of flourishing. As my character Alden often says to herself in Patterson House, “Buck up.” Wish me luck. I wish you luck too. We can do it.

Rosie the Riveter
Rosie the Riveter saying “We Can Do It”

Maybe I’ll have a nap first.

Begin Again

1 Reply

In my meditation today, I was reminded that when my mind wanders, I can begin again. Focus on the breath. Begin again.

We can always begin again. 

Today is a good day to think about that.

What could we do?

It starts with story. We must know our own story.

We must tell the truth about what happened to us.

We could understand that we are all in this together, that the success of one is the success of all, and not just for humans.

We could devote ourselves to an ethics of care and compassion, to kindness to self and others, knowing that others are connected to us, and we to them, in profound ways. 

We could be humble and acknowledge what we have broken and our own brokenness. We could grieve for what we have lost, because we know that we have lost so much. We are not even sure what it is. But we know. We feel it. It exists as a hollowness in our soul that no amount of food or alcohol or consumer goods or anything else can fill.

We could help each other through the grief.

We could repair what is broken. We could make it our work.

We are ALL in this together: the humans, the trees, the plants, the insects, the air, the animals, the soil, the water, and even the rocks. Even the rocks.

We could build an economy that knows that the earth is not merely a resource for humans to use (up), but a part of us as we are a part of it. The earth’s health is our health. It gives and gives and we, the humans, must stop taking so much.

We could remove the barriers to sharing what we do take.  

We  could build an economy that acknowledges limits. 

It could be beautiful.

Think of what you would begin again, if you could, and know that you can. 

Winter Solstice 2020

Leave a Reply

These are dark days. The shortest day of the pandemic feels like the longest.


My sister came over to drop off gifts on the porch and she could not stop crying. She was crying when she arrived, cried through her five minute stop and was crying when she left. My daughter visited on a layover as she travelled across the country to do her shift at the mine. We went for a walk in the damp and cold, stayed outside until we were too cold to be outside anymore, and then she was off again to continue her journey to her work site. Instead of lamenting that I could not hug either of them, or even get close to them, or see their faces through their masks, I tried hard to be grateful I got to see them at all. And I am. But at the end of the day, I cried too. 

This pandemic. It’s hard. It’s a good time for crying. The tears keep coming. 

Gratitude in 2020

1 Reply

Gratitude? In 2020? This year of disruption and staggering losses? Yes.

The Humber River, Toronto, a view from one of my regular walks that inspires gratitude.

I’m grateful:

1. For Clarity. My vision is 20/20. I know what matters. People. Community. Love. And the earth which supports it all. And I know what doesn’t matter. Whether my hair is cut. Things. Productivity and other cudgels of capitalism. Just as I was wondering if humanity is doomed, I got to witness how we can change our collective priorities quickly.

2. For People. I am grateful for family, thick and thin friends, the kindness of strangers, neighbours, delivery people, doctors, nurses, teachers…everyone. I am grateful for the enthusiasms of my community and the skills and talents they have shared throughout the year.

3. For Slowness. I have a brain injury, and I have required a slower pace since 2016. In the before-time, I fought this need. I thought it was something I had to change. I thought that regaining my old pace was a goal and would be a mark of my recovery. Not anymore. I have learned to embrace my slow pace. It’s a relief. In part, I have been able to do this because everyone else had to slow down too.

4. For Solitude. I miss my people. (See 2.) But. (See 3.) I can do things AND be alone. While others complain about life on Zoom, for me (and many other people with disabilities) Zoom means accessibility. I can participate while not having to negotiate so many other things. I can lower the volume, focus on a single speaker, dim the brightness. Sure, real life is better. But having something is better than nothing, and I am grateful for everything I have been able to participate in because of Zoom. I can only hope that when this is over, the avenues of access that have opened so the able-bodied and neurotypical can carry on will remain open for the rest of us. Will every literary festival make on-line access possible? Will readings still be on line? Will I be able to listen to a concert on line or see a show? I hope so.

5. For Breath. Breath is life. The virus makes breathing a struggle and even takes it away. There has been so much death. I have struggled for breath before. I don’t take it for granted. A quarter century of meditation practice has blossomed in this time. Whatever is happening in me and around me, I am here, breathing. When anxiety or worry threaten to overwhelm, I know that some seed of me, some essence of me, is fine. I am breathing. I am fine. 

6. For Conservation. Or whatever the opposite of consumerism is. I am grateful for getting by with what I have. For making do. For repairing things. It is a better way to live. I will never go back. 

7. For Health. This is more than being grateful I have been spared this terrible virus to date. With life so much smaller, I have tended to my health, my total health, in a more focussed way. I have established a new fitness routine. I walk more. I pay attention to what my body and mind need. I am more focussed on health and wellness than ever before.

8. For Support. Whether you call it cooperation, mutual aid, friendship, or neighbourliness, I have been nourished by it this year.

9. For Gratitude. Yes, I am grateful for gratitude. When I’m feeling overwhelmed, I reach for it. It brings me into the present and changes my perspective.

Like you, I’m hoping 2021 is better. But 2020 taught me important lessons. I don’t want to forget them.

 

Out on a Ledge

7 Replies

This week, I wandered the Bruce Trail overlooking Georgian Bay. Cedar, pine and fir smell like home. The rock of the Canadian Shield shows the marks of millennia; fissures and crevices, some large enough to fall into, focus my mind and keep me in the present moment. Step by step, I make my way over tree roots and rock. I’m careful. I walk softly. The trail features several outcrops and we stopped at every one to take in the view. My husband took this photo of me on one ledge while he stood on another.

That’s me, out on a ledge. 

As I stood there, I realized I’ve been feeling like I’m on a ledge since the car accident that left me concussed. Since the pandemic started, I know that many of you are also feeling like you are out on a ledge. Believe me, I feel no satisfaction in having your company out here. I would have preferred it if you all could have stayed innocent of the sense of isolation I have come to know so intimately.

But now, you know how it feels to be unable to see your people. You’re scared. You’re wondering when or if it will ever end. Your reasons for feeling this way are different than mine, but the result is the same. Sometimes we’re lonely. We miss our old lives, our friends, our old jobs, the old way of doing things. We rebel against the new restrictions.

We miss the simple pleasures of life and when we try to replicate them, they do not measure up. We miss big things like vacations and weddings and birthday parties, but mostly we miss the little things. I used to enjoy grocery shopping and then it became a gauntlet of light and noise and chaos. I used to have a lively social life, but then that same light and noise and chaos made seeing friends and going out difficult too. There is always an undercurrent of concern, of what if. The new conditions in which we must live suck the joy from everything. Or so it seems.

Because of my brain injury, I was already so accustomed to my life being smaller that the accommodations I had to make for the pandemic did not have the same impact on me as they did on you. Like you, I suddenly had to worry about germs and hand washing and finding Lysol wipes, but the shrinking of my social and work life had already happened. I already spent way more time in my home. I already couldn’t concentrate well enough to work consistently or even read. And now, you are in a similar spot.

I have watched you go through many of the same phases as I did, particularly the “this won’t last long” phase. I have waited for you to catch up, to be where I was about four years ago when the niggling thought, “this is not going away,” took root. Now you, some of you, are coming to realize that the two or three weeks of shut down we embarked upon way back in March might not be going away soon. No matter how much we wish it would and no matter what kind of schedule we try to impose on it, what happens is not in our control. Like me, you are figuring out your new life and negotiating this new you, the you that cannot control anything. It’s an ever-changing emotional landscape.

The mental health impact of dealing with trauma is real and overwhelming. I’m not a mental health expert, but I can tell you that what you are dealing with is a big deal. You’ve got to give yourself a break. You need time. You need compassion for yourself. Please, stop beating yourself up because you can’t be like you were.

Whoever you are, whatever cracks were in your life before the pandemic are now crevices big enough to fall into. You might feel like you’re out on a ledge. Alone. And that ledge isn’t feeling too stable.

There have been dark times for me in the past four years. Strangely, one of the worst was just last week. It had nothing to do with the pandemic, but just another layer of what happened to me revealing itself. You would think I would be used to everything by now. I don’t want to go into details, because it’s not necessary to add to your trauma by sharing mine. Suffice it to say, I was out on a ledge.

I can offer you this: one thing I have learned is that I have to feel my feelings. I have to sit with them and feel them and ask them what they are teaching me. I have to befriend them and stop pushing them away. I have to be grateful for them. It seems impossible, but it is possible. When I am awake at three in the morning, heart racing, frustration rising, dark thoughts taking over, I take a deep breath and accept that this is where I am. I know something now I didn’t know before the accident. I am more than what I do or how I feel. I am more than my successes, I am more than my failures. So are you. Those plans you had were just plans.

I understand now how notions of productivity and progress replaced true joy with a twisted capitalist version of success that made self love impossible because I could never be enough. I know now that the world can fall apart around me, I can fall apart within me, pieces of me can break and strain, my brain can struggle to find words or balance or memories, but I am still me. I am fine. Even out on the ledge, I can find the place of quiet inside of me and observe. Who is this observer? It is me. The calm centre of me.

You have a calm centre of you.

When I stood on that literal ledge this week, I looked around and felt gratitude. I felt immense joy. The ledge can be a beautiful place. The wind rushed and the clouds swept by. The water below was jade green and crystal clear, becoming dark blue as it deepened. A hawk soared high above the water, but eye level with me, circling, playing on the wind. We all belong here, right here, where we are. Me, the hawk, the water, the ledge, the trees. You. There is no other place to be. You are here. You’re okay. You’re not alone.