Suffering Beyond Words

Against the backdrop of immense human suffering, perspective shifts and even melancholy can be a privilege. Until a few days ago, I was in a space without words. As the country moved onto the downside of the pandemic curve, it felt like everything in my world was flat. The adrenaline of stress and fear was long gone. The waves of emotion around case counts and death counts and counts of days sheltered in place were also less acute. The coronavirus seemed to leave numbness in its wake. The impact on people’s lives was no less devastating and the uncertainty of life in the new normal was still profound. But even as restrictions eased and businesses began to reopen, our personal day to day routine was much the same. Questions about summer camps and sports schedules and school reopening in the fall accompanied me throughout the day in what increasingly felt like a bad relationship: the more I pondered the questions, the larger they loomed and the harder it was to set them aside. They grew in outsized proportion until I could hardly think of anything else. Until the larger national issues shook me out of my complacency and revealed the self-centered short-sightedness of my fixation on wanting resolution to what our schedule will look like in the fall. People are dying from the pandemic and will continue to die. Over forty million Americans filed for unemployment. Thousands of family-owned businesses face devastating losses. And decades of racism and inequity can no longer be ignored by my generation as we watched George Floyd, another black man in a long list of victims, die at the hands of a white police officer. 

In the face of such horrific realities that demand more than my thoughts and my prayers, more than I can give today in the middle of navigating the pandemic at work and at home, I find myself shaken out of the lassitude of the past several weeks that began to replace anxious energy, and the growing apathy that took turns with sorrow. A couple of weeks ago, articles floated around social media reflecting on the fatigue people seemed to experience around Day 60 of the pandemic. As if in flattening the curve and saving lives, we’d wandered into a desert place where the ground was flat, the air was dry, and it took an extreme amount of attention to detect any signs of life. But the last week has changed all of that for me. The death count reached 100,000, another black man was murdered, our cities began to burn, and peaceful protestors were violently dispersed in front of the White House to pave the way for our President to make a mockery of everything I hold dear. If I think too hard about the scope of pain ripping through our communities right now, it’s overwhelming. And I recognize the extreme privilege woven around every word I write. I have the luxury of turning off the television and taking a break from the pain by writing about my pandemic experience while my teenage sons are safely ensconced in their rooms, protected by the whiteness of their skin. 

It’s a difficult truth that rage can be as contagious as a virus. A few mornings ago, I found myself in the doorway of my sixteen year-old son's room spewing anger at him for missing a check-in for one of his online high school classes. I heard a voice, apparently mine, accusing him of not taking school seriously, of not respecting his teachers, of not caring about his future. I heard that voice rise and surge with outrage. And when I paused to breathe, my son gave me a long look and said with his own measure of outrage, "Mom, if you came in here and offered something constructive, like “Hey, would you like me to show you the calendar app I use, so you could remind yourself not to forget class”, instead of standing there and degrading me and acting like I'm a kid who doesn't care and is blowing everything off and doesn't want to play hockey in the fall or go to college…there’s a pandemic going on and every month of 2020 has brought something terrible. If you'd come in here and offered something constructive, that would be really helpful. You know those parenting books you read? I think there are a lot of them…I don't think any of those books would recommend what you just did." 

If I hadn't raised my son to have his own opinions and not be afraid to voice them, I probably would have launched into a second tirade. But his words broke through the irrational litany screaming across my mind. I paused and took a deep breath. I met his eyes and started over, with questions instead of accusations. And we finally had the conversation that had been simmering beneath the surface of every tense encounter over the previous weeks, as we straddled no man's land between pandemic Days 60 and 80. This spring isn’t what he wanted. Online school isn’t the same as school. The high school check-in he missed most likely was a less than three minute session where the teacher said "Hello!" and a few kids said "Hey." and the teacher asked "Does anyone have questions?", and no one had questions, so the teacher said "Great, have a nice day, talk with you next week", and then the session was over. My son should be learning to drive, getting a job, playing hockey, hanging out with his friends, walking to McDonald’s, and loafing around with his buddies, filling the house with laughter and music. Instead, he's been stuck at home with his mother for nine weeks. When I took the time to listen to my son and understand his perspective, my anger melted into shared understanding of how difficult this period has been for both of us. As I turned to go, relieved to be inhabiting my own skin again and not masquerading as the crazy woman who launched the attack from his doorway, he looked back at me and said, “You keep expecting me to be who I was two months ago. I’m not the same person I was then. And neither are you."

And so it's the wisdom of a sixteen year-old that I'm reflecting on as we move toward whatever summer will bring. The world is not the same place. We are not the same people. I'm not the woman I was on March 13th when schools abruptly closed and the front seat of my Jeep was piled high with backpacks and bags filled with locker supplies, while teenagers poured onto the streets of our neighborhood, not realizing it was the last carefree day of fun they would have this school year. My kids are not the same as they were that day, spending time with friends and reveling in an unexpected two-week vacation, the pandemic still not real for us. Our country is not the same. Our nation is inhabited by over 100,000 less people. And the injustices behind those numbers, injustices laid bare in both the incomprehensible sorrow of so many losses and in the singular grief of yet another black man's family, are incontrovertible facts that must move us to action and to change if we want the people we are becoming to be better versions of our former selves. 

I don't know who, exactly, the people in my small world will become on the other side of this collective anguish. For now, we're germinating, still asking the small and large questions, struggling with evolving answers even as the monumental uncertainty of what kind of nation we’ll become continues to unfold. We’re just now approaching the end of an incubation that will leave us transformed, perhaps in subtle, but unmistakable ways. On the other side of this unasked for metamorphosis, the fabric of our nation and our individual lives will be different. How different that future landscape is depends on the choices we make today. Knowing the strength and character of the American people, I’m hopeful the ultimate outcome will be for the good. But for now, the people and the nation we are becoming remain hidden in the shadows of blooms yet unseen.  And I'm still walking in the desert.