exhausting 2020

Covid-19 has altered this year. To some, it has meant the death of loved ones. To others, it has meant detrimental, mysterious health defects that have lingered and continue to linger. To many, it has meant a disrupted life: loss of job, loss of companionship, isolation, constant fear. To some, it has meant time to investigate new hobbies or to relax.

I have had friends who have fought covid-19. I have not lost any loved ones. Yet it has altered so, so many aspects of my life.

When covid-19 emerged in the international conscience, I was living in a small, somewhat isolated country—Gabon. Covid-19 sounded far away and scary. I felt sad for my friends who were being evacuated and worried for those who had fallen ill. I wondered if it would reach my home. Then it did. We were given the choice to stay or leave. We chose to stay. We were comfortable in our home, and we had so little time left there that we wanted to finish it out. We also were fairly confident in our ability to shelter in place and stay away from the virus. Then we no longer felt like we had a choice, and we left. 

We were able to stay together, our whole family. We weren't separated from Jeff, and we were even able to bring the cats. We went to stay with my parents and later with my in-laws, and it was an unexpected gift to have this extra family time when we usually live so far away. While enjoying this time with our family, I still mourned the goodbye-that-wasn't to our home and our dear friends, the loss of everything I had planned for those months.

Thrust back into America, aside from the enjoyment of time with family, there were many stressors. I was learning for the first time what many of my black friends experienced as some were sharing painful details of their lives. There were protests. There were some riots. There were political divisions. There was so much ugliness in the country I call home. The country that is full of millions of people who share a vision of a better place, of improved lives, of welcoming differences, of finding strength in diversity. But too many others were suddenly louder than ever before, and it was shocking. My rose colored glasses were removed, and it was hard to witness what I had never noticed before. Even looking inside myself, it was painful to see how at times my actions have not contributed to a better America.

Then we moved to Mexico, and we were as welcomed as can be during a pandemic. My kids are able to play outside with neighbor kids, running around and wearing masks. The neighbors rallied around us providing rides, meals, and treats when Gordon had a concussion and cracked his skull. We've joined Scouting troops and an athletic class. We're very close to adopting a puppy. 

There is no in-person school, so I deal with my children's frustrations and their tears and their tempers and their boredom from 8:00am to 3:00pm as I try to get them to interact in Zooms and complete their school assignments, half of which are in Spanish. My husband works from home three days a week. One of our children is receiving therapy now due to struggling with all of the changes of this past year. My existence is so different from a year ago. 

I liked going out, and I like staying home. I miss having the choice. I miss not worrying whether I've gotten sick without knowing it and if my mere existence could harm someone else. I'm exhausted.

I laugh. I smile. I don't sing very often anymore. I feel like crying every day, and I cry probably two or three times a week. This is better than last month. I have hope that next month will be even better than this month. Moving is always hard. Moving during a pandemic has been especially hard. Thank you for your friendships, no matter how far away you are.

Our small shipment from Michigan arrived. That little squished box down at the bottom right? It had some of my grandmother's china in. I call this picture: If 2020 were a moving box . . .