As I’m typing this in the recliner, my body feels bruised where it touches the soft leather. My knuckles hurt as they bend and extend to reach keys. I’m cowering in an oversized hoodie, joggers, and thick fuzzy socks in an attempt to escape the relentless chills that rush over and leave me shaking. I have definitely felt better, but despite it all, I am relieved that me and my family finally have COVID.
As Lizzie’s first birthday drew nearer, so did COVID’s presence in the United States. The encroachment dominated media feeds. Lockdowns began, and so did my paranoia. For months so many people around me suffered. Death was everywhere. Those who were fortunate enough to survive were left with the disabling aftermath of recovery. Despite good health or age, it was impossible to know where it would hit the hardest and who would suffer the worst of it. Lockdowns, social distancing, isolation, vaccines, pocket hand sanitizers, and masks were our way of life. Scrolling through local reports for updated case numbers was as routine as my morning coffee.
How was I to raise a child in all my motherly fear after reading about a previously healthy toddler who contracted COVID, and in order to save her life needed to be hospitalized, yet there were no hospitals in a 50-mile radius that could take one small child because their beds were filled to maximum capacity?
Then we welcomed another baby, David, just before the spring in 2021. I grew tired of the house succumbing to Lizzie’s boredom. The writing was definitely on the walls; she needed social interaction with children her own age. I pushed my fear and social anxiety further down and made friends with two stay-at-home moms like myself who also had children around the same age in our neighborhood.
I felt penalized for my bravery as three days after our first play date ever, Lizzie ran a fever. Sitting in the pediatrician office ruminating over COVID symptoms and treatments for babies, I wondered if having friends was worth while.
At least two times a month thereafter, the unease and worry about every sore throat, sniffle, fever, cough and declaration of, “I’m sick” had me in such a state that I eventually broke down in the safe familiarity of dinosaur murals, masks, and sanitized rooms of the pediatrician office. Like pebbled glass, my restrained tears distorted my focus. It was difficult to discern the doctor’s expression as the dam broke and the question I’ve been mulling over since the pandemic began rushed out, “How can I stop living in fear?!”
My friends’ concern surrounding COVID seemed lackadaisical in comparison to mine. I finally dared to ask what their thoughts were, to which they simply replied, “We are cautious, but we try and not let it run our lives.” It made me angry how insanely easy it sounded but knowing it was incredibly impossible for me to do. I spent many hours trying to wrap my head around the idea. Why did I feel differently? What am I’m missing? I still don’t have those answers, but I’ll bet money with a psychiatrist it is due to a penchant concern with life threatening illnesses that stem from a eight year old whose mother had cancer.
After discussing my embarrassing display with friends, it reiterated what I already knew but tried so long to ignore. Their support gave me the last bit of motivation needed to schedule an appointment to discuss medications to treat anxiety and depression. Much to my delight as well as my husband’s, within a month I smoothed through tantrums, family outings, and felt less pressure and panic. It did nothing for my fear of COVID, but at least I stopped reading grim cases in the news.
Fast forward to January 28, 2022. The Omicron variant found its way into the most cautious of the vaccinated population. My mother-in-law tested positive. My husband works closely with his mother, as expected when running a family business. This sweet man and dutiful son greets his mother with a hug and kiss and ends the day in the same fashion. At four o’clock in the morning he announced the news, to which I responded with firm instruction for him to test. Despite his negative result, I avoided making plans with friends because I knew within three days time, a second test would come back positive.
From the start of Friday’s news to Sunday afternoon, I mentally prepared myself. I rationalized the outcome and quashed any foolish notion of a miracle. Omicron is highly contagious, but it is considered mild in comparison to previous strains, so there’s that. We have successfully avoided COVID since it began in late 2019. We were bound to get it at some point. Despite all the harrowing stories of the children who suffered ill fate from it, those situations are rare. The prognosis for children is highly favorable.
Then it occurred to me what happens after we make it through. We would all have immunity, at least until the next variant sweeps through. A twisted sort of consolation prize awaits us at the end of the seven to ten day tunnel. The light that shines bright illuminates all the possibilities that lie ahead: In-store grocery shopping, Saturday mass, playgrounds, fret less interactions with family and friends, less discriminate social interactions, visits to museums, more trips to the zoo, stepping out of the house without the “what-ifs” floating about in my head. If all these things seem reminiscent of normal life, it’s because it is. Though my 10-month old son is suffering the worst of it among us, I have a guarded assurance that we will all be fine once this has passed.
In contemplation of the events over the past few days, it’s as though the years leading up to this point have been more terrifying than the event itself. I’m sure there is a psychological term for this, but I don’t know it. We are miserable. I am worried for my family. I will sigh a breath of relief after all has passed. I also feel as though a hundred pounds has been lifted off my shoulders. A new life awaits this mother of two.
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