A year ago this week, lots of things changed. Over the
course of a weekend and with little preparation, my kids’ schools moved to
remote learning. My boss called to say the office would be closed until future
notice. Ski season ended early and abruptly. All matter of plans were canceled
or indefinitely delayed. At first, I thought this everything-is-shutting-down phase
would last only a couple of weeks, then the whole pandemic thing would blow
over, and we’d be back to normal.
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Is that the light at the end of the tunnel?
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A year later, I’m not sure what “normal” means anymore.
In the first weeks of “isolation,” we did, indeed, feel
isolated. I took to doing the grocery shopping only once a week – no swinging
into the store on the way home for a gallon of milk or a carton of ice cream, especially
since we weren’t going anywhere anyway. I’d drive straight there, then straight
home. The only other stop was the gas station if I needed to fill the tank, but
I was driving so infrequently that those stops were rare.
For weeks, we hardly saw anyone other than ourselves. We’d
occasionally walk over to my parents’ house or stop by my in-laws’ to visit
outside. There was a group of five or six college kids who spent a couple of
months in the house around the corner after their campus closed, and they’d
come through the front field chasing frisbees. Virtual meetings hadn’t become
the norm yet, so we only saw other people, even through a screen, maybe once a
week or so.
Until April, when two friends who happen to be next door neighbors
to each other – my youngest daughter’s pal, and my son’s buddy – had a drive-by
birthday party. A line of a dozen or so cars gathered on a side street off
their quiet road and waited for the allotted time. Then we drove by their houses
slowly, honking like crazy and waving out the windows of our cars. It was so
strange. And so wonderful to SEE people, our friends, folks who not so long ago
we’d interacted with face-to-face almost daily, even if only in passing.
I hadn’t realized – not fully – how much I missed that
interaction. I cried most of the 10 minutes of that ride home, hiding behind my
sunglasses so I wouldn’t have to try to explain to my kids something I didn’t quite
understand myself. On that drive home, my youngest, who had a daily school check-in
with her class, said she wished she could see her friends in real life, not
through a computer – or out the window of a moving car. My older daughter
lamented the fact that she hadn’t seen any of her friends in weeks, virtually
or otherwise. My son said he missed his friends, too.
As summer arrived, we started venturing out more, meeting friends
at the river on hot afternoons or for hiking adventures or outside movie
nights. It wasn’t quite “normal,” but it was close. I took my kids on their first
backpacking outings, and we camped for a few days near the ocean in Maine. I embarked
on daily walks through the woods, a habit I continue, in large part to maintain
my sanity during these ongoing strange times.
Some of these things – the hiking and backyard fires and
gathering outside – probably would have happened over the course of 2020 anyway.
But I think I cherished this season – the pandemic summer that came after the
spring of so much weirdness – even more than usual. I was so grateful to live
where we live, to have woods right out the front door and mountains within sight.
And I’ve been grateful since the end of that summer to have
my kids (mostly) back in school. I’m still not used to seeing them walk out the
schoolroom door with masks over their faces – and I probably never will be –
but I’m so thankful that they are IN school, that those masked faces are with
other masked faces. Learning together, rather than in the isolation of a quiet
bedroom, looking through a screen.
I’m thankful that educators and coaches and parents and
health care providers have figured out how to mitigate the dangers of the virus
so that my children can be in school and play sports – even if it looks
different. I’m thankful that we have been skiing through the winter. I’m
thankful that my work – and my husband’s – has continued through this, even
while I’m so, so, so tired of meetings on a screen. I’m thankful that so much
of our family lives within a couple of miles of us.
I know we have been fortunate in a year so devastating to so
many.
But I miss a lot of things, too. I miss hugging my friends. (So
much!) I miss big family dinners, with three generations of McCarthys and
McPhauls gathered together, sharing new stories and old. I miss planning trips
to other places. I miss talking to people and being able to see their whole
faces. I miss collaborating with colleagues through in-person meetings, or just
a quick walk across the hallway to someone else’s office space.
I’m tired of reminding my kids to grab a mask on their way
out the door – to anywhere. And of checking the state’s Covid map and numbers.
Every. Single. Day. I’m tired of worrying every time I feel a tickle in my throat
– or when someone sniffles next to me in some public, socially-distanced space.
If the past year has taught me anything, it’s to try to take
things, as much as possible, day by day. To not plan too far in advance, at
least for now. But that is not my nature. So many times over the last 12
months, I have thought things would be back on the road to “normal” by next
week, or next month, or two seasons for now.
Last week, my parents got their second doses of the vaccine.
A little girl in the classroom where my mother was substitute teaching asked if
that meant she could hug my mom the next time she came in – like she used to.
We’re not quite there yet. But I think – really, this time – normal just may be
on the horizon.
Original content published by Meghan McCarthy McPhaul. This essay
appears as Meghan's March 11, 2021 Close to Home column in the Littleton
Record.
