One of the most striking things about the Coronavirus pandemic was how drastically the metaphorical goalpost moved every week. Like a cruel coach who keeps lengthening your interval quotas halfway through a workout, so unfolded the expert (and pundit) predictions. In early March 2020, I was still actively marketing a 500-person conference in mid-April. One week later, I packed up a few things at my desk, fully expecting to be back in a couple of weeks.
[Insert a series of one failure of leadership after another and repeated revelations at how unequipped we are to deal with a pandemic as a nation, and here we are.]
By now (late May), two-thirds of the country has released themselves of the belief we’ll ever return to normal. Yet for my own posterity, I wanted to track how the exponential curve toward a new understanding of reality took shape in my mind. Our ability as a species to reach a place of equilibrium, to “normalize” almost any state that continues for longer than a couple of weeks, is also fascinating (even if biologically sensible). I want to reflect on how I did just that.
March 8: I held an International Womxn’s Day Brunch, the first big gathering at our new home. I filled up the soap dispensers, but beyond that, I had no inclinations of needing to cancel a 30-person gathering. Many guests came, promptly washed their hands, issuing lighthearted statements like “I guess this is what we need to do now!” One guest, a Mayo employee, even joked about how she had COVID (and later apologized because me and our pregnant friend actually believed her). I had no idea this was the last big gathering I’d host, or attend, in 2020.
March 7-11: J went to Pittsburgh for a library conference. Only a few days before did it cross our minds to doubt if they might cancel it. Two days before the conference—the day he was supposed to fly out—he got an email, likely in response to several inquiries, saying YES, the conference was still happening. I would have been more surprised if they had decided to cancel it.
We were also getting in a lot more quality time with the cats. Here, Flannery getting her morning boost of self confidence.
March 14: Journal entry reads, “What a wild week. Went from 0-100 mph w/ COVID-19 virus impacts.” This is the week we decided to move our 500-person conference at work to a virtual conference, just a day after I sent out thousands of personalized emails encouraging folks to register. All other events through the next month were also canceled, and I thought we were being overly cautious. Our friends from Chicago had been planning to visit the next weekend; they decided to call it off. I spent a day preparing our public COVID-related statement at work. Journal also reads, “All toilet paper was gone at Target and Menards.” We went to Nick’s Diner in Cannon Falls for brunch. It was our last sit-down meal in a restaurant. I never doubted whether we were being reckless, nor did the other diners filling the place.
March 16: This was my last full day of ever working in the offices of Propel Nonprofits. I would make a couple of trips back, but in the midst of everything, I also accepted a new job offer at Carleton College in Northfield, where I live. During the interview and hiring process, most of which took place through March and early April, I did not question whether accepting a job at a liberal arts college was a wise (financial) decision.
March 21: For the first time (and for us, the only time), we ordered our groceries online from the co-op then walked down to pick them up. At this point, things were really starting to feel other-worldly to me. Still no shelter in place order for MN. Trump’s approval rating at handling the coronavirus: 47%. From the journal: “With regular exercise, 8-9 hours of sleep (vs. 6-7), a lower emotional toll of not being around people all day, and a more consistent medication practice, I’m feeling good. In fact, I’m in a healthier place.” So, despite empty streets and quickly-shuttered businesses, my life felt, if anything, better than ever.
Every day, we felt a wave of gratitude we didn’t have kids. Working parents—and kiddos themselves—were getting hit the hardest by pandemic stress. J joined me working from home. We set up his office in a spare bedroom. It was novel to have this much time together, but luckily, we had our own spaces and quickly tuned the other out.
March 29: Finished Tiger King on Netflix. This already feels like ages ago. I was still expecting to return to work in June, and so I wanted to take advantage of all newly freed-up “down time.” I started making collages.
April 2: Journal entry filled with work stress about trying to communicate about the SBA’s half-baked Paycheck Protection Program (PPP). Zoom fatigue setting in. “I want to go to the Peak District and run. I want to get in my car and start driving.” To prevent too much restlessness, I was doing daily runs for 3-6 miles in the arb. We were doing all of the stereotypical COVID cooking—making pasta, dumplings. At one point we did order Dominos and it felt so luxurious to eat a meal we didn’t cook.
April 5: The first person in my life notified my that their husband tested positive for COVID and that she had symptoms. It was extremely scary and sad, especially since she’s expecting a baby and there’s no good way to provide care during a pandemic. I immediately went into panic mode and felt useless in all of the ways I’d normally provide care: she didn’t want food carrying unknown germs delivered, or even care packages for that matter. We had a family Zoom call. All my brothers, my grandma, and two aunts showed up.
April 10: Walked around a vacant downtown to document all the business window signs and empty parking stalls. Some of hastily-written messages were encouraging, others simply uncertain. This weekend marked our first canceled trip; we were supposed to be on the road to Chicago for Easter.
April 12: We had an Easter snowstorm. Insult to injury. Had a Zoom call with the in-laws and watched a lot of Bon Appétit on YouTube.
April 18: We went to friends’ house for a physically distanced fire. It was our first social interaction in weeks and we biked home feeling elated. We swapped Covid stories. They had a college acquaintance who had died. Yet even a mortality of someone our age seemed so abstract. New York’s outbreak was intense and terrifying, but so far away.
April 25: Decided to drive down to the farm and see my parents. First time since Christmas. I also made the risky decision to stop by and see my 92-year-old grandma. I felt incredibly conflicted about it, but also so relieved to see my grandma in good health.
May 1: First trip to Minneapolis since March 16. I started cleaning out my desk. The traffic to the Twin Cities was minimal. However, when I tried to stop by Trader Joe’s to pick up a few things, I was taken aback by the line snaking around the block. Our Friday work call prompt was “what do you miss/what are you looking forward to post-lock down?” Answers included hanging out at coffeeshops, happy hours with people on patios, massage therapists, live theater, not seeing new and old family members. For my Muslim coworkers, the entire experience of Ramadan was so vastly different without in-person Iftars. I wrote them all down and cried during the Zoom call. I, too, missed all of these things.
May 15: My last day of work. I took pictures of all the cubicle talismans that stood in for hugs from my work family—a crystal lamp, the squatty potty, a Bobble Head collection, powdered food containers, all left as sitting as remains from an apocalypse. They threw me a goodbye Zoom party. It was the sweetest and saddest parting I have ever received. Many of us cried. I don’t know when I’ll ever see some of these people in-person again. Two months ago, I had imagined the closing of this chapter would coincide with a return to work for everyone.
May 16: Left for a backcountry camping trip to Teddy Roosevelt National Park. Just us, the wild horses, the prairie dogs, and the buffalo. Every gas pump touched and toilet lever pushed felt like a gamble, but one I was still willing to take. I was informed I’d be starting my new job remotely on June 1. I have no idea when I’ll ever see my new office. There are some things I’m grieving, but on the whole, there is so much about this period of forced slow-down and introspection and working from home that I really love.
May 22: I plan to spend my two weeks off between jobs painting our library. 20 shelves, 17 doors, 0 screen or Zoom meetings. My eyes are tired and my back hurts. Our garden is popping up. However, it doesn’t seem like new life is on its way. In two short months, we’ve almost normalized this physically distanced, masked, home-bound way of living. However, while there is much I miss about “before,” I do hope I can hang on to elements of this simplicity, a less crowded schedule, a deep pleasure in our home and local outdoor spaces, and generative time.
