We Can Do Hard Things

My daughter has this sign in her home, We Can Do Hard Things. Today, April 3, 2020, we are all doing hard things. We are experiencing a pandemic like none of us have known in our lifetimes. Those of us who have lived a long time know that this too will pass, and we will come out on the other side stronger than we were before. We will survive, if we are lucky and careful not to contract the virus, and hopefully learn what’s really important, our family and friends, our health and our sanity. During the past few weeks as we’ve “sheltered in place” reminds me a lot of the ‘67 Riots, which we also frightening, uncertain, and made us all feel as if the ground beneath us had shifted.

The difference today is how separate we are and the length of the distance. We have the ability today to reach out to our loved ones through media, like Zoom and FaceTime, but also feel a profound loss of control, an inability to be with those we love in times of trial. We see faces of our doctors and nurses and other health care professionals who are risking their lives to minister to our sick and to keep us safe by fighting on the front lines.

We also feel a great deal of sadness for all those who are missing the celebrations of important milestones like graduation, wedding showers, baby showers, weddings, the traditional things we do to mark changes. For many of us, we have missed the chance to say goodbye to our coworkers, our students, to give that hug, that high five, to look them in the eye and tell them how proud we are of them, to raise a glass to their success.

None of this comes easily. We are empathetic by nature. We are social beings. We need to touch and be touched. Doing those normal things, like hugging and smiling and chatting and being supportive are things we must now do through a device. This is the best we can do right now, and it feels crappy.

My dad called this morning. He struggles with stage 4 heart disease, and symptomatically is short of breath. Like all of us, his symptoms are exacerbated by stress. I could tell from the sound of his voice—it’s breathiness, it’s softness, it’s pain, that something was wrong. He’s about to lose his wife, my mother, and has been the most devoted husband my mother could ask for. She’s been in hospice for a few weeks now, and rallied at first, but has now taken a turn for the worst. He’s feeling sad, and bereft, and longing to be with her.

Because of the times, he can’t. Not unless she is actively dying. It’s such an odd term, actively dying. To me, we’re all actively dying from the moment we are born. But I get it. This is different. Death is imminent. A week, a day, then a few hours, then a moment.

I was fortunate enough to have seen her a couple of weeks ago. Our visit was unusual to say the least. An aide from her Assisted Living Residence wheeled her out to the lanai, I sat on the cement outside of the screen and we chatted. I showed her photos of my pregnant daughter. I’ll never forget how her face lit up in a smile. Her eyes crinkled at the corners. Pure joy filled her. We reminisced about the time she put our Volkswagen Bug in reverse at a stop light when she was driving us to school on a rainy morning, and revved backwards down the street. We laughed about the time she had over-baked brownies and had to chisel them out of the pan. We chatted about the time she left my brother at the gas station. When you have six kids, it’s hard to keep track of them.

I left our time together feeling at peace. I blew her kisses, told her she was a great mom, and that I loved her. That my kids loved her.

I can do hard things. Yes, it’s like someone or something is running in the background and sucking my battery dry. But I’ll get through this, as will my dad, my brothers and our children. We won’t be able to be together through this, but we can plan to celebrate her life in the future, once all of this horrid social-distancing is behind us. Maybe we’ll be more open with each other then. Maybe we’ll have learned something. Not just about grief, but about living life to the fullest. Never missing an opportunity to give each other a hug, or say a kind word.