The Coronacation Diaries: Episode 4

The One Where She Refuses to Suffocate 

I fell back asleep after Michael got up at 5:30 (to get ready to work from home) and I dreamed that I was trapped. I was lying on my back, Michelangelo-style, trying to screw sagging ceiling boards back into the joists, to keep the ceiling from falling. Each screw tightened the boards and closed the gaping sags between them. And yet, sandwiched between the deck of the scaffolding and the ceiling, I began to sweat. Some of the boards were sagging so badly that insulation layers were exposed above. It was hot, and dark, and frustrating. I wasn't exactly scared, but I was itchy, disconcerted, uncomfortable, claustrophobic, and mad. And I was goddamn determined to beat this sagging ceiling, one joist at a time.

I woke up, too warm, feeling suffocated by the too-heavy feather bed and ready for coffee, even if it was still dark outside. I checked the breaking news updates, the Facebook notifications, the emails. I checked the number of cases. I wrote lesson ideas for my classes. I finished a book. I got the kids up. I made breakfast. I held class. I wrote emails to all of the parents. I wrote a poem. I emptied the dishwasher. (I did not clean out the refrigerator.) I checked the number of cases.

I'm used to being active, to being on the go all the time. The kids and I have so many activities after school that we are always constantly in motion. Derby practice and baseball practice and Boy Scouts  and Girl Scouts and alternative ed and Taekwondo and physical therapy and choir concerts and band concerts and guitar and piano and voice. Every night there are several places to be. There is a purpose. 3 months of severely limited mobility has taken its toll on my weight, and on my physical sense of self. But access to the pool at the Y has kept me sane since I was cleared to put 50% weight on my ankle eight weeks ago. 

Now the gyms are closed. Physical therapy is cancelled. All of the kids' sports are postponed indefinitely. Everything has screeched to a halt, without much warning. I try to write, to find humor in the ridiculousness of the day. I try to do yoga in my living room, try to regain strength and mobility. I try to find excuses to walk outside in the rain. It's cold, but the dog needs a walk. It's wet, but I "need" to buy wine. I could drive, but I want the exercise. I could give up, throw in the towel, put down the drill, let the ceiling fall, but I refuse to suffocate.

I laugh as I fall out of plank repeatedly and my child's pose resembles a Quonset hut more than a peaceful child. I teach my daughter how to make homemade whipped cream and fresh strawberry sauce. We eat breakfast for dinner. I check the number of cases. I check my email. I check the number of reads on my blog posts. I check the breaking news. I check my notifications. I call my mom. I text my dad. I pour a glass of wine. I stretch and ice my ankle. I check the number of cases. 

I straighten the too-heavy feather bed. I turn down the heat. I pour a glass of wine. I pour my kids into bed. I check the number of cases. 

I write a blog post. I try to keep it light. It turns out pretty dark.

I post it anyway. 

I let the dog out. I stand outside in the rain.

I refuse to suffocate. 

I will beat this sagging feeling. 

One plank at a time.