A week ago, the world seemed fine (or normal) for most people. The day here in Southern Maine was warm for early March. The winter of 2019-20 hadn’t been a particularly harsh one, as Maine winters go. There was a sense common in northern regions that signal spring and that place-based “rebirth” that many of us hearken to and anticipate during the dark days December and January.
For people living on the other side of grief and loss, the past three years have been a journey of darkness, sadness, and pain. But to remain here in this life, there must come a time when you get back to “living life.
For me, having lost a son in January, 2017, so much of the past three years have been lived inside-out. By that I mean, grief for me turned me inward. I lost my usual gregariousness and the ability to feel joy. I didn’t want to be around people. I was becoming a misanthrope.
Late last summer, after conversations with my better half, the mother of my son, we made a decision for me to leave the house where I’ve been barely existing as a freelancer and take a job outside. Not some evening tutoring gig or part-time sub teacher stint, either. No, applying for and being hired by a firm that provides healthcare to Mainers and patients just across the border in New Hampshire.
This new role placed me in a new contact center just shy of being open for a year. The woman who interviewed me and subsequently hired me was the sister of someone I graduated from high school with.
Training went well. In fact, the cynical in me, the one who always thinks that at some point, whatever seems too good to be true, most likely is—went in thinking, “the other shoe will drop at some point.” Seven months later, I’m still waiting. Perhaps there is no “other shoe” at this work site at the edge of Portland’s peninsula overlooking Casco Bay.
Working at home for so long isolated me. When Mark was killed, I became even more cut-off from people. I also pushed many people further away. It wasn’t a good place for me to be.
I appreciate my co-workers. Nearly all of them are really interesting people—not the norm for me in what could be called a “traditional” work setting. The company has been voted “best place to work” by several organizations that track these types of things. I can see why.
These co-workers have embraced me in a way I never expected. Those that I’ve shared part of my story of grief and loss and feeling adrift have been empathetic and supportive. I like my managers, too.
The job is part-time. My schedule is less than 30 hours a week, and I’ve picked up a bi-weekly position where I deliver a defensive driving curriculum to young drivers who’ve lost their licenses. This fits well with my primary Monday through Friday work responsibilities as the four-hour classes are on Saturday mornings. I enjoy being in front of a this demographic cohort. It’s something I’ve done before and for whatever reason, is a good match for my skills and strengths.
At the start of January, we began hearing about a virus making it’s way from one city in China to another. Americans have been socialized for a long time to believe that we have some special dispensation. The thought for most was that maybe things would be different here. Some even thought any talk of the virus disrupting our day-to-day was being “ginned-up” for political reasons. Others at the opposite end of the political spectrum from me even called it a “hoax.” I’ll even admit that a part of me thought a few weeks ago when cases began being confirmed in the U.S. that the media were being hysterical and overly fearful.
The Zombie Apocalypse may be upon us.
When I was growing up, sometimes fear ran rampant. One of my parents’ default mechanism was to become paralyzed by fear. Sometimes that made this parent emotionally unavailable for long periods. Like happens with many children, I attempted to cope with that by trending towards the opposite. As an adult, I began to “walk into” fear, whenever I felt it. Sometimes I put myself at risk, but I was determined not to become a slave to an emotion that I thought was irrational and one I didn’t want ruling my life.
I married a woman who is a warrior. Nothing ever phased her. When I’d totally fuck up, she found a way past it and we managed to create a domestic situation that wasn’t perfect but it was a nurturing one. Our son grew up knowing both of his parents loved him and that we would always be there for him, physically and emotionally. The day before he was killed, both of us had long phone conversations where we got to validate one another and tell the other what needed to be said including, “I love you.”
Last week, preparing to head off to another film festival where a documentary about our son would be screening, his parents began steeling themselves emotionally for the weekend. To attend a festival and see the son who is gone on a movie screen elicits so many feelings: sadness, pain, joy, pride, and longing to see him just one more time. But, knowing that’s impossible. Then, you share your heart and things about being his parents with members of the audience after the screening during Q & A.
Whenever we’ve returned from one of these festivals/screenings, inevitably, a few days later, after thinking that this time you’ll be “fine,” a sense of physical and emotional exhaustion arrives. Sometimes, when it first hits, you literally want to lie down and sleep for 12 hours until it passes. But if you are at work and fully back into your “normal” life, you can’t. So, you soldier on.
As Coronovirus finally “arrived” in the U.S. things began getting cancelled. There was talk about basketball and hockey games being played in empty arenas. We received and email from the festival indicating that if people didn’t feel “safe” that it was okay not to come. On Sunday I thought, “they’re going to cancel.” On Monday late in the afternoon, we got the email that the festival had been cancelled. No screening in DC.
I put a positive spin on it with Mary. “No worries,” I said. I told her that at least we wouldn’t end up having to go through the emotional rollercoaster ride again. We wouldn’t have to board a plane with others who might be sick, nor would we have to put our lives on-hold for four days. We wouldn’t need to have someone watch the house and feed our cat. I wouldn’t be without my guitar for the weekend.
Tuesday at work, the calls started coming. The fears unleashed by the reality that America couldn’t close itself off from the Coronavirus began being realized by Mainers. Being on the frontline of healthcare in terms of being the people who field calls from patients meant that people were projecting fear my way.
Because I choose not to allow fear to consume me, when others tend to the other extreme, I get triggered. I become reactive. I start to shut down, emotionally. It’s a defense mechanism.
I had just delivered talks on empathy the week before. I pride myself on being “real” with people when the call, including trying to find that emotional connection. It’s what my employer expects and values in staff.
A patient called and I got gaslighted by a woman who I truly was trying to help and empathize with. I got pissed during my transfer to another co-worker. My manager who sits nearby knew I was “going off the rails.” To her credit (she’s been a terrific manager and someone I didn’t expect to have as a report), she took time to sit down with me and honestly wanted to know, “hey Jim, what’s going on with you?”
We’re in a new place as a country. They say that pandemics happen about once every 100 years. The last global one that impacted the U.S. was in 1918. There have been others elsewhere (SARS, MERS, the bird flu).
Today, I went to the store and the entire nearly aisle-long shelf that had formerly housed bathroom tissue (i.e. toilet paper) was barren. People had begun hoarding things that they probably won’t need (at least not in massive quantities). At least the supermarket has managed to keep food on the shelves (for now).
I’m doing my best not to overreact and shut down. For me, shutting down means being pissed, lashing out, and thinking the rest of my human cohabitants are assholes or worse. I need to be better and I’m working at that.
I am also wondering how other people are reacting and holding up not quite one week into this thing. There’s no basketball or hockey for sports fans. Music and concerts are being shut down. The St. Patty’s Day Parade in Boston is off and now, the Boston Marathon, too.
Our leaders who we look to during times of crisis seem to lack the capacity to respond in a meaningful fashion. Does this mean we’re on our own here?
I know that I have a rock in my better half. We have good people nearby. I’m confident in our local leaders. Work will certainly be crazy come Monday, but the people I work with will step up. But we’re in uncharted territory.
Sometimes, you have to laugh to keep from crying and this Bob Marley clip made me laugh so hard, I nearly pissed my pants. Thanks, Bob. We’ll need people like you as times get tougher. Hopefully we can avoid some version of the zombie apocalypse. I’m on the fence on that one.
Be kind. Be gentle. Don’t give in to your worst impulses. I’m actually offering this advise more to myself, but if it works for you, run with it.