Grief in the Time of Corona

I know this is a departure from my usual posts- but I felt called to write it, and I feel better after doing so. I hope you find value in reading it. Let me know what you think if you get all the way through it!

My grandmother died last week. She was the last of my four biological grandparents, although my parent’s divorce means that I have had some bonus grandparents, too. She had dementia, and had been very, very sick for a long time. In some ways, losing her means the remaining family can all exhale. But when we do, it doesn’t come without a sting. The loss is still a loss, even though we’ve been missing her for a long time now. Nancy Reagan talked about Pres. Ronald Reagan being in a far-away land. If you don’t have any personal experience with dementia and Alzheimer's that’s a very apt description.

There’s a communal grief that comes as a part of a global pandemic. That’s a thing I didn’t know 6 months ago, but I know it now. It’s in the air, permeating each of us, whether we know it or not. The United States has hit 200,000 deaths due to COVID-19. There have been countless lost jobs, cancelled plans and events, the disruption of our lives. The loss.

For me, that grief presents as a need to be busy, at first. An aching, burning need to do something. And then, slowly, it slides into exhaustion. Last week, when my dad called me to tell me that his mom was truly gone, the exhaustion hit like a ton of bricks.

It isn’t that I’m so sad I can’t function. Like I’ve already said, in so many ways, this loss is also a blessed relief. And yet, I feel like I’m in a fog. I can’t do some of the easy, basic, everyday things I need to be able to do right now. This morning, I got all the way to work and didn’t have my keys. Luckily, my commute time is about 7 minutes, so in 15 minutes I was back, keys in hand. This was after I had flashed past the grocery store because I realized at 9:30 last night I had nothing to eat for lunch today.

I’m just so tired.

Teaching is always tiring. But this year, the exhaustion is an ever present force behind my eyes, trapping my evenings as I watch my house dissolve around me into disaster. The plates I began spinning in my “do something” phase are beginning to wobble, and my arms are so tired I can’t keep them going.

But now I’m committed to them. Those plates aren’t optional. But the exhaustion is pulling me, down, down, down. More coffee.

People talk about using “this time” to relax, to rest, to re-evaluate. And I’ve certainly done some of that. I’ve looked at my priorities again and again. I’ve changed my trajectory on multiple ideas and occasions.

But what no one seems interested in talking about is the fact that for some of us, the plates just have to keep spinning. It isn’t a valid option to put them down- not if we want to keep eating. Not if we want to stay relevant.

Maybe that’s the lie. Maybe the truth of the matter is that letting go will only make it more possible to do the things we were made for. I don’t know. All I can do is keep putting one shaky foot in front of the other, keep chipping away, no matter how slowly, at the thing in front of me.

But back to the grief. Although my sweet grandmother did not die of the virus, I now have a very personal loss that I will always associate with the Coronavirus pandemic. In truth, I will likely remember that I lost both my grandmothers as a part, sort of, of the pandemic. My mom’s mom passed in January, but we held her service the weekend before the world shut down in March of 2020.

A Corona-era funeral is a hard, hard thing. Picking out the mask you want to wear to a funeral is hard. Social distancing in the sanctuary your grandparents practically built is hard. Choosing whether or not to hug your grieving family is hard. Deciding whether or not to meet up with your family to have lunch together in a park is hard: do I feel safe with no mask? Can I politely maintain appropriate distance? Am I making the responsible choice? How do you balance the kindest choice and the most responsible one?

The sharp loss of a ”normal” service when you’re already resting in the pain of the loss itself is surprisingly difficult.

All of it, exhausting. I came home from the funeral completely and totally spent. It was a 2 hour drive from Northwest Ohio where the roots of my family tree are, and when I left, I felt like, oh, great, maybe I can still get some work done tonight. By the time I got home, I was barely able to myself from the car to the couch. I fell asleep on the couch at 8:30 and slept straight through until 6:30.

But this is our world right now, and adjusting to living in it will take time. Brene Brown, in her excellent podcast “Unlocking Us”, was talking about the fact that 6 months into a disaster, you just hit a wall. And friends, we’re there. Wall. Hit.

So if you’ve recently hit your own wall, I’m here, sitting in it with you. I’m here, fighting for each day right with you. I’m here, lost in a tumble of plates and emails, still rooting for you. And every day, I’m picking up at least a couple of plates, piecing them back together, and spinning them again. I hope you’ll stand up with me and go again.

Life is touch, darling- but so are you.

Until next time- I love you, and I’m rooting for you.

Charis