covid | Marvin&Company: Stories About Death And Entrepreneurship

March Again

So it’s March again. Or still. Is everyone else exhausted too, or is it just me?

Anniversaries of traumatic events are tough. When I was training to be a Death Doula, we talked a lot about anniversary grief. The one year mark of a death is a time to honor our dead person and sift through our memories about the death. It can be a time of peaceful introspection or a hellscape of anxiety, and it’s perfectly normal for it to be a mix of both.

In March 2020 the world split irrevocably into two parts – before and after. We aren’t going back to the before times. No matter who we elect, how many of us get vaccinated, or what the economy does. We’re only going forward with the knowledge that something terrible has happened that affected every single one of us.

I remember waking up every day with a deep sense of both fear and apathy. The act of forcing myself to believe that something – anything – mattered was in itself exhausting. This was my brain adjusting itself to the tsunami of cortisol and adrenaline that accompanies a crisis. The thing is, this crisis wasn’t as simple or short lived as a car accident or a leopard in the tall grass. Our brain’s complex system of protecting our dumb asses in a crisis ended up hurting us more than it helped. This time, the leopard really was in the tall grass, and it’s not leaving anytime soon. We have no choice but to adapt to our surroundings, so like many of our ancestors before us we’re experiencing how trauma rewires our brains. It’s unpleasant.

Exercise, eating real food, meditation, social interaction (even on Zoom), hobbies, work, and down time for our tired brains all help this process. All of this can smooth the rough edges of a horrible experience, just like it does when we’re grieving a person, but it can’t change the fact that grief is uncomfortable on it’s best day. Grief physically hurts us. And we are all grieving right now.

The whole world is grieving the future ripped away from us so quickly that will never be quite the same. We’re grieving our dead people, our collective poor choices and those of our leaders, and the ways in which our society has changed. Perhaps it’s changed for the better, and still even good change is disconcerting. Grief in a culture that’s death-illiterate and has never been taught how to grieve is difficult. This year has been an incredible challenge for us.

For those of us with the incredible good luck to not lose our jobs or our people, it may seem disingenuous to still feel this grief. It’s not, so please let yourself off the hook for any of that misplaced guilt. We all lost something. Our sense of wellbeing, the peace of mind that comes from being many generations removed from this kind of trauma. We were gaslighted by our leaders and watched half the country deny that a global pandemic was real. Whenever I am faced with a COVID denier, while I gave up so much to flatten the curve, the rage I feel is overwhelming. I’m probably not the only one.

So if you’re feeling big emotions that don’t make sense in the context of where we are right now, it’s probably COVID grief. Processing trauma takes a long, long time, and we’re still in the middle of the crisis. This is what the anniversary of a death looks like. You’re not losing your mind, I promise. We’re grieving in community.

August 31, 2020

September is scary

Today, on September-eve, I feel unsettled. September is scary. Here’s why.

Six months ago the world as we knew it ended and everything changed. That’s just the beginning of the story. I eventually adapted by creating lovely outdoor spaces in which to socialize with my loved ones. Yesterday I shopped online for a patio heater, my attempt to extend outside social distance friend time. I know it’s going to be temporary. Someday soon it will be ten degrees with six inches of snow on the ground and we’ll be back to Zoom happy hours and waving from our heated cars across a parking lot.

We know so much more now, about exposure and viral load and how long we can be in a room with another person with a mask before things get dicey, how large that room needs to be and how many air changes per hour* it needs to even begin to mimic the outdoors.

What the science doesn’t tell us is how to survive a long winter without close contact with our people. Three months at home was difficult for me, even surrounded by family. Despite our incredible luck – continued health, safety, and employment – the thought of going back into that dark place makes my fingertips numb and my chest hurt.

When the morning temperatures dip into the 40s it’s hard to not think about all the adaptations to come. Acclimating to no vacation or family day at the county fair was easy. But what about Thanksgiving and Christmas? Will my sister be able to visit? Will our parents be lonely when we can only stand outside for a few minutes? What about the special reindeer mugs my mother uses for homemade hot chocolate on Christmas Eve – will she bring them to us in the driveway? Will we feel safe enough to let her?

I tell myself nothing happens the same way twice. We fail differently every single time. There’s no going back, good or bad. All these words should be comforting. Today they are not. So what’s next?

I am doing my best to be mindful about spending quality time with people I love right now. When I feel like I need to cry, I just let it happen. In the shower, in the car, in my office with the door closed. Sometimes a dozen times a day, I cry for the things I can’t control and loss I won’t see coming until it happens, because even my anxiety can’t predict everything. It all just seems like too much.

And then, after sitting with all those uncomfortable feelings, I move on with my day. My newly developing superpower seems to be falling apart and shaking it off. This is my new normal, and it’s not at all uncommon. Sustained exposure to chaos does things to our brains. We’re not losing our minds, it’s just science, and it’s only for now.

My point is that September isn’t a monster, it’s just another month. I’ll tell myself this every day until my covid-trauma addled brain chooses a new monster. Whatever your monster is today, it’s only for now, just like everything else. Cry and breathe and drink enough water and eat real food and survive the next minute and the one after that and the one after that. We’ve got this.

* https://www.ashrae.org/file%20library/technical%20resources/covid-19/ashrae-healthcare-c19-guidance.pdf

August 17, 2020

Platitudes

There’s a story I’ve been telling myself, in an attempt to rationalize my pandemic trauma response. We have always been one diagnosis or accident away from crisis, loss, and destruction. Nothing is new here. Covid has just shed light on a fact of life that is usually easier to ignore.

Recently a friend pointed out that I repeat this story a lot these days, and it kind of sounds like I’m trying to convince myself. This observation hit a little close to home so I sat with it for a few days and here’s what I came up with: That story, while comforting, is bullshit.

Of course random terrible things happen. It’s part of the deal when we’re in the world. No one here gets out alive, right? We reconcile our temporariness however we can with spiritual beliefs or denial, and without fail everything falls apart eventually. That’s what it is to be human.

The comparison between random accidents and Covid, though, is flawed. I have some semblance of control, no matter how flimsy, over accidents and illness. My seatbelt and airbags, choosing to not drive drunk or texting, none of it guarantees safety but it helps. Daily workouts, a somewhat anti-inflammatory diet, and regular physicals won’t make me impervious to disease but may increase my survival odds if I get sick. None of these things are life altering decisions. Turning down a cupcake or putting my phone in airplane mode while driving aren’t heartbreakingly difficult choices.

Covid came blazing into our lives demanding rapid and drastic adaptation. Stay home. Don’t visit your older or immunocompromised loved ones. Previously innocuous tasks like working or grocery shopping might kill you, or someone else. Wear a mask and be prepared to defend yourself in public spaces if you’re attacked for trying to follow the rules.

On a Friday in March I went home believing I’d followed the rules and made appropriate preparations. I’d read all the scientifically sound information I could find, from the US and abroad, and truly believed I had a handle on whatever was happening. Oh my gosh was I wrong.

That Friday we all left a staff meeting where we’d painstakingly created incredibly idealistic plans. We said goodbye as if Monday would surely happen, and went home to our personal lives without much thought.

On Sunday the schools closed, our agreed upon remote work trigger event that we thought would be weeks away at least. On Monday we scrambled to gather what we needed for remote work, still believing it would be short and temporary. At noon the state offices closed. By the end of the day the 100% Workforce Reduction Executive Order was in place, and we wouldn’t see each other outside of Zoom meetings for three months. Work orders stopped. Clients closed their offices just as we’d closed ours. In the space of 48 hours everything we planned for no longer mattered.

Let me be clear, we were extremely, undoubtedly, ridiculously lucky. My staff and I collected our full salaries from the safety of our homes. Everybody lived. No part of my story is tragic.

The point is that the loss of control was ruthless and swift, shaking the foundation of everything. Things that usually give us a competitive edge against unforeseen disaster did not matter anymore. Plans based on science and research and good intentions turned into moot points faster than they could be implemented.

When I speak of trauma brain or covid-depression, I’m not euphemistically referring to mild disappointment or annoyance. People became enraged, afraid, or withdrawn, things we all took for granted were suddenly missing from everyday life. The loss of our way of life and some of the people in it is profound. Very rarely do we lose our entire way of life all at once with no warning and no end in sight.

This world altering event is different than anything we’ve experienced in our lifetime. We have no basis for comparison and thus no comforting stories to tell ourselves. I shouldn’t minimize the trauma we all feel on some level with platitudes about car accidents and cancer; that doesn’t help. Six months of sustained crisis chemically alters our brains. Unlike personal trauma, we have nowhere to look for normalcy because there is no normal anymore. We’re all figuring it out together.

August 12, 2020

Friendship In Crisis

Grief affects our friendships, sometimes like ripples in the water from a carelessly tossed pebble, sometimes like a tsunami. The worst part is how we can’t ever really predict how relationships will weather the storm.

Without warning, one of my closest friends and I were on opposite sides of a wide chasm for twelve incredibly long weeks. So far apart we could barely hear each other. The person who has seen me at my best and worst and still chooses me. We solve problems; it’s who we are in a friendship built on years of common goals and camaraderie. So when our state shut down with no clear end in sight, I assumed whatever happened next would be just another problem we’d solve together.

The thing is, we had vastly different grief languages. I needed evidence that the heartbreak I felt was mutual; that I, and the friendship, mattered. My friend needed stoicism, reassurance that we would be fine on the other side of whatever this was, for me to hold space without holding him accountable for my big emotions.

In retrospect, continuing to show up for each other under extreme stress, even empty-handed, underscores the strength of our friendship. The kind of strength that predicts longevity. We did the best we could, there is no blame to be placed or assumed. The greatest challenge of maintaining a meaningful friendship is continuing to choose each other, even through all the hard parts.

I also ended up with an unexpected new friend during the shutdown. As professional acquaintances we enjoyed each other’s company a few times a year and collaborated on some projects, one of which had recently failed so spectacularly that we’d started texting every day. At first as the pandemic progressed it was still mostly about the work but soon we were talking about more personal things: fear of an uncertain future and a shared inexplicable crush on our governor. I started looking forward to our daily stream-of-consciousness texts: here’s a blueberry lemon curd muffin recipe, we’re strong like a Kelly Clarkson song, you’re pretty. Her trauma-brain mirrored my own. We spoke the same grief language so I didn’t need reassurance from her. Our mutual anxiety and affection were obvious, cards all face-up on the table, nothing more to discuss.

Forging adult friendships is hard to begin with and gets even trickier in a crisis with all the raw emotions and visceral reactions. Some of us need to compartmentalize our fear and wait it out; others, like me, need to talk through our fear. Neither reaction is wrong. Our challenge is to offer up whatever comfort we can to our people even when our trauma brains trick us into feeling like we’re too far apart.

Next time – and there will certainly be a next time even if the crisis has a different name – I hope I have the presence of mind to meet the people I love where they are, without expectations for where I wish we all could be.

August 9, 2020

COVID-Grief

Grief is a whole-body experience. It’s different than sadness and depression. It bathes our brains in a unique chemical cocktail unlike anything else we’ll ever experienced. So even if we’re not necessarily feeling overwhelmingly sad, those feelings of “not quite right” can still be a manifestation of grief.

Maybe you wake up each morning with a vague sense of dread, unable to pinpoint the exact source of that fear. You feel fine sometimes; grateful, even, for the chance to slow down, spend time with family or hobbies or pets. You walk more, notice nature more, really pay attention to how much you enjoy toast and tea.

But it all feels off, somehow. Everything seems surreal. The events by which you’ve marked the passage of time throughout your adult life no longer exist. Sometimes you feel like you’ve got this – it’s only for now, everything is probably going to be fine. And sometimes deciding what shirt to wear today is just too much.

You have all of the emotions all at once. You’re inexplicably enraged over some things yet totally Zen about others; you cry when the cat doesn’t want to sit on your lap. You’re tired all the time and have trouble staying asleep.

Everything feels unsettling. Like you’re supposed to be doing something but keep remembering there’s nothing to do – nothing that feels like it matters. Most of us aren’t used to sitting still. It’s hard work for which we were entirely unprepared.

You can feel all of this, or none of it, and that’s okay*.

Grief changes us and acclimating is difficult, but this part really is only for now. Later we’ll talk about how we can learn to sit with and move through grief. Today please just know that you’re not alone and you’re not losing your mind.

*If you are having thoughts about harming yourself contact a mental health provider or call the National Suicide Prevention Hotline: 1-800-271-8255.

Marvin&Company: Stories About Death And Entrepreneurship

Tag: covid

March 1, 2021