Covid-19 Positive - From a healthcare worker

Many people have now heard that I had the privilege of spending the last two weeks experiencing Covid for myself. Being on a two week quarantine means I have had a very VERY substantial amount of time to myself over the last two weeks,and thus... a lot of time to think. 

I called my mom last Tuesday in tears - not because I was that sick, or even because I had Covid at all, but because the idea of being in my apartment for two solid weeks, with no social interaction, and not getting to do the job I love, was sending me into an mental tornado knowing that I don't do well being alone for long periods of time, and knowing that with some anxiety and depression, this could be a really long two weeks. 

The gist of my days were spent waking up when I wanted, enjoying my tasteless coffee, sometimes going back to sleep, spending a few hours outside with my bible (quick praise Jesus moment for 70 degree weather in November). I would come in and eat lunch, sometimes go back to sleep, and watch a lot of reruns on TV until it was time to go to bed. The first few days, it took a long time to muster up energy just to get off the couch. I took a lot of baths to ease the body aches and went through a LOT of tylenol. Once I started feeling better, I cleaned every closet in my apartment, gathered clothes to donate, sanitized literally everything, and facetimed my mom a lot. I also showered very few times, because, like, why put forth the effort? Which was later funny as I realized my sense of smell was gone. Good thing there was no one around to offend with my potential, but unconfirmed, smell. 

Thankfully, my symptoms were pretty mild and I only spent a few days really feeling like poo, and after that my biggest symptom was boredom. I still can't taste or smell, and I get tired fairly easily, but I am so, so, SO excited to GET TO GO BACK TO WORK TOMORROW. My dad has been texting me all day 'one more sleep!' and I'm counting down the hours until I get to go feel productive and love on my little boogers again. 

A quick break for some work facts - I work as an occupational therapist at a pediatric outpatient clinic, and here are some facts about my job:

1. Although I work in healthcare, I do not work on the front lines of this pandemic, but instead, work outpatient and with kiddos, who seem to get through this virus much easier than adults. Still, children have a way of figuring out how to share their germs with you regardless of how much PPE you are wearing. I seriously think they plan it.

2. I am the luckiest 26 year old in the world and I absolutely adore my job. 

3. The kiddos I spend my days are, scientifically proven, the cutest kids on the planet. (I might have made up this fact, but it's definitely close)

4. Those same cutest kids on the planet are really struggling right now, for too many reasons to list, and I'm sure many I don't know about.

The pandemic has brought a lot of change to our work environment and especially to our kids. Many of them have become much clingier and needing extra attention as they can sense the tension in this world. Many of them haven't noticed a thing, except for their hatred of this new mask they have to wear all the time, but their families are feeling the financial, emotional, and mental burden. Many of them were struggling before school went online, and now, they are riding the brink of never recovering from this trying time. A lot of my kids are learning what it means to feel 'unsettled', and I've had this conversation with more than one of them. Try explaining this world and the feeling 'unsettled' to a six year old. For many of my kids, therapy is the only consistent thing in their life right now. And wow, that's some serious pressure. 

One thought I had as I was journaling this week was how, if I ever have grandkids, THIS is going to be the time in my life I repeat stories from over and over. Like it's going to be THAT story where my grandkids are like, ohmygod, WE KNOW, you couldn't buy toilet paper for months. Cool, grandma. We've already heard this. But to add to the coronavirus pandemic, I also think I'm living through a pretty historical presidential election. This was only the third election I was old enough to vote in, so my depth of experience isn't very deep, but I imagine an election that has the country this divided isn't something that happens super often. Living in a (mostly) red state, but working in healthcare during a global pandemic is an experience I definitely won't ever forget. My sister and I spend a lot of time discussing politics because she is very passionate about certain subjects and I could definitely use some more education on certain political topics. We don't typically come to any conclusions, or even agree on too many specifics, but it's interesting to talk with someone who does as much research as she does and actually has the background to backup her opinions. Even more interesting, is that when we can actually have a conversation about it with feelings aside, we mostly believe the same things. We both believe in caring about people and helping others, and, generally, doing what's best for our country. We just don't always agree on the way to get there. 

I like to think that in the past, I've proven myself to be pretty reliable in times of stress, panic, or emergency. I tend to think my best and act my best when everyone ELSE is freaking out. (but if no one else is freaking out I'm useless. Riddle me that) Thus, during this pandemic, aside from a little anxiety, I actually feel like I've handled things pretty well. I try really hard to be the stability that helps my patients and coworkers get through the day and survive this time with so much increased stress. I try to be the person that steps in when someone needs a break, a hug, or a snack. I try to be the person people know they can count on. But I'm getting to the point where my patience is running thin. And it isn't because I actually had Covid.

My patience is running thin because my case was mild, and many are not. 

My patience is running thin because of the people I see out and about who refuse to wear a mask. 

My patience is running thin because of our country's inability to put the needs of others first for any amount of time to solve this issue. (No, it can't be solved, yes, we have tried the lockdown. That's not what I'm saying.) 

My patience is running thin after I got to spend a wonderful weekend with my parents post quarantine because there have been so many healthy adults, who, after getting Covid, never had that opportunity again. There are countless more older individuals or people not in their best health that never had that opportunity again.

But here's where my patience runs the thinnest: If you are someone that thinks you are too good to wear a mask, blames this pandemic on one specific political party, and thinks it's 'just the flu' - I'm looking at you. Worse yet, if you haven't done anything to help those around you during this difficult time, I'm REALLY looking at you. 

I've said it before, but I do not have a good wealth of knowledge about politics. I have no idea how different leadership could have affected the outcome of this pandemic, and moreover, I really don't care, because I don't have the power to change that. Even working in healthcare, I don't understand the science behind this virus at all - and that's not because I haven't done my research, that's because I accept the fact that I don't understand everything about it, so I shouldn't be drawing conclusions, and that not every article I see on the internet is peer reviewed and unbiased. What I do know is that there are people smarter than me in both politics and medicine and I am not going to pretend that I know better than them. 

My patience runs thin when I see my sweet, sweet Emma girl in pictures, home for the jillionth day in a row, unable to go to school, because a runny nose and an achey body for me could be much, much worse for her. 

My patience runs thin when I think of my kiddos at work who's parents have been negatively affected by this pandemic, financially or otherwise, and I can see it in their eyes every time they come into the waiting room, relieved for a tiny, tiny break. 

My patience runs thin when I think of the many kiddos around the country who can no longer afford therapy because of the financial toll this season has taken on their families. 

My patience runs thin when I think of how lucky I am to be in my 20's and still have two healthy parents  and four healthy grandparents, and how upset it might make me if someone's carelessness made that statement untrue.

The truth of the matter is, that I have NO IDEA how much wearing a mask helps. 

I have NO IDEA how much a lockdown helps. 

I have NO IDEA what this vaccine will do. 

I have NO IDEA what this country is going to look like in a year - based on political factors or factors revolving around the pandemic.

What I do know, is that trusting someone with even slightly more knowledge than me who is saying one of these things MIGHT help us, even just a little, why would I not do it? 

Although I've never really thought about it before, one of my biggest jobs as an OT is to fill gaps. The gap between what you want/need to do, and what you can do. That is all I spend all day doing, and I love it so much. It becomes natural. I've found it spreads to other areas of my life- I see a gap in the way this pandemic is being handled, and I want to fill it. I hope that someday, when I tell my grandkids this story for the 85th time, the story ends with the people on this planet filling in the gaps. I hope if you are that against masks, you stay the heck home. I hope even if you are for masks, you find your mental health balance with your physical health and consideration of others balance, because I'm certainly aware of the mental health toll this pandemic has taken on us. I hope you find ways to connect with those around you for everyone's mental health. I hope you play new board games with your family, try new recipes, and don't let 'social distancing' be your excuse for 'missing out on memories.', because quite frankly, those two things aren't even remotely close to correlational.

I hope you find those around you who need the help this holiday season, and I hope that you have open eyes to see in what way that might actually be, even if it isn't what you thought. I hope you are willing to reconsider the traditions and plans you've had for so many years in light of everyone's health, and for the well-being of our front line healthcare workers who are doing a stinking incredible job.

I hope that when you retell this story to your grandkids, whether that be in 60 years, or in a few months, you are able to able to identify yourself as a helper, a heart, and a filler of gaps. So many different effects on so many different people leaves it wide open for you to decide how that might be. While we all have pride in different areas of our life, one thing we all have in common is that we all have pride to put aside. May you see the gaps in your circle of the world that need filled, and may you go and fill them. May you be wise enough to know that it may not be in the way you imagined that gap needing filled, but instead realizing the benefit of being there for someone in exactly the way they needed.

The Waves

When I was 13, my parents took my sister and I on vacation to North Carolina. This was our first 'true' beach experience, and I have since always felt like I was meant to live near the water. I remember the first time a breaker knocked me over - the pressure of the water in my ears, hitting the sandy ocean floor, and making contact with some seaweed - as I tried to get to my feet again before the next wave came and knocked me over again. My mom taught me how to stand sideways as the waves come in, and how it's much easier to plant your feet in the sand and not be knocked over by the waves, but instead, get that refreshing salt water to cool you off. It became a fun game to see how far I could wade out into the water and each time, be stronger than the wave.

Every year, I debate whether or not to continue to post these blogs about grief. I know there is not anything helpful about reminding people of past pain...but every year, I start to feel nostalgic during this early summer period as I remember exactly what I was going through 8 years ago on Memorial weekend. It's almost like the feeling of grief pops up in the Facebook memories of my heart - and in order to deal with my own, I have to do this.

Eight years ago tonight I remember wondering if life would ever be the same again.  I guess I write because I like for people to feel connected. Grief is was of the most lonely processes I have ever been through, because even with the same death, your grief can be so different. I want people in difficult times to understand how far you truly can come in a span of years. In a way, I guess I want to write this to 5/26/2012 Emily - look! Look how much progress you've made! I love to keep journals and record milestones, and I've gone back to read blogs occasionally and been able to find a theme each year - there's always a different way I've been healed; and this year, the theme is a confident joy.

This past year I reached a new milestone in taking my first job. Each milestone in life since Brenna died has brought a bittersweet feeling, because accomplishments are good, but it brings you a small bit of guilt because you made it and she didn't. This is the first time since she died that I have not been in school. That's a long time. I [finally] finished grad school in August of 2019, and shortly after, accepted what turned out to be an incredible job at a site where I did a fieldwork assignment. God sure knew what he was doing when he took me to No Stone, because I work with some incredible people. They have helped me to heal another part of my heart by doing something I love and inspiring me each day. It's not common to land your dream job right out of school, but I'm sure it's common to experience a 'honeymoon phase' of working a job you love right after spending so much time in school. Regardless, I've found that I absolutely love going to work every day.

I've thought quite a bit recently about an interview I was a part of the day after Brenna died. Several (hundred) people gathered at my house that weekend to create memory books, and several representatives from news stations were included in that. When my friend Tyler was interviewed, he told the woman, through tears, how he felt heartbroken because he and Brenna had planned to become teachers and teach in classrooms right next to one another. He sobbed as he talked about how he felt compelled to 'finish' the job for her, be the best he could be, because she would not have the opportunity to teach, like she always wanted. I feel this same calling, even on days that are frustrating at work, or days when I feel so unbelievably NOT competent to do my job (which is sometimes probably the truth). I am always reminded by the picture above my desk about the girl who inspires me to do everything I do with as much joy as I can muster simply because I can. 

On that same beach trip when I was 13, before I had mastered being stronger than the waves, one of the waves came up behind me and took me by complete surprise, knocking me off of my feet and into the sand as the wave washed over me. When I stood up, something on my swimsuit felt funny, and I looked down to find (what seemed like) hundreds of tiny fish in my swimsuit top and bottoms. I am thankful that iPhones did not exist, and that there is no photographic evidence of this horrifying encounter that had me screaming bloody murder on a packed beach and scarred me for life (joking. sort of.), and kept me out of the ocean for an entire day.

One of our favorite activities during our beach trips has been taking the boards out farther into the ocean and riding the larger waves before they break. We often spend hours out there. The first time you go, it can be a little scary - the water is deep enough that you can't touch, once in awhile the wave will be stronger than you imagine, and you definitely can't see in the water (yay, sharks). And.. if you get salt water in your eyes while you're trying to ride a wave, you're basically toast.

Sometimes dealing with grief and trauma comes like a day on the beach with no cares, just cruising along, and sometimes it knocks you over like a wave coming you didn't see, and it even leaves you with these little sardine looking things in your bikini. Each year, I find that the day to day activities seem to be more like the easy day, the waves I feel confident to face, boarding with my cousins, watching the sand crabs, and finding starfish on the ocean floor. But every once in awhile a wave takes me by surprise and makes me feel all the 'feelings' once again.

In the last nine months it has been absolutely incredible to be a therapist for the very first time. I was extremely lucky to be placed with a supervisor has been a blessing to me both personally and professionally. Something no one ever talks about with grief is the way that it strips you of your self confidence. I couldn't even see a white daisy or a whiffle ball or a K-State rowing shirt without getting sad -  why would I be able to go to grad school? Pass a rotation? Make it through a session that goes to crap 5 minutes in? Tackle a tough diagnosis or a difficult parent? From day one, Petra had an unspoken belief in me that made me feel like she never doubted my skills that suddenly gave way to some confidence in myself, too - something I haven't felt in a long, long time. She sat on the floor right next to me when I struggled and accepted the things that were difficult for me with so much grace. When I'm in a tough situation with a kiddo, I find myself looking to her for guidance, but usually only to find the look in her eyes to say 'you know this. I know you do.' and she encourages me to be outside of my comfort zone and each time, I feel just a tiny bit better about the wave that stands in front of me.

Truthfully, I wish that I could write about what I REALLY see at work, but that violates confidentiality. I wish I could go into detail about the milestones I've seen kids reach, the discharge paperwork I've gotten to sign when a child meets their goals, or the belly laughs that I've heard. I wish I could write about singing to a child on the swing as a break in therapy and watching their eyes roam around the room, or the times I can calm a truly upset or dysregulated child down, because I remember feeling that way myself for quite some time. I wish I could truly describe what it feels like to be a part of the thing a parent thought their child would never do. I wish I could describe the tears I've shed after a tough session when all the adrenaline and anxiety comes rushing back like I haven't felt in years, and how overwhelming it is to feel that about your job. I wish I could write down the funny things my kids say or do, and the way that they make me so thankful for my job every day. I wish I could put into words how hard I laughed the day Gilbert and I were demonstrating a bowling game for the kids and I ran into the door frame, the way Kelsi and I share a look of 'what on EARTH do we do now?' when a kid is losing it, or Alex's casual challenge to indian leg wrestle in the middle of the hallway the other day when we both had a break. This is joy. 

Joy has come in my job, in my friendships, the trips I've taken, and the adventure it's been since graduation to venture out on my own for the first time. I'm sure that a joy like this would have come at 25 regardless, but it makes me so appreciative to even have the opportunity to have had struggle that makes me appreciate where I am now. Those many days of trying to make it through the day, struggling with such heavy anxiety, and always wondering 'why her?' have seemed to be replaced with a peace I can't explain. I didn't think I'd ever get here. It has been a joy to not feel weighed down by the constant fear that something like this could happen again.

What I CAN write about regarding work, however, is the therapists I work with at work who make me feel competent, and valued as a part of their team every day even though I've barely been out of school long enough to bring much knowledge. I can write about the way that they've taught me how to handle a difficult situation and rely on team members when things get tough, and the way they've given me a more realistic perspective about the day to day versus what I went through - losing Brenna at 17 made me expect the worst from every phone call, every time someone was late, or every time something went even remotely wrong. They have made me feel more in control in the life I've been slowly learning to manage again, understanding that the unexpected might happen, but not being so worried about it when it does - and more than that, they've given me a great team to turn to when the wave does win. Although I know your heart never truly heals after a loss like that, they have filled in some holes again as I have weaved through the difficult journey of a 'normal life' and not feeling guilty about doing something I love just because my friend didn't get to.

Initially, grief and trauma have this way of making you feel like each and every wave knocks you into the sand, in a rough water, and leaves you with fish in your swimsuit. You've barely gotten over the first wave when the next one comes crashing through. You have salt water in your eyes. You can't catch your breath. And you just. keep. falling. What you don't realize is that with every wave, you learn how to stand up again - you use muscles you didn't know you had to figure it out, and each time you go into the water, you make it just a little bit farther before a big, scary wave comes again. But before you know it, being knocked down is part of the day and it's something that you don't worry about anymore.

Naturally, as I write this, Tangled happens to be on TV - one of Brenna's favorite movies. I used to cry every time I saw it, and I don't anymore. I think about how she was the sky lantern in many of our lives - but we've healed enough to do it for others. I feel so stinking lucky by so many things in the last 8 years, and what has been fun about keeping this blog has been realizing that the blessings are much more plentiful than the tough days - the scales become more unevenly tipped as each year goes on.  This year, I've found the blessing in a chaotic, loud, pediatric clinic full of people who have quickly felt like family. What a joy it has been to learn confidence with each coming wave and to know that even if it overtakes me, I'll surely come back up again.

The Haze

In my 25 years of life, this has taken the cake as the strangest Palm Sunday of my life.

Most years on Palm Sunday I go to church at home with my family and we walk a few blocks with our branches with neighboring churches and hear a message outside. I spend the weekend with my family. Sometimes we dye Easter eggs, and it's usually just beginning to warm up outside, so sometimes we have a fire outside or we grill and eat outside. Even the years I have missed Palm Sunday at home, I participated in whatever my local church was doing and then went home the following weekend for Easter. There has been exactly one Sunday in my entire life I was not with my family for Easter church, and it was because I had to work, so I drove straight from work to our family dinner. I still got to wear my Easter dress, and see my little cousins, and hug my parents, and rejoice with family.

This year, it's 4:25 on Palm Sunday and I haven't taken a shower. I'm not wearing makeup. I haven't worn anything besides leggings at home in days. I haven't been to church in three weeks, I've been watching online. I haven't seen my best friends in several weeks. I've been having more time in my bible than ever - but I can't tell you it's because I'm dedicated, it's because I just can't do anything else. I've finished two puzzles, and I think I've watched every episode of Fixer Upper that has ever aired. I can't see my friends, or attend events, or plan anything. Because I'm supposed to stay away from people. Next Sunday, for the first time in my life, I won't see my family on Easter. I definitely could drive an hour to my parent's house, but I don't want to risk it. Watching Easter service online in my apartment just won't have the same feel to it.

Last year around this time, after much prayer, I realized God was calling me back to Manhattan, Kansas, for a job (much to my despair). I never wanted to live in Kansas, but I knew this is where He wanted me. When I officially accepted the job, I was amped. I might be biased, but Manhattan is an exciting place almost all year round. There's the excitement of a new semester each fall, interspersed with tailgating and football, there's the snow and ice where the college students take advantage of dining hall trays and the hills, and there's days like today - some of the first warm spring days where people can, basically, come out of hibernation. It doesn't matter if the students are studying or not studying, they are outside. Games of frisbee are going in the quad and in any open space campus has, there are hammocks in every tree, people laying on blankets in the sun, and of course, the few brave souls who get out their toddler sized inflatable pool and drink PBR in their front yards, just begging summer to come as quickly as it can. The sonic drive through line is wrapped around the building. In a town the size of Manhattan, whatever vibe the students have seems to give way to the rest of the town, mostly because they basically are the town.

Today I went running around City Park, which is usually packed on a Sunday in the spring. I passed many runners and bikers, but few people in groups. The baseball fields were empty. The frat house across the street that usually has students pouring out of it was vacant. There were places to park in Aggieville. Like something I had never seen before, truly. With all that, a haze hung in the air from the burning of nearby fields - so even though the sun was out, it just didn't seem quite as bright. There are only two times that Manhattan smells like fire (or we hope) and it's during the burning of the fields in the spring, and during tailgate season. Both are very good things. But today, it seemed empty.

Manhattan, a city that usually is filled to the brim with people, seems like bones. It feels desolate and sad right now. There is no sitting and socializing on the patio at Lucha now that it's warm, or hanging out at Tuttle for a fire, or going to a friend's party on a warm evening. There is only leaving the house to grocery shop, and for some, work. There is no sitting outside at Bluestem enjoying coffee on a warm day, or enjoying the view and sunshine on Manhattan hill. There is wearing masks, and there is lots and lots of avoiding people. I was at the grocery store yesterday where people were wearing masks. No one talked except the workers. There are markers in the checkout lines to show how close you can stand to people. Essentials like bread and milk, and hand soaps, sanitizers, and cleaners, have signs on their aisles limiting so many per customer - which doesn't matter because so many of those shelves are empty anyway.

I have felt stressed about my future many times in my life, partly because I have anxiety, and partly because I'm human. Whether or not I would get into OT school, my fieldwork plans, friends or family who were very sick, etc. Never, until this week, have I had to wonder if there will be groceries at the store the next time I need them. Never has my mom had to remind me that everything will be fine from the respect of having enough food. I'm experiencing stress about my job for the first time in my life (or in the 8 months I've been a working adult), knowing how many of my kids are absent right now with the current county stay at home orders, and how that affects our clinic. I then stress about my certain kiddos I know who NEED school and therapy because of the positive relationships, structure, learning, and good examples of adults it allows them to have - not all kids have that at home. I see weddings being cancelled and moved, and I hear about funerals that have 3 people in attendance because of the social distancing. I wonder to myself over and over, where is God in this? Not only is He calling me to trust him with the unknown, which I have had plenty of in life, but He is calling me to trust him that the grocery stores will be stocked, He will watch out for the health of those I love (even if it's not in the way I want) and He's got this.... right?

Running through the haze today reminded me of one of our trips to Hong Kong where we had the opportunity to visit the Sik Sik Wong Sai Tin temple. I remember a haze that day, too. Part of it might have been sweat, as it was about 100 degrees with about 110% humidity and overcast, but a lot of that haze was just a darkness I can't explain. It was like the second you entered the temple the darkness just wrapped itself around you. We stayed respectful of those around us worshipping and tried not to talk too much or ask offensive questions, but the whole time I just kept thinking People worship like this? This is exhausting. It feels so empty. And then I went to I am so glad my God does not work like this.

Although all the elements of spring are out in Manhattan, the contagious joy that comes from having people out and about after being cold for so many months just isn't. The haze that fills the air is literal from the smoke and figurative from the lack of people, and those that are out, cannot be near each other. In this difficult time, I have to wonder how this feeling compares (it doesn't, I know) to how Jesus' followers must have felt between Good Friday and Easter. Did they look at the statistics? The reports from local epidemiologists and physicians? Did they look at the curve, or the death toll, or what history said about every person who had died before them? Did they doubt? Did they feel lost with no idea where to even go from there? The fear of the unknown has gotten to me these last few days and it has taken A LOT for me to continue to stay in the word and trusting that God will take care of this - especially not being around others. This has, unintentionally, been the "realest" Lent of my life, and I didn't even give anything up - or I didn't plan to. But I've given up so many things and spent so much more time with my bible and journal, which I'm sure is exactly how God intended.

One cool thing I have enjoyed watching over the last few weeks is the way that people have used technology to not allow these circumstances to steal the joy. Watching church online and being able to comment. Group facetiming with my friends. Having a virtual happy hour via Facetime with my family last weekend. More than that, the time to do things I generally wouldn't do near as much of - read my bible, enjoy time outside, catch up with my long distance friends.

Next weekend will be the first Easter in my life I haven't seen my family, worn an Easter dress, held my newest baby cousin, or had pie. I might watch church in my pajamas. I definitely won't wear makeup, and I will likely be alone. Thankfully, I am being humbled and realizing that doesn't matter. Even more thankfully, I have (with much discipline and prayer over my doubt) the greatest Hope in the world that the haze will, eventually, lift.