other sustenance

morning walks watching the sun rise in the sky. canada geese arriving. warm southerly winds. melting sheets of ice. chirping robins. lawns and fields emerging from blankets of white. freshly-baked artisanal bread nested in a brown paper bag hung on our doorknob. distilling the essence from everything. phone calls from my family and friends. my husband. napping in the sun with my child. driving the back roads. days mild enough to roll down my window. seeing and connecting with people, if only from a distance. dreaming of running. remembering my father and mother and knowing the good i inherited from them. getting a big smile from calvin. gorgeous scenes of rolling oceans, giant kelp forests and one astonishing octopus. sitting with a friend in her front garden. feeling the ache of want and nostalgia. FIP french radio. birds building nests. buds plumping. frost on golden fields. a decent night's sleep. knowing vaccinations are coming. college students dotting the sidewalks. watching one of them try roller blading for the first time. the promise of longer, warmer, greener days.

long road ahead

Monday:

To look at my son is to think he is on death's door. Listless. Wan. Dark circles under his eyes. Sleeping with lids half open. Seizures three nights in a row. Two of them grand mals. A focal seizure an hour past midnight. His lips and fingers turn blue. It scares me. Because of the double grand mals and the earliness of this one, I make a rare move to give him Diastat—rectal Valium. It works to stop the cluster.

In bed next to him, his breathing nearly imperceptible because of the benzodiazepine, I worry: What if he were to get Covid-19? I think about the vaccine. I resent the fact that our governor switched to an aged-based rollout. The rationale is that age is among the strongest predictors of hospitalization and death from Covid. But under a certain age, that argument doesn't pass muster.

In some states, landscapers and massage therapists became eligible for vaccines before people who, for instance, are immunocompromised. People with chronic conditions like Calvin are three times more likely to get severe illness or die from Covid than others. And yet they are neglected, as if they are somehow undeserving, unworthy. I think about the anti-maskers who cling to their myth of rugged individualism and bootstrap theory, insisting we should all be personally responsible for avoiding illness (as if we aren't already doing everything possible with that singular goal in mind.) Meanwhile, they parade their maskless faces in stores and restaurants, recklessly endangering workers and patrons because of some twisted notion of freedom. No man is an island, especially during a viral pandemic. Everyone needs to do their part to suppress its spread. Don't we drive on the right side of the road to keep ourselves and each other safe from harm? Does wearing seatbelts mean we're "sheeple"? Why are some Americans so unwilling to embrace even the smallest gesture to help keep their neighbor and community safe from harm? The conceit and sense of entitlement is stunning.

I understand that an age-based rollout is more efficient and will get everyone vaccinated in a shorter period of time, but that doesn't negate the sense that some lives are seen as more expendable than others. You can't debate your way around it; an age-based rollout means healthy thirty-, forty- or fifty-year-olds will get vaccinated well before younger people with type-1 diabetes, cystic fibrosis, cancer or neurological disorders. At the current vaccination rate in Maine, Calvin won't get his until July. In the meantime, he'll likely remain at home with me, unable to attend school or come with me to the grocery store without risking exposure. In other words, for families like ours, there's still a very long road ahead.

food for the soul

a big bunch of thick-stemmed sunflowers standing in a tall jar of water, and a quart of hot-off-the-stove chunky lentil soup delivered in person, masked-up, delightfully unannounced, on the steps of our side deck.

a large zip-lock bag chock full of homemade chicken, pork and shrimp wontons, a smaller zip-lock stuffed with fresh spinach, and a quart of savory ginger and green onion broth for steeping; four large home-baked crinkled molasses and spice cookies on a square of parchment in a white bakery box with a clear-cellophane window; a baggie of handcrafted pork skin dog treats for smellie; homemade squash, nutmeg, percorino romano and parmesan cheese tortellini with a jar of tomato basil pasta sauce; a freshly-baked pull-apart loaf of newfoundland white bread—all these carefully nestled into a shallow cardboard box and unexpectedly hand delivered, masked up, at our mudroom door.

kitchen-crafted caramel sea salt, walnut and bittersweet chocolate tart in a foil-covered aluminum pan left on our side deck bench. most regrettably, a critter got to it before we did—dammit!

a carton of pastel teal and tan farm-fresh eggs hung lovingly on our doorknob in a beige plastic bag.

a big box stuffed with styrofoam peanuts cradling a small box of artisanal walla walla chocolates, a zip-lock laden with thick squares of homemade shortbread, and two bubble-wrapped bottles of regional red wine mailed to us from southeast washington state.

a massive wedge of white birthday cake iced with buttercream frosting and white chocolate shavings set on our side deck after dark in a clear plastic container with a happy red lid.

thank you maura, seth, ann and kevin, collin, stacy, and jens, barbara, nate and gabriel. you nourish our bodies and souls just when it seems we need it most.

on the mend

Regrettably, we will be spending most of today on the green couch or upstairs in bed. Calvin is recovering from suffering grand mal seizures on the last two consecutive nights. As in recent episodes, they happened just after bedtime. In their wake, he often experiences several hours of panic-like symptoms: rapid, pounding heartbeat, chills, trembling, clammy hands, gastrointestinal distress, and perseveration in the form of repeated eye-pressing, patting and pounding his mattress, bed panel, and the wall behind it. I do my best to soothe him by rubbing and patting his back, embracing him when he wants, keeping him covered, and preventing him from careening out of bed. In the middle of the night, I change his diaper if it is wet. Last night, because he was shivering, I took his temp. I give him his morning medicines early to prevent subsequent, pre-dawn seizures. On these kinds of nights, more so than most, I don't get much sleep.

This is the third week in a row in which Calvin was hit with grand mals on two consecutive days. These double whammies are becoming increasingly common of late. Seizures, like some living organisms, seem to seek out patterns and paths of least resistance. Seizures are known to happen with greater frequency in moments of lighter sleep, which is right before waking and just after falling asleep. Clusters of seizures are especially troublesome because they are difficult to control and it is hard to know when to intervene with the use of extra maintenance drugs, the use of emergency medication or seeking emergency care. We have learned the hard way—through nightmarish experiences—to avoid, at nearly any cost, going to the hospital. Instead, we do what we can at home attempting to contain the seizures without the use of benzodiazepines, an effort which requires me to trust my gut. This morning, after weighing options, I gave Calvin an extra tablet of his one pharmaceutical, Keppra, to see if it might alleviate his panickiness and prevent further seizures. Thankfully, it did. And though he's hopefully on the mend, he may not be out of the woods yet.

underwater respite

warm water runs in rivulets down my back. in the liquid heat, i stretch my shoulders, hamstrings and calves. try to touch my hands to the enamel until they're completely flat. though i come close, i can't—yet. i want to be more limber and forgiving. my body, mind and spirit, more pliant. like some young bodies and brains. plastic. like a river when it meets rocky resistance—it just flows right over.

in recent days—in great part due to this runaway pandemic—i feel brittle. my patience stretched to its limits, my mood at times slightly hardened by a boy who occupies my every daytime wandering, irks my nerves, disturbs my slumber. i don't want to be or become rigid, above all on the inside. don't want to be wound so tight i'll break. want to feel like i do when walking barefoot on a stretch of beach or stepping off a plane in the west where the weather is mild and the skies are big. want to feel relaxed again, want to be able to fully expand my chest. i'm not back there yet. but at least i remain open, fairly flexible and compassionate. i can be grateful for that. but i want to bend better in life's tempests, like a sapling—tender. green. resilient.

in these long days spent with a wordless child, i can at least find a little space—in-between his feedings, bathing, diaper changing and desperate embracing—to wonder and reflect. besides my writing, behind the wheel and in the shower are where i find respite and time to introspect. there's a zone i can enter where I dream, but also ask myself things like: am i too impatient? too reflexive? reactive? impassioned? selfish? desperate? petty? apathetic? what's in store for me ahead?

i know i should be in ways more like calvin. more forgiving and forgetting. not disapproving. unconditionally loving. not contemptuous or resentful. less judgmental. like flat hands to the bottom of the bathtub, i'll keep trying to get closer.

calvin is in bed, its panels and netted canopy secured for his protection; the source of my angst—his safe keeping—literally tamped down. in the room next door, the water soothes and softens me. long, hot showers are my escape. i grant myself the luxury since so many other indulgences are impossible, especially in a pandemic. underwater has always been for me a comfortable space. it's where i'm compelled to do exactly nothing but to sway in the stream hoping to somehow drown out my son's grunts and shrieks chirping from the baby monitor, which is perched like a bird on the edge of the sink.

Photo by Michael Kolster

mundane

These four walls are closing in. We move from couch to bathroom to bedroom to kitchen and back again. The repetitiveness of shadowing my kid—it feels the same with my writing. Returning to the same old themes and places. The word that comes to mind is mundane.

Because of the pandemic, the beloved fields near our home are, from sunrise to sunset, temporarily closed to the public. The trails around them are not off limits, but remain treacherous. Daily temperatures are still too low to melt rock-hard ice, especially in shady places. Instead, I wander along sanded asphalt, skate across frozen lakes formed in the low spots of salt-blanched sidewalks. After dawn and at dusk, when streets are empty, I stroll down their centers, which feels slightly freeing. Still, the dog and I are longing to roam wild in wide-open and unfrozen spaces.

Regrettably, the vaccine rollout in Maine is now mostly age-based, so my son won't get vaccinated until summer. The governor's decision to bypass people with high-risk medical conditions is troubling. It means we'll be keeping Calvin home from school longer than we ever thought possible. Nearly a year has passed of having him home alone with me. It's been a burden on my mind, body and spirit; the only person with whom I spend endless daytimes can't speak, and his needs are unceasing. I'm aching to connect, commune, relate with other people. It's in the very nature of my being. I know I'm not alone in that feeling.

Thankfully, I receive a rare visitor. One of Michael's former students drove up from Portland just to see me. We sit outside, twelve feet apart on the glacier that is our back yard. I place my plastic chair where I can see Calvin in the house, spinning in his jumper. Hector's thick, bleached, sun-gold hair is a welcome shock of color against Maine's white winter. To gaze upon a familiar, maskless face for more than a moment feels magnificent. In the cold, we speak of adventure and of heartache, of our vintage Mustangs and of new beginnings. We see each other smile. We laugh together. Upon his leaving, we give each other virtual hugs and I tell him that I love him. He'll be moving away in a few months. I'll miss his visits.

Back inside I get my son out of his jumper. He leads me to the green couch, his favorite spot to spend less than one minute in my lap before getting off and motoring in circles. That word comes to mind again—mundane. But then I look up it up in the thesaurus for more context and see its second definition—earthly, worldly, terrestrial, temporal, sensual—and I feel grounded, renewed, somehow unfettered.

One such day two years ago.

on seeing people

Calvin is good. He's sleeping well, eating well, is mostly sane. He's had zero seizures for almost a week. Still, he's a handful, even when he's at his best.

These long, monotonous days of the pandemic have become even longer now that Michael is back to teaching (in addition to making photos, producing a book, coordinating its publishing, writing an essay for it, interviewing art department candidates, writing referrals and evaluations and pitches, advising students, attending a myriad of zoom meetings, and other niggling responsibilities that he keeps to himself so as not to burden me.) Though I am grateful to have such a supportive husband who is gainfully employed, handles the finances, does all of the grocery shopping during the pandemic, all of the cooking—always—and much if not most of the laundry, it's not that easy to spend eight to nine-plus hours on most days alone with a boy who can do nothing by himself. By the end of the day I'm sometimes a bit fatigued or frazzled. (Thank goodness I'm unemployed!) In a more general sense, I'm feeling the need to see other human beings. I wonder if Calvin shares my sentiments about this extended pandemic sequester, this lack of seeing others, if only viscerally.

On today's drive, again I saw no one—no runner(s), no dogs walking their owners, no salty old men peddling their bicycles—only the ghost of strangers sitting behind the glare of their windshields. In search of other sustenance, and with nothing else to do in the cold, damp, icy outdoors, I drove further south than usual on roads I rarely travel along. My companions were my kid and dog, plus The Police, some Cars, some Beatles, Carly Simon, Stevie Wonder, Steely Dan, Carole King, Van Morrison, Pink Floyd, Elton John, Neil Young and Sharon Van Etten.

Instead of familiar faces, I saw birds, a couple of live red squirrels and some dead grey ones, at least one chipmunk and a few cows. When I stepped out of the car to take pictures I heard cardinals, finches and perhaps one robin. I watched a steer crane his neck to scratch his side with the tip of his horn. I saw color emerging from a bland, white landscape, smoke drifting from chimneys, mist rising from the earth and water.

While I'm grateful for these beautiful vistas, ones which I'm unsure if Calvin regards but are now more than ever essential to me, they are no replacement for seeing people. So, if you find yourself with an extra moment and feel like visiting—outside, in the driveway, masked up and/or safely distant—don't be shy. I'd love to see you.

Click any image to enlarge.