3 years and counting

This week my Daddeo and I went to an event by the Durham Public Schools Hub Farm. We heard ‘vegetable plants’ and translated it to ‘wanna go?’. The answer is always yes from me. It was an incredibly lovely event on a gorgeous March day. After gathering up our plants, we walked around the farm and walked past a table set up by the Durham Public Health Department on our way out. They were giving away free recipes we could make with our veggies, and I introduced myself to one of the employees. I told her I was an epidemiologist and then stumbled over my words like a champ, just trying to tell her thank you for all the work they’ve been doing during the pandemic. Then I had to stop because I felt a lump in my throat. I stumbled through a good bye and probably said I love you (because I’m awkward like that when trying not to cry…or always). I got in my car to drive home. And just. Cried.

The tears caught me off guard too. This week in general has been really teary for me. Tender. Raw. Angry. Sad. Resolved. Last night, I finally figured out why. Our bodies have a way of remembering, of keeping the score, of telling us something. This week, it was telling me something with the tears. It happened this week in the kitchen when I was loading the dishwasher, and then saw a picture of myself from that exact day a year ago. That day I wasn’t able to load the dishwasher or turn the lights on in the kitchen or cut an onion (I tried to do that while cooking dinner a year ago and it sent me to bed in immense pain for weeks). The picture of me was barely smiling (because it hurt to smile too much) with unwashed hair (because I needed help doing that for months) and outside with my family. A year ago, my body had kept the score for the previous 2 years and had buckled under threats to myself and my family, pictures of guns sent to me and unimaginable phrases about my children. From people I knew in real life who I went to church with. Awful messages from people who attended my children’s baby showers. Harrassment from leaders of my faith. This week, those messages and memories of fear and anger have come back in weird ways but thankfully don’t put me in the ground like they used to. This year, I’m learning to put them in the ground as much as I can. For me, that means I dig in my garden, hard, praying prayers that I only want the God of Hagar to hear (check out Genesis 16 for that reference). And then giving my new veggies the first drink of water with my tears.

I think my body was remembering this - Today is three years since the pandemic was officially declared a pandemic by the WHO. Three years is only 1,095 days. But, it’s a lifetime for some of us, isn’t it?

It’s the before times. Before the pandemic. Before you lost someone to COVID-19. Before you lost most of your income because you had to pay for a huge ER bill. Before the fear or anxiety of being a grocery store worker or other front line worker who had to go to work to feed your children. Before I lost my church, great friends and family, and a foundation I had built for 40 years. I lost several colleagues in Africa who died from COVID before they could get access to vaccines, months and months after those vaccines were available in the US. Because privileged countries and leaders like Trump made the selfish decision to gobble up vaccines and not share. And then turn against those vaccines in the name of god (I intentionally left ‘god’ uncapitalized because for the life of me, I can’t see how my God would be anti-vax.) That wasn’t my God. That was idolatry. The idolatry of Christian nationalism which reverberated through the world. And people died. Disentangling that is for another post, but not this one reserved to make space for those affected by the idolatry. At least 6 million who have died. Other estimates suggest the true toll is 18 million. My guess is it’s on the upper end, with millions more affected.

And don’t try to tell me the pandemic is over. I will send that to the dirt as quick as my compost. The ones who have been affected the most (financially, physically, emotionally) are usually on the margins and knows it not over because they continue to live it. Hundreds of you have shared your sacred stories with me of not being able to be with your loved ones as they couldn’t breathe in the ICU. Or doing everything you possibly can to protect your high risk child (you’re still doing that). Or being high risk and knowing that treatment options are dwindling when new variants pop up. Or having long COVID and have lost your job, your health, and friends. Or living with trauma of whatever life gave you the last three years.

Before, Before, Before.

But now we are in the after. Although we might be in the ‘after’ of the acute pandemic, the real after-effects will continue for years. The healing might last that long too, I reckon.

So at this three year mark. We honor you, those of you living in the after but deeply affected by the past 1,095 days. We hold space for you to grieve, to cry, to let your story be the one heard loud and clear. Or gently and tender. It’s up to you, however you want to share it. To know the pandemic isn’t over with you. To see what has happened correctly, not by how Fox News warps reality into privilege, but really see the truth. To let you know that there are those of us who will stop and stoop down to care, to tend, to see, and to hold.

And you know what? I think that group of carers is growing stronger and stronger. None of us will be the same, will we? I won’t. I’m not. But, I do know that I’m stronger, more firm and resolute in my belief in equity and solidarity, a bit snarkier, and much quicker at blocking-deleting-shushing. I bet you are too. We have better things to do and fields of goodness to sow and reap. Together.

I hope that today you can take space to do what you need to take into account the lifetime of three years. Because tomorrow will be 1,096 days and probably not much different as we walk steadily and slowly towards the next day and then the next.

For me, I’m planting those veggies in the earth with my son today along with tears I’m already crying. And thinking of you as I do.

You are seen by thousands of us who still care and remember. And you betcha we are a strong group of people, forged in fire by the last three years with you. And came out with embers still hot on our clothes, but wells of deep compassion and strength to quench it.

-Emily