A couple of weeks ago, I was putting dishes away or maybe loading the dishwasher. I don’t even remember now, but I somehow managed to hit the top side of my left foot on the corner of the dishwasher door as it lay open. It stung. I likely cursed, maybe out loud or maybe under my breath, depending on how the rest of the day had gone, and I moved on to the next thing. Then, a few days later, I looked down and the entire top of my foot was bruised. I felt medical-ick hypochondria wash over me. Well, that can’t be good, I thought. My significantly-less-hypochondriac other half said, “Feet have no fat to pad an injury. They’re just bones and nerves. It’s fine.”
A couple more days went by, and the black and blue became that weird healing chartreuse, with just a line of dark bruising at my toes. And I thought, “Well that can’t be good.” “You probably bruised the bone,” my partner said, “It’ll take a while to heal.” Healing often takes way longer than I anticipate. There are things from 2002 that I’m still processing. Meanwhile, I have been wearing only ballet flats that don’t put pressure on the top of my foot (not ideal footwear for January and February), but any shoe with a tongue put its seam in the worst possible spot, and just forget a shoe with any style and or shape. And so, all flats, all the time.
Then I started to feel slightly off, once every so often. Dizzy. A little too hot and prickly around my core. It’s probably a blood clot, I figured, sanguine. You know, the kind in your foot that mostly affects your core and vision for ten minutes every 5-9 days.
One of the best things about me is that my ability to worry endlessly is only balanced by my willingness to put my head in the sand when, in fact, I’m truly – reasonably or not – concerned. “You’re stressed out from work, from raising two teenagers, from watching the news,” I said, to me, out loud. However, multiple friends and my partner said, “The foot thing is nothing, but seriously, feeling dizzy and tingly around the edges is not normal.” They pushed for a doctor’s appointment (for which I love and appreciate them). In the week that it took to get into that appointment, I lived my best life. I walked the dog on extra long routes. I spent time just breathing. I took my blood pressure every day. I put a moratorium on the near-daily glass of wine or cocktail that has become routine. (It’s almost like I already know the things that would make me a better, healthier version of myself.)
I went to the doctor. She did the doctor things and pronounced me apparently, seemingly healthy. She used the phrase “benign transient symptoms” and said that she wanted me to continue monitoring how often I was feeling off, call the office once a week with my findings (unless things suddenly got really weird), but that nothing I had described was throwing any panic switches for her. I asked her if it could be related to the foot injury somehow, but she said she didn’t think so… that feet have no fat and are all bones and nerves. “It will just take a while to heal; wear comfortable shoes.” (Hmm. Yes, noted.)
My daughter’s 14th birthday is this week; we were supposed to have a party with just her uncle and her almost-uncle and our immediate family, which is what she asked for last year, too. She chose a theme (as we do) and a birthday menu that was tailorable for my gluten free and her almost-uncle’s vegetarianism. She’s a good kid. But Saturday morning, we were informed of a second-degree COVID contact. No one’s fault, just one of those things during life in an endemic. We have home tests, but it seemed like the window was just too short for a test to be meaningful. So, like many other times and events in the last couple of years, we switched to Zoom.
It was frustrating – it seemed like we had asked for so little. We hadn’t planned a dozen friends and a pony and a bouncy house. But at this point, any plan at any time can fall victim to life as we know it. It is what it is. Grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change. But still, watching the little disappointments add up for our children, watching them rally, and rally again, hurts our collective mama hearts.
Mostly I’m just so tired.
I haven’t been in my 40s with two teenage children before, so maybe this is just what tired is. I don’t really know different. I try to think about if I had been born in 1900. If I had been 14 when WWI started. And then 39 when WWII started, probably with a 14-year-old of my own. And then in my 60s and 70s, my grandchildren were sucked into Vietnam. I can’t really imagine that. I can’t imagine the constant state of anxiety, throughout decades. I like to think that we’re on the downslope of all of this, even if we’re not.
But if I had been born in 1900, I think about turning the radio on for the evening news to hear the day’s events. To read the paper, black newsprint on my fingers, and then putting it down to make dinner. Contrast with today, my wrist buzzes with notifications. It’s a prison of my own making, really. The news is accessible 24/7, and headlines push their way in. Sometimes work is so busy that I don’t have time to keep up with current events, and honestly, even though long days arriving and leaving in the dark feel weighty, and even though I feel like I’m failing home life with my around-the-world take-out routine (Thai, Cuban, Indian, Japanese, oh look toasted sandwiches at home), it’s nice to be in a news-less bubble, even if just occasionally.
Recently, our Denver suburb has been in the news (at least locally) because our newly elected school board (who ran on a largely anti-mask platform with a side of archetypal dog-whistling thrown in) gathered its like-minded members (the 4, of the 4-3 divide) to deliver a private threat to our Superintendent. Resign or be fired (he did not resign). The 4 were given a heads up about open meeting laws they had broken, and so they quickly threw together an open meeting, with no public comment allowed, to officially fire the 26-year veteran who had supported masks.
I was – am – irate. I am frustrated. Disappointed. But mostly so, so tired. I admit that in part, I’m frustrated because I voted for the 3, not the 4. My side lost. I have a hard time understanding many of my fellow Americans these days. And I’m sure, they, me. But if an open coup at the United States Capitol is not enough to unite a nation toward a new direction, what chance does a community violation of Sunshine Laws have?
But. But. More than 1000 teachers called in sick on Thursday to protest the board’s actions. The community showed up en masse to rally on a day where the high did not break 20 degrees. Students are planning a walk-out to show their feelings about not only the Superintendent’s firing but also, and perhaps more pointedly for them, the new board’s dismantling of the District’s equity policy. As my 15-year-old said, “How can you concentrate on academics if you’re afraid of being bullied for who you are?”
Options still feel limited. The board’s decision can’t be undone. In the midst of so much uncertainty and upheaval, our school district will doubtless be losing teachers (1000+ teachers very clearly voiced their displeasure just this week, undoubtedly some of them will leave) as a Superintendent of the new board’s choosing is enstated. At least we know for sure that they only serve at the board’s pleasure, not their own.
I think about being born in 1900, but I wasn’t. I was born now (well, a few years back but of this era, and well before 1900!). I was born in an era of current events buzzing on my wrist and real-time news and a drumbeat of divisiveness. I am so, so tired of being disappointed and angry. I’m tired of watching my children’s disappointment, which is prolonged because the pandemic is prolonged, because so many people would rather take ivermectin than a vaccine.
I have a hard time distinguishing what happened yesterday and what happened in, say, August 2020. Was that two months ago, or two years ago? I know I need to figure out how to parent through the disappointments of the 2020s, just as parents did in 1914 and 1934. But I’m flying blind here. Hopefully I get more right than wrong.
I’ve had a few weird health and wellness episodes, but I can mostly text my brother a little obsessively for a few weeks and get through those. My doctor remains fairly convinced of my health and resiliency. But I think I understand now that my bruised foot is really the better allegory for February 2022. There’s just no padding to absorb the blows. It’s just bone and nerve and a lingering tenderness, even as we get on with it, even as we wear comfortable footwear – or leggings, whatever – and go about another day.
My daughter turns 14 this week regardless of whether she was able to hug her uncle in person over cake. And she’ll be okay. Whatever doesn’t kill you, they say and it’s probably true, even if we’re tired of proving it. We’re a little bruised, bone bruised even perhaps, but still out there in the cold on a 16-degree day, believing that no matter what, it’s still worth showing up. Still rescheduling birthdays with Zoom meetings with the people we love most, still singing happy birthday.
Over Christmas, our family went to Cabo San Lucas. We (I) sweated the return COVID test requirement a little, but it turned out fine. We watched whales sound and rode horses on the beach and watched the sun rise over the ocean and ate fresh seafood and papaya. We family’d. Yes, we’re tired and a little bruised. Our nerves are singing. We’re frustrated, angry and literally (literally!) vibrating with news and opinions and reminders to Move! and Breathe! But we’re still here and even on the hardest days, we’re showing up for the sunrise.
