Five years out, y’all.
March 12, 2016. Exactly five years ago, I was admitted and intubated.
March is weird, and it has been a rough five years.
Repeatedly, I was told ARDS survivors take five years to return to work. FIVE! I said, “Nope, not me! I’m not going to take THAT long.” Just another time I was royally wrong.
One year post-coma, I was let go from my job. Eeek, that one stung.
Two years post-coma, Tony got laid off. Salt on an open wound.
Three years post-coma, we started to heal. I was learning to just be still… sei ruhig.
Four years post-coma, a former boss called and asked me to come work for her. Hope. Duty. Value. Identity. Belonging. Worthiness. Proof. And then what? COVID? Record scratch.
Five years post-coma, and here we are. I have been isolated in quarantine for one year exactly today because I am high-risk for COVID-19.
There was a time during the first three years post-intubation when I did not live on the surface. I lived in the deep—below, looking up to the distorted sunlight, being knocked down by wave after wave. Grief, due to these significant losses, took me to a new low. I was going to have to dig, swim, scratch, fight, and climb myself out. I wanted to see the sunlight without it being so fogged and warped. I was still alive, and I knew that, but barely. I was not sure what any of that was going to look like, but I knew by now I just needed rest.
In my journey toward the later part of these five years, I decided not to put so much effort into returning to the way things were before the coma. I needed to take time to figure out what this new future was going to look like. I decided I no longer had anything to prove.
Now…
Oh, I’ve rested. And rested. But also, sadly, I have hit trigger after trigger from being isolated. I have been reminded that I lost my job. Reminded that my family lives 300 miles away. Reminded I’m high-risk after the coma. Reminded that my mom is gone and I’ve been alone in this without her. My grandpa passed, and I realized what a privilege it is to be able to say goodbye.
Quarantine has been a slap in the face for dealing with shit I just otherwise didn’t want to deal with. I’ve had to do nothing but be calm in my thoughts. I have had to just be in the quiet parts of life, the in-between. With time, slowly, I began to realize this is exactly what I was supposed to be doing. When you sit still long enough, you can finally hear.
Being still. Still in my thoughts, still in my wounds, silent in my mind before I could move forward was right where I needed to be. Walt Disney said, “… keep moving forward.” I always loved that quote from him. But I was doing myself a major disservice by insisting I keep moving forward. In German, sei ruhig means “be still” or “be calm.”
I’m patiently waiting my turn for a vaccine, but as the general population, that timeline is still a bit of a mystery. Until then, we are being just as cautious as day one. I refuse to be intubated again.
I have a plan for a post-COVID quarantine tour: Cincinnati, Columbus, Youngstown, Virginia, Fenwick Island, Houston, Vegas, Alaska, New Zealand, Greece. I’m dreaming big here. I know when I begin this tour, it will be the new me, with new goals, new memories with new nieces and nephews, stronger bonds with old friends, and more time with my wonderful, beautiful, steadfast family.
It’s been hard. Hard on everyone—on Enzo, on my best friends, really hard on our grandparents, hard on our schools and our students. It’s been a hard time. It’s been tough on everyone. We have suffered a collective grief—a group loss of time, lives, money, jobs, homes, and identities.
In a previous post, I reflected on “How Long Will It Take To Heal?” and I have learned there is no timeline on healing. It takes however long it takes. It’s different for everyone. Loss is hard. As Glennon Doyle has so inspiringly pointed out to us, “We can do hard things.”
Love,
Amanda