Day #288 Writing Through COVID-19: Happy New Year

My son's girlfriend Maria, a pediatric emergency nurse, received her vaccine last week, as did my brother-in-law, a gastroenterologist. They both reported sore arms. They both said the discomfort was less than for a flu shot. 
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Tuesday brought SW Iowa our first real snow. This delivered a lovely blanket of hygge: fuzzy socks, scented candles, wonderland views through the snow-crystal windows. 

This COVID year should have dampened my enthusiasm for holing up on a snow day. But it hasn't. I loved the extremes of cozy and energized today. I alternated snuggling in to read of a couple of really good books* with heart-pounding shoveling to clear the walks for my favorite person (the UPS man). 
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I also graded Journalism final projects (not done yet...) and turned my eye to second semester. 

I do love a new start.
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It's New Year's Eve now. This afternoon Ken, an active member of our church community, died of the COVID he'd battled for the past two weeks. 

I have not attended an in-person church service since March. Dan has gone twice this fall, and both times Ken was there, ushering, greeting the scaled-down, masked congregation.
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I pulled out the church photo directories tonight in an effort to place when Ken and his wife had moved back to Atlantic. 

As we flipped through the photos, we slipped back in time. 

Here we are 30.5 years ago. 

Please excuse (or clap for) my hair.

I was half the age I am today. We had only three of our (eventual) six children. 

In my best-case scenario, this shot captures me at 1/3 of my life. 

The scary thing is that it only took an eye blink to move from that photo to now. 
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I called my dad this evening to play Bridge. He politely declined, explaining that he and my mom were reading a book together and wanted to finish it tonight. (Is there a deadline?) Always the night owl, he said he planned to stay up to midnight and greet 2021.

Me? 

Dan and I are watching the Pete Souza documentary. He's in the recliner. I'm on the couch. I'm eating popcorn. We hope to stay awake until 10. 

Happy New Year.
Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

* The Mothers and Anxious People

Day #287 Writing Through COVID-19: Happy Birthday?

I am 61. Happy Birthday to me.

I've long felt ambiguous about birthdays. They have too often left me sad, anxious, or irritable. It's a weird day of taking center stage, even if I most need to hide behind the curtain. 

I've had my feelings hurt on my birthday. For example, when I turned 13 my parents gave me a watch (expected, they'd given my older sisters the same on their 13th birthdays) and a hairbrush. A hairbrush?
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I was an angry middle child. Years later I raised my own angry middle child. Even though I had myself lived in my parents' blindspot, I repeated their oversights. As long as child #3 was doing okay, I turned my focus to the oldest (who was breaking new ground) or the baby (who had so many needs). 

At the time, I was grateful my middle child was thriving (well, surviving?) while everyone else budged to the head of the line with urgent needs. Big families have their own set of positives, but "enough attention" isn't one of them.
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Whoa. Where did that come from? 

Maybe uncertain birthday emotions.

But here's the good news: At 61, I have birthdays figured out. 

1) Take the reins. I don't wait around for friends to contact me. Instead, last week I set up a morning Zoom coffee with my Atlantic friends. Our friendships go back 35 years of raising children together.

Next, I sent invites for an evening Zoom with English-teacher friends. 

In the middle, I organized a 20-minute party with my kids. 

I can throw a party, so I did. I had a blast (three blasts).

2) Treat yourself. I made a frozen sausage pizza for lunch (my favorite) and then ate the leftovers for supper. Dan didn't (dare) complain--perhaps because he lived with me during the years I was less at peace with birthdays.

3) Let it go. Birthdays demand some level of reflection, but at 61 I know that it's better to save the heavy stuff for a less emotional day. I suggest gliding through the birthday and taking stock on, say, Groundhog's Day?
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My parents called tonight while I was on the Zoom meeting with my kids. They left a voicemail: the "Happy Birthday" duet they've sung to me for years.

When I called back, we shared a warm exchange. Afterward, I told Dan that their annual birthday call meant a lot to me this year. They'd lived with me. We'd re-learned each other. We'd forgiven each other. 

For a middle child, this matters.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Day #285 Writing Through COVID-19: Beginnings Are Risky

Our school's National Honor Society chapter hosted a blood drive at the community center today. That nudged me to take a shower before noon. 

While in town, I picked up a 25-foot drain auger, nearly twice as long as the one that failed to fix the sink clog last night. I face-timed with Dan while standing in the plumbing aisle of Orscheln's, debating which snakey thing was most likely to release us from the clutches of the clog and return us to blissful days of NOT thinking about sinks.
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It took a few tries, but at 1:33-ish, Dan shouted to me in the garage where I manned the hose faucet: "It worked!"
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We spent the next minutes in a self-congratulatory running of the faucet, just because we COULD.

Later Dan circled back to the clog, giving me a play-by-play of the drain, the attempts, the failures, our eventual hard-fought success.

"This sounds like the post-game re-hash," I said. 

It was. 

We'd won in double overtime.
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As Dan discoursed on plumbing today, he said something that actually gave me pause. The drain problem was like so much of his work to keep the farm going. A job looks like it will take 20 minutes, and sometimes it does. But just as often it morphs into a bigger project, hours sucked into the rabbit hole. There are times this uncertainty can make a farmer (or a writer, or a student) back away from even starting a project.

Beginning anything is a risk.
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Speaking of beginnings:

Adrienne sent me her 2021 resolutions today. She also sent copies of our resolution exchanges in 2005 and 2010, which looked TOO similar to our 2021 resolutions! 

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison 

Rex is our son Harrison's coonhound. Her kennel is in the garage, and she only comes into the house (uninvited) to lick the butter. While we worked on the sink, we left the house-garage door ajar to accommodate the garden hose. Rex saw this as an invitation to join the excitement.

Day #284 Writing Through COVID-19: Resolved

My favorite after-Christmas activity is drafting New Year's resolutions with my sister Adrienne. Like many traditions, we just did it, and after a few years it became "what we do." 

Our resolutions don't change much from year to year. We vow to declutter our lives, be more consistent in exercise and thank-you-note writing. We name the big projects we want to tackle. 

Next, we share lists, then snag a few of each other's good ideas for our own. 

For the first two weeks in January, we call to report our progress! 

We are both optimists.
We are both unrealistic.
We are both inspired by a good LIST! 
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My rough draft this morning included using my planner more consistently, writing more poems, making time for piano, staying current with my grading.

YAWN! My resolutions are boring even to me as I type them tonight. But I love the idea of RESOLVE: to try to do better. If I didn't believe in this, I wouldn't be a teacher.
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After supper tonight, I noticed standing water in the sink. I ran the garbage disposal, but the backup only gurgled nastily.

In the past 24 hours, Dan and I fixed my lamp and the ice-maker together. We also cleaned the garage. This is a dangerous increase over our fragile fix-it-together time. 

But it's Saturday night. Who doesn't want to spend a couple of hours unclogging a drain?
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We moved quickly from an attempt at plunging, to removing the trap (or whatever). We used the snakey-thing, then a garden hose, and then (because all farmers are Red-Green at heart), Dan connected a worn-out washing machine hose to the garden hose...Oh NEVER MIND. A picture is worth 1000 words: 

A notable moment was when Dan turned to me and asked, "What did you put down the drain?"

He said it as if the entire problem was based on my deliberate misuse of the kitchen sink. "Nothing!" I snapped, then later thought I should have said Golf balls and Silly-Putty! Motor oil and walnut shells! Plaster-of-Paris and Gorilla Glue!
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When Dan headed into Walmart to get additional drain-declogging supplies an hour ago, I cleaned up our pathetic plumber mess, then washed the supper dishes in the laundry-room sink. I then put on pajamas and sat down to write. 
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Dan is home now. He poured the (doubtful) draining agent into the pipe and we're now waiting the required 15 minutes before flushing it. 

Enough.
Be well.
Write.
Resolve.

Allison

Day #283 Writing Through COVID-19: Christmas for Two

It's been two years now since I've had what felt like a normal Christmas.

Last year Dan and I were en route to visit Max and Andrea in New Zealand. The plane delay in Phoenix caused a domino effect that turned an already  27-hour journey into a 3-day travel nightmare with airlines stowing us first in L.A. and then in Auckland on Christmas itself. When we finally arrived in Taranaki, our luggage was days behind us. I wore Andrea's biggest sweat pants until our suitcases caught up with us three days later. 

This year...well, you know. 
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A couple of weeks ago I toyed with the idea of hanging stockings for Dan and myself. But that would have required me to move the TV off the cedar chest to get to the stockings. And then to shop for do-dads neither of us needs. And then to fill the stockings. And then to feel slightly disappointed that Dan didn't appreciate my holiday effort. 

So I skipped the stockings. 

Tonight I asked Dan if he noticed we didn't have stockings.

"I did!" he laughed, "I was going to say something, but I didn't want you to think I was criticizing you."

(Smart guy. But still, the idea of planning/filling stockings himself is light-years off his radar.)

"What did you want in your stocking?" I asked.

"The usual," he said.

The usual is work gloves, M&Ms, and maybe on a good year, a magnetic flashlight.
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I've treated 2020 as a one-off. But it might, in fact, be a peek at the next new normal. 

Dan and I spent our first 34 Christmases together surrounded by (initally) extended family, (and then) our own over-flowing offspring, (and recently) our rolling-stone children not yet settled in their own adult lives. All of this has involved lots of wrapping and carols and lights and stockings (and brutal Christmas Eve church services). 
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This year I opted for a low-energy holiday. I bought a garland for the mantel instead of a tree. (Two days ago Dan asked me why we didn't have a tree.) I tossed the holiday throw-rugs down, but I skipped the outdoor lighting. I minimized our holiday meal, cooking a small ham, no baked grits, no pie.

In some ways, it felt freeing to shrug off the innumerable expectations shouldered by the (usually female) household holiday magicians. 

But I also have to accept that Dan and I may have, if lucky, 25 years alone/together before we out! out! our brief candles. 

What does Christmas for two even look like? I want to think about this and make it intentional instead of reactionary in the years to come.

Maybe I'll hang stockings. Maybe I'll ask Dan to fill them.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Wolf Hoegh

Day #282 Writing Through COVID-19: Holidays Are Hard (with or without COVID)

Christmas Eve.

All six of our kids plus Dan's mom Zoomed as our holiday event an hour ago. Brigham's stepsons provided the music: Jack played carols and Nu er det jul igen on his saxophone. Colin marched across the living room while playing his trombone: "London Bridges" with a solid slide at the end.

We opened small gifts, including what has become a 3-year tradition: my kids made a calendar with photos from the past year, including: 

Max and Stuart on the NZ beach, January 2020
Palmer with her Unified basketball team
Brigham and two cats peeking from the window
Cameron marching in a BLM protest
Stuart climbing with Robin
Harrison and dog Waylon in the corn
Eloise and Mia welcoming John home from deployment
Palmer and Dan riding (masked) in the pickup
WOLF! in his daddy's arms
Harvest under #IowaSky
Brigham delivering groceries to food-insecure Cass County households in masked front-door drops
Eloise's dog Mia wearing a snazzy sweater
Wolf sitting in his Bumbo
Stuart with his dog Nali after limiting on pheasants
Precious Wolf

As we closed out of Zoom and I hung the 2021 calendar on the wall, I told Dan how much I love my dear and beautiful children. He grunted in a way that I'll accept as agreement. 
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Holidays are always imperfect. Actually, all our days are imperfect. But we hold holidays up to impossible expectations. 

Earlier today as I talked to Palmer about this, I recalled the Christmas of 1994. Dan and I were in the balcony (because we arrived late) for the Christmas Eve church service with our children ages 9, 7, 4, 2, 3 months and 3 months.

I only remember flashed images: several children melting in hot and itchy sweaters on the pews; Dan hissing that we needed to leave NOW; me burning with fury as I insisted we would NOT leave (DAMN IT!) until we'd experienced the candle-lit "Silent Night" that signified full Christmas Eve SUCCESS.

We endured. I got my God-forsaken service. I hated everyone.

Five months later I told my family physician I was losing it. He patronized me, telling me to get some exercise. 

In retrospect, I'm angry he didn't hear my cry for help. It took another 10 years before a (female!) physician recognized what I was saying: I was depressed, and it expressed itself in uncontrolled irritably. 

One thing positive that came out of the initial misdiagnosis was that I took lessons and learned to swim.
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Life does an awful job at foreshadowing, but it offers interesting opportunities to look back and identify themes and connecting plot lines. 

Enough.
Be well.
Write.
And Merry Christmas.

Allison 

Day #281 Writing Through COVID-19: This and That

Yesterday was the final day of the semester. We managed to stay in school and (as far as I know) did not lose any students or staff to COVID.

We did, however, lose at least one retired educator, several students' grandparents, and at least two high-school faculty members' dads. 

An email from our church asked for prayers for a vibrant member who was intubated and transported to Des Moines today. A Facebook post tells me an educator (two years younger than I) in my hometown was killed by COVID Sunday.
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Yesterday as I put my signature to a mid-term grad's sign-out sheet, I asked her if she'd ordered a yearbook. This young woman is living on her own, basically out of her car. Her mantra is "I don't really need that."

As soon as the question slipped from my lips, I realized my mistake. I told her a community member had offered to donate a yearbook to a student who may want on but needed a $$ boost. "That would be nice," she said.
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Last night I played Bridge with my dad via Zoom. Afterward, I asked him to call Mom over so I could see her. I told her about the student who saw me playing carols on my accordion in the hall between classes and asked if she could bring her violin and play with me. We had such fun and are planning to play some love songs around Valentine's Day.

My mother said, "I'm so glad you're a teacher." 

Me too.
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Today a package arrived from Katz's Deli in NYC, sent from my daughter who lived in the city for seven years. (She's now in Florida, by way of Spain.) The box contained all the fixings for Reuben sandwiches:  pastrami tasting fresh off the slicer, Katz's own Russian sauce, sauerkraut, rye bread, Swiss cheese, and dill pickles. 

Dan and I feasted. As we (over)stuffed our happy faces, we recounted my (14?) and his (2) trips to the Big Apple during our daughter's 20-somethings. The conversation segued into our regrets, our missed chances, our hopes to do better. As it should.

Thank you, dear daughter, for a meal that fed us on many levels. 

Enough.
Be Well.
Write.

Allison

Day #278 Writing Through COVID-19: Part III

My parents spent the first 137 days of the COVID-19 lockdown here on Eagle Ave.  

We are now on day 278.

In other words, Lee and Meredith have now been back at Friendship Haven for a few days longer than they lived here with me. 
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Time is nebulous.

The 4.5 months with my parents defined Chapter I of the pandemic for me. Years from now, when I hear "COVID" or "2020," I'll think of my parents blowing bubbles on my lawn. 

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The second stretch of this experience has been a blur of Return to Learn. Since August, my struggle has been to find a balance between my physical health/safety and working face-to-face with students. Part II also saw COVID come to Cass County. Thirty-eight people in our small (12,000) county have died. I've known several personally. 

I am heading into winter break now (tomorrow is the last day of the semester); the distribution of a vaccine has begun.

It feels like I'm moving into COVID-19: Part III.
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On March 18, I was driving in a blinding fog. I could barely see the windshield wipers, let alone the road ahead.

I told myself to just keep watching and record it. 

Some days I've done this better than others.

Recording the experience is still my purpose.
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Part III begins with a sad reckoning: My parents have slipped back into care-center mode. Although I do play Bridge with my dad a couple of times a week, and I try to remember to ask him to bring my mom into view of our screen, our relationship cannot sustain the authenticity of last summer.

My mom is sweet and smiling and laughs when I tell her of an event that doesn't require her to remember anything herself. Then she wanders out of view.

Even as last summer slips from view, I hold tight to the gift I was given in the months from March to August: a chance to re-frame my relationship with my parents. 

I don't wish a pandemic on anyone. But if it brings you into healing with those you love, that's a silver lining. 
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I will turn 61 in eight days. 
A student brought me a gift today: a book of accordion Christmas Carols!

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Enjoy my Yearbook kids:

  

Day #276 Writing Through COVID-19: Holiday in COVID

We are now into the 40th week of pandemic living. What does it look like?

This morning my daughter flew on a near-empty plane from Denver to Utah, where she'll spend the holiday with her twin brothers. This was the first flight for any of my family since February.

Harrison is working ski patrol at Sundance, and Stuart will roll in from Montana on the 23rd. I voted thumbs-down on this meetup during a pandemic, but no one asked for (or listened to) my vote. They're adults. They've been on the responsible end of the COVID-safety continuum. They'll be around each other, but mostly outside. And the view is fabulous. 

We skied as a family for years. Other than the impossible 10-hour drives to and from Colorado (with eight people in a Suburban, there is 0% chance all will be content at any given moment), it was the perfect vacation for us because we could spread out across a mountain and physically exhaust ourselves.

One morning as Dan and I were bundling up our (too many) children in the locker room, I saw two men, bearded identical twins, who took note of my own pair of look-alikes. As we chatted, they said they no longer lived in the same state, but met up each winter to ski. I remember thinking how cool it'd be if my sons had that type of friendship in years to come. And they do. And their sister is with them. I will savor their videos and photos this week as my vicarious holiday.

Polly en route to Utah!

We'll have a family Zoom party on Dec. 24, and I'll play accordion carols with my mother-in-law on Christmas day. But we won't attend Christmas Eve church services. Dan and I agreed that a Christmas dinner with all the fixings is not what we need as we're trying to keep COVID-sedentary winter bodies from overflowing the waistbands. 

I asked my niece, a florist, to make a garland for the mantel. It is gorgeous and gives us a scent of pine without...the tree. 

I put out holiday floor rugs and dishtowels. I might still hang the stockings (or not). 

This makes me want to gather my whole brood here on the farm in 2021. Even without COVID, we are rarely all together. The last time was nearly two years for Max and Andrea's wedding. But if the vaccine can allow us all to travel again, it will be my 2021 goal. 

Harrison on the lift.
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The rest of my day was filled with stay-put activities, such as sending my weekly emails to parents and reading a new book. The afternoon's accordion practice with my mother-in-law was a grueling hour of our decidedly unmusical "Oh, Little-Town-of-Bethlehem." 

But time spent making music is immersive. We forget we are distanced across the room, our faces moist behind our masks.

Tonight Dan and I are rattling alone in the house. I am looking toward the light at the end of this tunnel. I'm at mile 19 of the 26-mile marathon. 

You?

Enough.

Be well.

Write.

Allison

Day #274 Writing Through COVID-19: A Thread (hanging by)

Actually, it hasn't been a bad week. So why do I feel so fragile?

The blog entry I drafted Wednesday night sounded fussy and petulant. I abandoned it. 

Last night, after spending too long trying to resuscitate Wednesday's blithering, I gave up.
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I am coming to the close of the semester. 

Notably, I am still loving all seven of the classes I teach.

Most years I am in break-up mode with a least a few classes at this point! 

Let's call this a win.
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How can I record this strangest of times? When I type out the COVID numbers, I feel like an automaton. When I write about the classroom, I vacillate between Pollyanna rah-rah and let's-all-give-it-up. 

Is it possible to be living authentically in contradicting thoughts and spaces?
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Friday morning now: Monday-Friday-Monday-Friday my husband and I often say to each other as weeks fly by. 

I have never wanted to wish my life away. That is still true. 

But I'm oh so tempted to wish away these weeks/months of sameness before the world can access the vaccine and emerge from our year of hibernation.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Mr. Wolf Hoegh

Day #270 Writing Through COVID-19: What I've Learned

Ah, weekend.

It snowed Friday night, which compelled me to hygge in. 

My central event of Saturday was Zooming for an Oklahoma State University oral history project recording interviews with teacher-writers about our COVID experiences. 

As I talked with the interviewer, I distilled the past nine months into my core experiences:

~ Teaching during the final quarter of the 2020 school year.

~ Reuniting with my parents during their 4.5 months living in my basement.

~ Running as physical and emotional therapy.

~ Writing as a way to focus my attention.
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The interview invited me to stand back and note how the past nine months have impacted both my teaching and my attitude toward teaching. 

These were my takeaways:

1) During the optional online learning last spring, my fellow English teachers and I co-taught a Zoom class each day. For eight weeks, we rotated lead-teacher responsibilities and otherwise participated in the reading, writing, and discussion as members of the class. The experience gave us an appreciation of each other's strengths and methods. In my 25 years of teaching, last spring was the best collaborative teaching experience I've had. As a result, I am closer to my colleagues this year, and I am a better teacher. Schools should prioritize co-teaching opportunities. 

2) Students need the grace to learn what they need to learn. As grades and syllabi were tossed out last spring, we were freed to slow down and meet kids where they were at. I'll admit that most AHS students did not participate in our (optional!) daily English Lockdown class. But those who did formed a close-knit circle of learners. They comprised all four grades and represented a range of language dexterity; nevertheless, they shared their ideas and listened to each other as equals--which indeed they were. It was beautiful. 

3) I may have overvalued my importance. This takeaway comes from a fact embedded in the previous paragraph: most kids, given their druthers, did not voluntarily show up to spend 45 minutes talking about poems and language and writing each day. I get it. But with that realization comes a freeing feeling: maybe I can ease up on myself. 

In some ways, I hate to admit this. I'm probably a good teacher because I've constantly told myself that what I do MATTERS. To now say it might not matter all that much feels like sacrilege. 

But recognizing this might also be an opportunity for personal growth. 
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Tomorrow I'll greet my students for the final full week of the semester. 

My left eye is still red and uncooperative. 

I'll be wearing a ridiculous outfit of white leggings topped with a knee-length white dress shirt to show my Winter Spirit.  

I'll wear a mask.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Wolf's first day practicing in his high chair! 

Day #268 Writing Through COVID-19: Back to Class

My poor painful peeper made it through a full day of teaching! 

I greeted each class with full disclosure: my eye can focus up close, but when I shift my glance across varying distances, I see double in a wobbly, disorienting way. (Also, if you get close enough to look me in the eye, prepare to be permanently scarred!)

Strangely, my hearing was also impacted by my weakened eyesight today. I kept asking students to repeat themselves, and louder. It felt as if I had a head cold, all sensory input slowed and fogged.
---------------------------

That said, it was a joy to spend the day reconnecting with my students! Mia told me about pinning her first four wrestling opponents. Andrew hobbled in on crutches and explained that he had dropped a weight on his foot and broken his toe. Mary, Korbin, and Belle had finished their books. Dante is excited about his first debate tournament. 

As my students bubble forth with their news, I am convinced (again) that I have the best job in the world: I am paid to reinforce optimism.
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Last night I learned that a beautiful woman in our Atlantic community is in severe COVID distress in an Omaha hospital. The news of her serious condition hit me hard. Our lives overlapped as we raised same-aged children. She is, in her early 60s, the picture of health: vibrant, athletic, strong. That she is now intubated in a city hospital, where her husband cannot even be at her side, stabs me with the unrelenting cruelty of this virus. 
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My husband and I are watching an Iowa v. Iowa State basketball game as I blog tonight. The bleachers are empty.  The coaches are masked--now unmasked--now masked again. So much of our efforts to sustain regularity in our lives (like sports) crashes against efforts to manage the pandemic. 
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Day after day, I keep blogging. I told myself I would, so I do. 

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Meet the beautiful Kiwi babies as they convene for
an antenatal coffee! Can you spot the Wolf?
He's hiding in the camo! <3

Allison

Day #267 Writing Through COVID-19: Newsworthy

The top four stories on my newsfeed last night:

• "Some U.S. hospitals near ICU capacity as coronavirus numbers reach all-time highs" (CNN)
• "Infected after 5 minutes, from 20 feet away: South Korea study shows indoor virus spread" (L.A. Times)
• "As COVID-19 vaccines roll out, states to determine who gets shots first" (Wall Street Journal)
• "House approves one-week spending bill to allow time for stimulus talks" (Washington Post)

We are all beaten down with months of this unrelenting news.

Yes, we've had civil rights protests and election cacophony mixed in, but time and again, the news returns to COVID-19. 

We long for a story that will push COVID coverage lower on the newsworthiness scale. 
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Yet as a journalism teacher, I need kids to understand that events with IMPACT on lives rise to the top of the news cycle. A virus that is killing 3000 Americans a day warrants constant coverage. Any other "event" claiming as many lives would demand full-caps above-the-fold headlines for weeks. 

But we are weary. 

Dare I say bored?
----------------------------- 

My students planning the most recent episode of our school video news program said they were tired of talking about COVID. They wanted to cover something else. Yet as we discussed the issues impacting our school, they ultimately decided to write about how COVID remote learning has contributed to a 40% increase in failing grades from a year ago, and how COVID restrictions on crowd size are affecting athletes' experience in winter sports.

Like it or not, this pandemic dominates all aspects of our lives. 

Not fun, but newsworthy.
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I'm posting this tonight not because it's interesting, compelling, funny, or maybe even worth reading. I'm posting because 267 days ago I told myself I would come to this page and record this experience.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

P.S. Eye report: Better today! My comfort is much improved, and my focus is moderately improved. I plan to teach tomorrow, but I'll listen to Little Lefty. If she says she's had enough, I'll sign out early. Meanwhile, enjoy my DIY eye-patch Tik-Tok! 

Day #265 Writing Through COVID-19: Eye Pain (Gripping Blog Title?)

Let me say I feel much better tonight than I did yesterday.

On Monday I had outpatient strabismus surgery to correct my wandering left eye. The surgery itself took only an hour, but it required a general anesthetic that left me parched and groggy. 

I spent most of the day on the sofa, repositioning an icepack over my eye and considering metaphors that best captured my sensations:

~ Someone had taken a ball-peen hammer to my eye socket and sinus bones. 
~ My eyeball had been tugged from its socket with a spoon.
~ My eye had been rolled in fiberglass before its repositioning (too deep) in my head. 
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I am healthy enough day in and day out that even minor sickness/discomfort throws me off-kilter. And almost as bad as the fiberglass-eye sensation was my utter boredom. 

With my eyes on lockdown, I realized 98% of what I most enjoy requires sight:

I couldn't read, I couldn't write. I could barely walk across the room without bumping into something. I listened to audiobooks, which offered some reprieve, but for the most part, I just felt sorry for myself.
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Today was much better! I'm still seeing double, but the scratchiness abated after the eye clinic told me it wasn't fiberglass, but dryness causing the pain. They told me to use more eyedrops!
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I was able to Zoom with my Remote Learners today, which was really nice. Usually, they Zoom into class while I'm in-person teaching 15 or 20 others. Today it was just me and one or two students at a time. I could share my screen and read and respond to their writing in realtime. We talked about the assignments, their reading. They nodded sympathetically when I told them my eye felt pretty whacked.
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Later I Zoomed with my building principal to touch base on my students who have been out for quarantine or remote learning and have fallen off the radar. I've read that students across the country are struggling with school this year. (Surprise?) My own building has nearly 40% more failing grades this fall than we had at the same time last year. Some of this is attributed to students' lag in learning from March to August, but many of the students with difficulty are our remote learners. 

I get it. I know my RLs do not get the best of my teaching.

What I don't know is how to fix it while still keeping my nose above water. 

Part of me thinks I'd do a better job if all of my students were Remote. But then I remember my friend Haley who is teaching in that situation. She is a rock-star educator and can pack a Zoom class with bells and whistles and engagement to make even mashed couch potatoes take notice! Yet she has called near tears on days her students refuse to turn on their cameras, fail to engage.
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Another part of me thinks my students should just all buck up and come to school! Yet I, myself, do not feel safe from COVID in the classroom. Our basketball team is currently out on quarantine. Our tiny county has experienced 26 deaths, including five people I knew personally. For this reason, I commend my Remote Learners for minimizing COVID risk to themselves and their families.

All of this is to say the vaccine can't get here fast enough. 

Enough.
Be well.
Wear a mask (maybe an eye patch).
Write.

Allison

Those Kiwi thighs!

Day #262 Writing Through COVID-19: Amblyopia and COVID Test

I'm scheduled for minor surgery on Monday to correct my misbehaving left eye that wants to wander off on its own adventures. (Amblyopia is a wonderful word! As if my eye is on a casual afternoon stroll!)

The surgery requires a COVID test, so 261 days into blogging my way through the pandemic, I had my first COVID test Friday afternoon.

The most challenging part of my experience was finding the building. Google Maps shot me past the destination, then twisted me back to a small building that has been converted to a full-time COVID testing center. 

The receptionist greeted me by praising my accordion mask (he wore one printed with science beakers). He said he'd like to find a saxophone version. Others behind the desk chimed in to discuss the various instruments they'd played in high school marching band.

The mood was decidedly upbeat, considering we were hunkered in a testing center in a state under its highest COVID numbers yet, on a day when the United States saw nearly 3000 deaths from the virus.
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After checking in, I was directed to a room where my nurse asked me if I could provide a saliva spit sample.

I was confident I could!

But then she asked if I'd eaten anything in the past 15 minutes.

"I ate some candies while driving in," I admitted. "I wouldn't have if I'd known..." I felt guilty! I could still taste the Sweedish Fish on my tongue.

She said we would switch to a nasal swab to assure an accurate test result. "I'll be very gentle," she promised, then donned a full-body disposable plastic gown to prepare for the procedure.
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My friend Emma described her COVID nasal swab as something akin to a power drill up the sinus. 

Fortunately, my diminutive nurse comported herself as the gentlest of yoga instructors; she exuded tender calm.

She moved in like a ninja, sneaking the long-stemmed swab far into my nasal passage before I even felt it. She then gave it an expert swirl.

I fought the urge to sneeze, but otherwise, the swabbing was far less miserable than say, a mammogram, a dental anesthetic, or (god forbid) a colonoscopy prep. 
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"Have you been able to stay healthy?" I asked my nurse as we closed our time together.

She said she has not yet contracted the virus; she is well PPE'd when she works in the hospital. She said that when I'd leave the room, she would spray down every surface: my chair, the door, her work table. 
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Today I learned that my son Harrison's girlfriend, an emergency-room pediatric nurse in Des Moines, has been told her hospital will receive COVID vaccines as early as Dec. 12. 

I want to say I see light at the end of this tunnel.

But it might just be my amblyopia. 

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Oh, look what the baby can do!

Day #259 Writing Through COVID-19: Getting Real

Headlines in April declared that COVID-19 had killed more than the 2977 people who died in the 9-11 attacks. This number stunned me as I remembered the devastation our nation felt in our shared grief in September 2001.
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Then on May 27,  the New York Times ran a gut-wrenching front-page story to mark the number we'd hoped we'd never see: 100,000 COVID deaths. It felt surreal.
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As I write, our nation is nearing 300,000 COVID deaths. Iowa alone has buried 2522. Our country is now recording the equivalent of 9-11 deaths each day.
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Last night we learned that a farmer/neighbor/friend died of COVID, ten days after his wife died of the same.

A local businessman also died yesterday. His wife greets me at the drive-up window at my bank. His daughter works at the school. His granddaughter is my student. 

He was 60 years old. 
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Meanwhile, one of my colleagues is on my mind tonight. She is--like me--a member of our school's Old Guard: that is, we carry years of history and wisdom on our hunched and arthritic backs! She and her husband have both contracted COVID. 
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The New York Times has published a tool that shows us our position in line to receive the COVID vaccine. I thought as a teacher I might be able to budge my way towards the front of the line. (This works in the school cafeteria.)

No go.

I'm not a healthcare provider.
I do not live in a care center.
I'm old but not old enough.
I don't have co-morbidities.

This means I am neatly halfway down the line of priority for Iowans receiving the vaccine. 
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Today I again wore my mask. I washed my hands. I sprayed down the desks. I kept my distance. I gazed at this picture of my son and his son:

Wolf and his daddy

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

 

Day #258 Writing Through COVID-19: Reflections on the Accordion

Yesterday I opened an unmarked envelope to find an accordion mask, a surprise from my sister! 

Wearing it was a highlight today.

Chloe, a student in my Intro to Journalism class, turned 16 today. I'm pretty sure getting her driver's license was her #1 moment, but I hope my squeezebox rendition of "Happy Birthday" makes it into her top 20.
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I play "Happy Birthday" on all my students' birthdays. I drape gold Birthday beads around their necks. 

Everyone should hear "Happy Birthday" on the accordion in their honor at least once in their lifetime. When I played for one of my seniors last week, we acknowledged this was the fourth time I've played for her in as many years.   
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My big red accordion resides at my mother-in-law's house where we practice about five times a week. Tonight we mushed our way through Christmas carols. On a regular year, we'd be preparing old-timey duets to play at care centers. 

This year we are playing only for ourselves, masked and distanced across the room. It's hard to keep time when we are not side-by-side. As with so many matters, our standards for musicality have slipped precipitously during COVID.
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I stash my tiny 8-bass accordion by the file cabinet in Room #408. I bought the shiny Ballerini on eBay 20 years ago. My purchase was driven by a decades-old fascination with the instrument based on fuzzy memories of Linda, our 16-year-old foster sister who lived with us when I was eight. 

Accordion optimism on a windy morning

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison