Day #338 Writing Through COVID-19: Is Anybody Listening?

My mother-in-law Janet spent two nights in our basement before returning to her home when the temperature reached a balmy -3 degrees.

She was a lovely guest.
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I'd developed routines for tending my parents during the first four+ months of the pandemic, and I drew on that experience to feel instantly comfortable hosting Janet.

But the similarity of experiences also highlighted the differences.

The first day Janet was here, she ran a load of laundry in the basement, unassisted, reminding me of my mom's confusion in her first days last March. 
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I handed Janet the wifi password on a post-it note, and she took it from there, logging onto her laptop to send emails, watch (church service) videos, and Google her way through any question the day might raise.  

I contrast this to my dad's dwindling facility with technology. He still valiantly logs onto Zoom each Sunday morning as I feed him the instructions to click on "join" and type in the access code he's written on his notepad. It helps if I repeat the code two digits at a time as he muddles along. 
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Janet whipped through three or four saccharine middle-grade books from the basement bookshelf and continued her close reading of the Psalms during her 72-hour stay. In contrast, my dad read Roosevelt biographies and dense non-fiction while my mom read short children's books and the dictionary. 
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These comparisons highlighted my mother's struggles with dementia, Janet's amazing tech skills, and my dad's continued appreciation of erudite reading. 

But Janet's visit also showed me her loneliness.

Dan's dad died almost 10 years ago at age 92. Janet, 10 years his junior, has lived independently since then. 

While she is an introvert, she is self aware enough to know too much alone time is soul crushing. Pre-pandemic, she drove to the Elk Horn care center each day to visit residents and play the piano for chapel services. In this way she could satisfy her urge to uplift those in need while hedging against her inclination to avoid social contact. (Like many introverts, Janet is most at ease when she has a task in front of her. At Dan's brother's wedding, she hid in the nursery tending to grandchildren rather than mingle with guests as mother-of-the-groom.)

Since last March, Janet has been to town maybe five times: to the dentist, the doctor, the pharmacy, and--last week--to receive her first COVID shot. Instead of visiting the care center, she has written hundreds of letters. She sews and studies Spanish and keeps her day busy.

But when she was here in our basement, I realized her aloneness in a new way. My parents in this space were not in constant conversation. But if one spoke a thought aloud, there was another person there to hear it. If Janet has a idea, she can write it in a letter, or save it to share when I come by to play the accordion. But the easy lobbing of a thought to the person across the room is missing from her life.
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Here in our empty nest, Dan and I rattle around in a companionable mix of sharing and silence. "Hearing" Janet alone in the basement increased my appreciation for Dan across the room or down the hall. If I toss out a thought, there is someone there to catch it. 

Hearing him crunch his ice here next to me is an irritation, yes. 

But it's also a comfort.

Enough.
Be well.
Write.

Allison

Facetime with Wolf continues to
sustain me. He's wearing the Valentine
jammies I sent him.