March 28, 2020
I miss taking Atticus to the grocery store. We would always look for the buggy with the blue plastic car attached. Almost always it was already taken by another family, so we'd opt for the Caroline Cart (a buggy for adult-sized people with mobility issues). It has a big seat in the front by the handles. Atticus likes to climb into the seat and flip the handles down, and then stand up at alarming times during the shopping trip, holding onto the handles. This buggy is great for a kid like him and a mom like me. He's way too big to fit in the standard child-part of a regular buggy, where AFOs and shoes tend to get stuck in the leg-holes. The Caroline Cart also always reminds me of my friend Caroline, and Atticus's Auntie C, to capable and loveable people the idea of whom could carry us through the store.
Atticus gets left out of most errands and trips for which he was once co-pilot. Of course there are also none of the old trips that used to be solely for his enjoyment and exercise. Indoor spaces that he can run through are his favorite. My wish, for him to be a kid that likes playing outside in the yard, has yet to be fulfilled. If we step outside he's somewhat okay on the small porch attached to the front of our house, but upon entering the yard he visibly starts to shut down. His focus dissipates. His eyes lose their shine. He has a hard time keeping his head up, and he's super slow to respond to any question. His feet drag, his legs buckle. It's usually in this state that neighbors see us outside and want to engage, and this never goes very well.
I wonder often these days, as I try again to cajole him into going out to play, if there's too much sensory input to process when he gets outside. As a baby he shrank from the sky when I tried to carry him through the neighborhood for a walk. His favorite times seemed to be if I wore a wide-brimmed hat that made a little roof over his head. I think he's a kid that likes a roof, even a temporary one. During this quarantine I've prayed for inspiration on safe ways to get him out of the house that will inspire him to be lively and move around with his walker or canes. The sight of him floppy and shut down during regular neighborhood outdoor play is heartbreaking--I can tell he's not having a good experience and it's hard to know how to help.
...
The past two weeks have had some odd moments. Last Friday was my annual physical with my gynecologist (who happens to also be my former OB). As an OB he was lively, verbose and bubbling over with confidence that my pregnancy would go well. Max came to all the appointments and we'd grill the doctor with our notebooks and pens drawn. He responded to each question fully, always challenging us for more: "what else?" he'd say impatiently after we were done and looking blankly at each other. He and Max bonded easily as the two men in the room. I think they appreciated each other's intellectual bent, plus Max is naturally skillful at charming medical professionals by asking them leading questions, piercing questions, about their viewpoint on world issues and matters of interest to Max. When I see my gynecologist now he always asks about Max and sends his regards. He probably wishes Max had the vagina.
When I entered the office I wore a bandanna over my nose and mouth. Everyone was taken aback. I felt like a bank robber in an Andy Griffith episode. No one else in the office, staff or patients, was covering their mouth with even a hint of a mask. Except for the signs on the entryway warning people with fever/cough to wait outside, it looked like a regular women's health office in a town, in a country, that had no worries about viruses. I maintained my coverage through the process of waiting, going back with a nurse to give my temperature and weight, and halfway through the preamble in the exam room. By then it was itchy and hot and I felt like a moron.
But it seemed like a time when people should be acting more cautiously. M gynecologist, when he came in, seemed riskily underdressed. I watched his clean-shaven face, his pale, long muscular arms, his agile, skinny neck and mouth. He was wearing sneakers that day, and short sleeves, calling it casual coronavirus Friday. He seemed so exposed. Once when I saw a bit of spit fly out of my mouth as I laughed at something he said, I feared for his life. I thought about how he was still seeing patients, when other practices with different specialties had closed down.
Maybe it was imagining him gone, no more in this world but a casualty of the impending plague, that moved me to make a joke about my breasts. Which got him to talking about how his wife felt about her breasts. Which was all very weird. When it came time to do my exam and he was feeling of my breasts, the whole situation had an overlayer of creepiness to it that it never had before, and though he didn't do anything unprofessional I vowed once more to switch to a female gynecologist even if (maybe) it meant leaving this practice.
This feeling, that anyone might die of the virus at some point in the not-too-distant future, pervades every interaction. I view neighbors differently, and close acquaintances, coworkers and even strangers. Everyone seems tender as the tiny blue spring flowers I mowed down by the garage yesterday. Myself, too. "I might die," I thought as I packed some winter clothes into a plastic tub, tossing in all my work pants which are useless now in this time of waist-up Zoom meetings and perpetual weekend-feeling days.
Not since Atticus's NICU time has there been this floating day-to-day bliss and agitation. We have to be grateful for all that we have. But living in such gratitude can feel like being a packaged Twinkie squeezed up too close to the other Twinkie. There are breaths I take where it feels like the package has been opened and I'm getting fresh, clean air that frees my brain. But the rest of the time I'm calming my panic in the staleness, just trying to make it through to the next minute.
