Solitude and a Family History During the Great Pause

"To live well, we need to remember that whatever we lose, nothing is lost. 
Unless, of course, we lose humanity itself: the helping hand, the companionship of the other."

--Joan Chittister, "The Monastic Way"

Pink blossoms blooming along my street.

It's been a month since our stay-at-home order was issued by Washington State Governor Jay Inslee. Initially I dreaded the idea of remaining 24-7 in my 660 sq. ft condo. I've found ways to escape: walks around the block, short bike sprints to the park and back home, time in the backyard, and getting lost in the beautiful springtime weather Seattle is so lucky to have this year. I miss swimming with my Masters swim group at Seattle U. tho we keep in touch via email and text, egging each other on to stay in shape until we meet again. And while working remotely from home I'm grateful for Zoom and the ability to connect with my co-workers at the University of Washington, in addition to book club buddies and friends throughout the country.

So much has happened in the past month both here in the U.S. and around the globe that it's difficult for me to process all at once. At times it feels surreal, like I'm in a bad sci-fi film. But I try to limit my exposure to "breaking news" before I feel like I'm breaking. So far, I am not breaking, and here's why.

For this acknowledged people-lover, I've had more opportunity to go inward the last month. It hasn't been a pretty sight at times. I've faced some anger, petty jealousy, resentment, but also discovered patience, kindness, and resolve. I grew up with older parents now both deceased. My mother, born in 1919, and my father, born in 1913, survived their own challenges:  the Depression, World War II, and much more. And I have survived the AIDS crisis, 9/11, and the fiscal crisis of 10 years ago.

Ruth, my mother, 

16 years old, July 1935.

But more than ever I think back to my resilient Mom, who in 1941 at the age of 21 was infected with tuberculosis. She worked then as a secretary in an office where, unbeknownst to anyone, the cleaning woman was sick but continued coming to work. Tiny aerosol droplets circulating through the office's ventilation system likely led to my mother testing positive for TB and being quarantined in a sanatorium outside the city limits of Cleveland, Ohio, where she grew up.

 During my childhood, my mother shared stories about this time. About my grandmother Mayme weeping on the backporch when my mother was taken away. The TB patients were bundled up on sunny, crisp days and placed on chaise lounges on fresh-air patios. Sunlight and crisp air were thought to be antidotes to the infection. Mom's right lung was collapsed as another method of retarding the disease. It was a brutal procedure that left a permanent scar on her back and one healthy lung to breathe with.

And yet the love that came from that time was undeniable. My grandfather John, whom I never met, and Mom's cousin Rhea, who became a beloved figure to me, visited her everyday on their lunch hours. My mother never forgot their dedication to her. 

Mom persevered and returned home 28 months later, fully recovered. She was a lifelong tennis player, ice-skater, and had a better arm for baseball and football than I ever did, but practiced with me all the time and shared with me her love of sporting activities and the outdoors.

And of course she went on to marry my father and have me. I am forever grateful for the life she lived and gave to me.

The Garden Court where I live.

Now my parents have both been gone for nearly 20 years. I think often of them, especially during this perilous time in which we all find ourselves living. I think of my father heading off to WWII at the age of 31 to serve with the Army's Armored Signal Co. of the 20th Armored Division. He was a Morse Code operator, participated in the Central Europe campaign helping Holocaust survivors at the newly liberated Dachau concentration camp at the end of the war, a heroic action I knew little about until a Cleveland Plain Dealer writer uncovered it in his obituary in 2000. I think of Mom facing down TB and living with the fear she may never recover. 

All of this while sitting in my easy chair peering through the window into my fairytale courtyard where each day I find incredible solace. I am blessed with a home, an income for now, a job that allows me to work remotely, a wonderful community of neighbors who watch out for each other, and a spring that I cannot recall ever being so warm, sunny and beautiful.

Swimming in Lake Washington, 

April 24, 2020.

And I'm healthy, active and hopeful. I can complain about gaining 6 pounds and my insurgent love handles, which I detest and hope to rid myself of very soon. But does it really matter? I'm grateful for the company of a close friend that vowed we'd have each other's backs through the course of this crisis. We are lifting weights in the backyard, taking walks to the park and sharing dinners. And last week we put on our thermal wet suits and began swimming in 52 degree Lake Washington. Thanks to the booties, gloves and neoprene caps, it was survivable and with the warm sun on our backs, even pleasant.

I'm resilient, and I look back to my parents and their survival for inspiration. Staying at home might get on my nerves, but it's serving a larger purpose. And yes, I hope we can get back to a new normal very soon.

Wishing you and yours safety and warmth during this time.

Love,

Jack