Friday, March 20

It’s been a full week now, and when I try to remember back to last Friday, I can’t recall much specifically. I know that when I left work last Friday the message was that a work-from-home policy would be discussed next week (this past week). Over the weekend a meeting popped up on my calendar. Monday morning we were all told to gather our things from our office and bring it all home. Get set up, was the directive. No end date was given.

I was able to set myself up quickly and jump right back in to work once I got home. I remember having a hard stepping away from my computer on Monday afternoon, and that hasn’t gotten easier as the days have gone by. I didn’t go for a walk on Monday — I can’t remember why. But each day since then I have divided my at-work time and my after-work time with a long walk. Today I went an extra mile, because I ran into a friend and we did another loop around the park. At a safe distance. It was so good to see her and to chat. I didn’t realize how stressed I had been feeling until I got home and realized that talking to her helped with the transition from work to home.

Nothing feels more certain. The news is dire. Today, so far, there were more than 5,700 new cases in the US, and testing is up to 117,000. The first death in Massachusetts was reported. We are only at the beginning of this. I wake up each day, far too early, and read in bed before falling asleep again. When I wake up for good I feel groggy and hungover and puffy eyed.

Mostly, I’m sad. Mostly, for my children. I ache for how this is changing their childhoods. They are resilient, like so many other young people. They are smart and self-directed, and they like each other much of the time. But this isn’t what they should have to navigate. And I feel pain, deep pain, thinking about how it didn’t have to get this bad. That our leaders didn’t do more sooner. That not enough people were paying attention — still aren’t — at what was happening in other parts of the world. The feelings I feel are like a sick kind of regret, somehow. Not personal regret, but a feeling that we all should have done more weeks ago, and now I wish we could go back and change that.

Even though I was feeling despair and sadness and anxiety much of the day, I kept thinking of things I’m grateful for, and I jotted these down on a pad of scrap paper that I brought home from the office. The list is growing and maybe will become its own post at some point. One thing on there: I’m grateful I can cook. I can feed my family. I have a regular rotation of meals, and I have a stocked pantry that comes in handy when I want to try a new recipe. I’m also grateful that sometimes dinner is pierogis from the freezer. And cut-up veggies.

Tomorrow is Saturday. And Day 8. I’m going to head to the grocery store to get a few things we’ve run out of, like half and half, and butter, and ice cream.

Stay safe, everyone.