Once I got over the shock of my cancer diagnosis, began to accept the reality of months of chemotherapy, I turned to the positive. It would be a good time to be taking it easy for a while. March Madness was on the immediate horizon, the college softball season was coming into full swing, and there was a presidential race heating up. I had a great friend who was retired like me, and we could go to the movies, meet for lunch or coffee, and when I felt like it, there were the season tickets to the Kentucky softball games we bought several weeks before. A legion of friends was with me, ready to go do fun things; lunch, hang out at the park, perhaps gather for a shrimp and crab boil. To be productive and get out of the house, I would volunteer to help out in my church’s office. There were so many things that I loved and enjoyed, and the doctor said I could do whatever I felt like, and many days I would probably feel pretty good. I may want to wear a medical mask when I was in crowds, the doctor suggested, until flu season was over, and then I could go about my business like everyone else. A wig counselor seemed the biggest concern, at least for them. For me, a ball cap would be just fine. Buoyed by a good prognosis, a supportive partner and a great group of friends, the months ahead would be bearable, even fun at times, and I could look forward to a chemo free summer and time on the water. I would kick cancer to the curb and look like a boss doing it.
The shadow started approaching in early March. The highly contagious virus killing thousands in China was making its way to the shores of the United States. Our president seemed unconcerned, and so far the media hadn’t really caught up on the science, so it seemed a gross overreaction when Berea College announced in-person classes were suspended for the rest of the semester and students would be expected to vacate the dorms by the end of the upcoming weekend. Within days, the wisdom of Berea would be evident. Soon all in-room school classes would be suspended, businesses shuttered, sporting events cancelled, and life as we knew it came to an abrupt halt.
The coping mechanisms I imagined to get me through the chemo months suddenly evaporated. March Madness and college softball were cancelled, movie theatres and restaurants closed, stay at home orders implemented, and my world, along with most others, became largely constricted to the walls of our house. Chemotherapy put me in a more vulnerable group, so any trips outside the house were limited to the doctor’s office and back. Chemotherapy now looked like a long slog through a dark swamp. The air, it seemed, had been sucked from the room.
I’m 2/3 through chemo now, with two more treatments and less than a month until the last treatment. It’s been far from easy and I’ve felt more like a hapless recluse than a badass boss. The possibility of contracting the Covid-19 virus has been a constant worry for both me and B. The surreal world of things unknown haunts us every day.
It has been hard on B. She’s shouldered the added burden of doing all of the shopping and yard work. Many times I’ve called on her to convince me the monsters under the bed aren’t real, that every little twinge isn’t some new form of cancer, and the chemo is going to work. On “chemo days” she’s faithfully sat in the car for hours since she is not allowed in the treatment center due to virus concerns. For me, it’s immensely comforting to know she is close by if something goes wrong. In the hard days after chemo, she’s cheered me through the long days and nights, and not once have I heard her complain.
We are more fortunate than many. We haven’t lost a paycheck due to the virus and we’ve always had more than enough to eat. Yet the effect on my psyche from the virus outbreak seeps through the days, leaving me feeling drained and longing for the joys that were left behind. I get through the days, one foot in front of the other, hoping for better days ahead for us all. That keeps me going most days, knowing that we will see brighter days again, if we are only smart and present in the days between.
We are all left to wonder what “the new normal” will look like, whether the worst is behind us, if there will be another wave and another round of closings necessary to keep the medical system workable. For most of us, the new normal will be as individual as our reactions to the initial shutdown. It will be ruled in part by what we carried with us when it all began. Were we facing other challenges, were we breezing through life with only a few cares, was every day a never-ending struggle with putting food on the table and a roof over our heads? Were we carrying sorrows that seemed to crush the life out of the days, were we carrying anger and fire for something we thought we had lost along the way, were we blessed and grateful?
We will all be carrying scars from the Covid-19 outbreak. My mother died alone because no one could visit her in her long-term care facility. I will always bear that wound, though the scar will run the deepest for my father and sister who cared for her daily. Those who have lost a loved one to the virus carry the deepest wounds that will never completely heal. But the thing is, each of us get to determine how to define their new normal. Do we take our old normal into the world of the new normal? Will we be kinder, more understanding of the lives and struggles of others, more concerned about our neighbors and community? Will we wear our masks through the hot summer because we believe it is the right thing to do? Will we give back to our community more than we did before?
The new normal can be any normal that we choose, lived by us. I am hoping the days ahead will be defined by the lessons learned during these tough few months. A normal filled with more grace, more kindness, more gentle words and actions, and a realization that those things really do matter.
My thanks to Debbie Rickerd and Suzanne Hanners for their contributions to this post.