I am hugging a friend. We are standing in the driveway, our arms about each other’s necks, laughing, hugging so tightly, overwhelmed with emotion. This is the first time we have hugged in over a year, and we are filled with love, joy and relief. We are not wearing masks.
As I emerged from this daydreamed scene I found wet tears running down my face. Since pandemic lock down began en force, last March I have not allowed my mind and heart to wander in this way. Where had this vision come from? How had this misty made up memory slipped out of the well sealed vault where I keep personal pandemic losses locked away, safely protecting me from the pain of even considering them?
Over the past several weeks we have gotten my in-laws signed up for the Covid vaccine. During the first wave of eligibility for folks over age 80, our in-laws got scheduled. The first day they opened for over age 70, I registered Mom. As we added each parent to the calendar we found ourselves calculating the days to the next shot and the full protection of the vaccine for them. The relief we felt was tremendous! We were already thrilled knowing that so many of our friends were getting their vaccines because of positions in healthcare and as first responders, now our parents would be safe too. To know that we could interact without the risk of killing our parents with Covid? I did not realize how much this had been silently and unconsciously weighing on my psyche. Of course I did not want them to get Covid. But what I had not fully let myself explore, was the terror that even with all our precautions and podding, that it was possible that we could inadvertently carry Covid to our family. It would horrible enough to lose a parent, but to think that we had contributed to it in some way? There is not bottom to that well of pain. With best laid plans, there were still trips the doctor, necessary moments of home maintenance or shared rides for medical care or trips to the emergency room that exposed us. Mistakes and miscommunications have been made. It has not been a perfect system and we know it. Getting vaccinations on board for our family was such an immense source of relief. As a geriatric social worker, I am also rejoicing because former and current clients are getting vaccinated in their senior communities and now those who lived at home would be safe as well. All this relief and yet even so, it had not been enough to open the vault to this kind of daydreaming. I let my mind wander. How had this joyful driveway vision come to me?
I learned that social workers are on the approved Covid vaccine list in our state and I could sign up for vaccine appointment. How had I missed the email from the state licensing bureau telling me that I was eligible? Had I missed it? Or was this a new addition? No matter! As soon as I heard, I jumped online to investigate and sign up. I was scheduled. It was in that moment then that I knew. I felt how long it had been. I had not allowed myself to even think of hugging a friend for so long. The thought of it brought such emotion that I have not stopped thinking of it with wonder, anticipation, relief and joy. Joy. When was the last time I felt joy?
I miss joy. I miss conversations that have no reference whatsoever to Covid precautions, social distancing or zoom. I miss seeing the faces of those I care for instead of just speaking on the phone. I miss seeing my clients in their own homes, where they feel safe and in control of their lives, where I am simply a supportive person, not a disembodied voice on the phone, where our connection may or may not be clear to them through hearing aids or dementia. Hugging. I miss hugging. I don’t know how other people handle personal interactions in their work, but as a geriatric social worker and as a woman in community working with so many other women, hugging is a part of our work. We touch. We take the hands of those clients that reach out to us. We sit close so folks can feel safe, be heard and hear us. We use touch to reassure that we are present. In some cases, folks can’t find their words, or they get jumbled up. So we sit and hold hands and are fully present despite the challenges. Communication is more than words. We certainly cannot do this over zoom. It’s so good to see each other at community meetings and shared events. In the dementia community, we share big wins and community advocacy, but we all share big grief, the losses of folks we have shared care and connection with for sometimes years. In those moments, a hug does more than words.
Precious moments in life are slipping by for all of us; births, weddings, anniversaries, holidays, graduations, college freshman years, senior sporting celebrations, the social growth of starting kindergarten in school with other kiddos, all the big things. But most of all, it’s the little things that I miss. I miss relaxed, unzoomed, spontaneous dinner dates with friends, out of town friends or family coming for the weekend and hanging with their kiddos to do art, watch movies, or generally wreak havoc, church services, rituals and renewal found in my women’s circles. As I scheduled my own vaccine, I was finally free to let myself at least consider what a post-pandemic future might feel like. My heart was full, spilling out as tears.
It will still be a long time until we are free to hug. A longer time until we can gather in public spaces, share meals, share air in enclosed spaces like restaurants and churches. Now though, I can at least begin to let the misty made up memories out of the vault. I can dream again.
The past few days, as I work in the kitchen peeling citrus or sit on the bed folding laundry, I can’t stop thinking about the line from a favorite film, Pretty Woman, “Everybody that comes to Hollywood has a dream! What is your dream?” I’m opening the vault for my post-pandemic dreams to swirl out. They have been held in check long enough. I need them now to feed my soul.
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