When This is All Over: Life Post-COVID

A few days ago, my ten-year old daughter, Charlotte, and I drove to pick up her birthday cake. She hadn't been on a car ride in over seven weeks. While in quarantine, I have been in the car, to run to the post office, or to pick up school packets, but I had not made this particular drive. The cake maker's home is minutes from my employer. Charlotte chatted the entire time, while I navigated a course I've driven for 15 years, to a college campus. She pointed at barns and houses, and made observations. "I know we are close, Mommy, because I recognize this," or "Ugh. These roads are soooo curvy. I forgot that riding in the car makes sick."

We pulled into the cake maker's driveway. From her window, she called out to tell me that the cake was on the front steps. Charlotte could hardly contain herself as we carefully opened the top of the box to examine a masterfully made Beanie Boo cake. Before returning home, I stopped at my office to grab my beloved, and very neglected, plants. The lights were off in the building and the hallways were silent. I removed a piece of blue tape from the door knob, which is a signal for facilities staff to disinfect it. Then, I turned my key in the lock to open the door and stepped inside. I spotted my plants and quickly assessed that they were not in good shape but they could be salvaged. I gathered them all in my arms and one, small succulent slipped out of my hands and fell onto the ground, spilling dry dirt onto the carpet. I scooped the dirt up in my hands and tossed it into a nearby waste basket. It was only then that I paused, diverting my attention from my plant-collecting mission. I saw a stack of paper near the photocopier, the wrapping half -ripped open, the paper spilling out. Brightly colored posters on the walls announced programs taking place in March and April. Little sticky notes framed my computer screens, and on my desk sat a lined paper pad with a hand-written, to-do list on the top page. Next to the pad was my favorite pen, waiting for me to add another task to the list.

It was jarring to see my office frozen in time. On my team's last day together, we did not know we wouldn't return the next day, or in the following weeks, and now, months. We have marched on. We see one another every day in a virtual universe. We still write emails, hold meetings, trouble-shoot, collaborate and complete deliverables. However, much of our work has changed. We have new tasks now, like offering many of our services via Zoom, submitting weekly, COVID-related budget expenses, and participating in scenario planning for the fall semester. Other activities have stopped completely. Those posters on the walls of my office promote student workshops and events my team had spent months planning that were canceled. The note pad check-list on my desk reminds me to fill out travel paperwork for a conference I was excited to present at that was canceled. Physically being in my office confirmed for me how much I miss the hum of our labor, the momentum of ides that are implemented with passion and purpose, and the people who all come together each day to make it happen, and of course, the students.

I gathered the plants and hurried out of the office and back to the car, where Charlotte was amusing herself by staring at the cake. She chatted non-stop for the remainder of the ride, layering her thoughts over my own. I tuned most of it out, stuck in my own sadness. We arrived home and Charlotte held the cake box tightly in her arms. I lectured her to be careful because I didn't want to see her do something careless and drop her lovely cake on the ground. She smiled at me and said, "When this is all over, the first thing I want to do is go to Nana's house."

When this is all over.

How many times has someone in my family said that since COVID forced us away from our external lives and selves? A life to live when this is all over; we declare it, we dream it, and we desire it. My own post-COVID statements have ranged from your typical New Year's resolution to realizing dreams, to resolving a list of regrets.

When this is all over, I am not going to eat bread.

When this is all over, I am going drink less wine and more water.

When this is all over, I am going to keep walking the dog.

When this is all over, I am going to stay in better touch with my friends.

When this is all over, I am going to learn how to play the violin.

When this is all over, I am going to be a kinder and gentler person.

When this is all over, I will swear less.

When this is all over, I will get published.

My post-COVID declarations are all goal-oriented because planning for the future gives me a feeling of control at a time when there is little that I can control. I have been isolated for enough time now that I do not really know what the world outside of my home looks like. My view is distorted by the news and social media. It is two dimensional. My recent return to my office returned my reality back to 3D and I was afraid of what I saw. I have moved away from an urgency to return to the way things were to a reluctance to reemerge because I know that things will never be the same.

I do not actually know what I will do, or not do, when this is over. I do not even know when this will be over, or if it will ever truly be over. But I do know that we will carry on, the hum of life that we all create, and the momentum we generate, will return. I will accomplish some of my When This Is All Over goals, and others I will not. However, I will definitely accomplish one of them, and it is one I share with Charlotte.

When this is all over, I am going to go see my mom.