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Grief in the Time of Work-from-Home

~ Carie ~ 1 Comment

September 13, 2020, marked exactly six months of work-from-home. Our team has been told there won’t be a return to the office this year, and when we do return sometime next year, it will be a different experience. This news has me reflecting on all the emotional ups and downs of discovery this time has offered.

The stages of grief are real, even though you may think you are prepared and ready for the situation. Some moments tend to bend what you thought was a straight path.

Denial, Numbness, and Shock

Being sent to work from home was a moment of “Introverts unite!” I feel there was a collective sigh in the universe for those of us who might have needed a break from people. Waking up that first day and realizing I didn’t have to go into the office was delightful, refreshing, and filled with the excitement of a new adventure. I did a little dance and had an “I got this” moment. Yes, I got a bit cocky since we introverted types seem to be designed for just this event.

For the first 80 business days, I sent cards and postcards out each day. You can’t imagine how relieving it is to use the stationery I had stockpiled over the years. My office supply stash seems to have been my version of doomsday prepping because who wouldn’t want a postcard at the apocalypse? I knew I would ultimately be able to take the isolation, but I had to do something to bring cheer into someone else’s life. The occasional USPS delivery of snail mail makes me smile. It was what I had on hand to help others’ smile, too.

I found myself slowly seeing the daily card as another item on the to-do list as the days continued to tick by. One more thing to check off. One more assignment. I lost joy in the thing that brought me happiness. It had become a duty and not a gift. I had to take a break from it, which, in turn, broke me. 

Bargaining, Depression, and Anger

Waking up felt like needles pressing into my skin. There were new aches, new pains, and new ways to distract me. 

I invented hobbies that would make a dent in my collection of craft supplies. (I still have a long way to go to use up that stockpile.) I made masks. I taught my neighbor to sew so she could make masks. I decimated my wardrobe and reorganized my closet – then moved on to my fridge and pantry. I painted my patio furniture (almost done). I’ve pulled weeds, fertilized, and watered to the point that the yard and plants managed to survive summer for the first time. 

I found new ways to avoid life in general, yet came to an understanding as to why some housewives suddenly snap. The isolation is too much.

Amid my avoidance strategies, something miraculous happened. I received cards in return. Bright moments I cherish like Golem and his Precious. These gems are my escape from the mental drudgery the unending days have become. I am reminded I am not alone.

Acceptance

I will openly admit I miss my family, my friends, and even my team of co-workers.

I miss the daily runs to Starbucks (even though my bank account doesn’t). Not because they make great coffee and tea, but because it was a joyful moment each day with whoever at the office would venture with me. The line may have been a little long at times, but it was my moment to feel like Norm walking into Cheers. The crew knew me. My drink was ready. There was goodness in my cup.

I miss unicorns, lots of sparkle, and nails that are totally on fleek. I share my name with one of my co-workers. Shouting, “Morning, Carrie.” does not have the same ring. I don’t hear a giggle every weekday followed by a cheery, “Morning, Carie.” in return. Now I’m only talking to myself.

I miss everyone. So much happened in the office leading up to the day we received the notice to pack up and go home. So much has happened since. We haven’t been together to talk about it. We send memes, texts, and emails about everything, including our TV binge addictions, but it feels a bit hollow since we can’t sit together at lunch or meet at the snack table to really get into the nitty-gritty and throw around some much-needed sarcasm.

I am comforted by the knowledge that these people are out there. We’re waiting in suspended animation for that moment when this is all over. We’re making plans. We’re finding hope because that’s what we truly have. 

We have hope for the future. We have dreams to realize. We have love to share.

The Christmas Letter

~ Carie ~ Leave a comment

fullsizerenderI am one of those strange people who speak with their parents every day. I’m on my way home, my mom is on her way home or cooking dinner, and Dad is hanging out in the background. It’s a good thing. We know everyone’s okay, and we all get a little social entertainment to fill the momentary void of human interaction. Yesterday, my dad answered the phone.

The dizzying conversation my father and I have would confuse anyone around us, except Mom. I know she’s back there rolling her eyes and wondering if we will ever act like grownups. No. We like our little inside jokes. After Dad and I had finished our initial bout yesterday, he broke some family news.

One of my aunts had been cleaning up at a museum. She was there by herself putting things away and just generally getting everything back in place. While moving a Christmas tree, she fell, breaking her pelvis. Thank goodness for mobile phones, because she’s doing fine and should be released for rehab soon. Spending time thinking about her last night brought to mind something she sent to the family during Christmastime several years ago.

Everyone must know someone who sends out The Annual Christmas Letter. I don’t know where this tradition started or why. It seems a way for loved ones to shove their happiness and joy down each other’s throat. I dread most of them. I get a range of letters. One is a photo-collage of international vacations. One provides an almost day-to-day recap of amazing activities and achievements. One is a synopsis of all the incredible happiness two people and a dog could stand in one year. They are always bright and happy, highlighting all of the good things and memories you missed out on by not being there. But this one particular aunt once sent a letter which changed our entire family experience.

Let me preface this with the side-note that she is a writer. She spent many years teaching Honors and AP English. She’s well-read and well-written, but this one particular holiday, we each received one fascinating Christmas letter. The tale was intended to celebrate the holiday and to share a specific memory she had of her childhood. It was intended to be a piece of our collective history as a family. What it became was Stephen King’s Carrie, Family Edition.

She recounted the poverty of the family, the joys of a rural morning, and the death knell of the hog. Think about that for a moment.

My aunt sent everyone a letter inside her reverent “Merry Christmas” holiday card which recounted, in detail, her recollection of the slaughter of the family’s dinner. The squeals. The blood. The gory details of it all.

She did not present it as a bad memory. The story was a celebration. She was straight-forward with the information. It was an honest look at growing up on a farm, with a very clear view of the annual pig slaughter presented just outside the kitchen window. This was life.

This was a call for therapy.

Maybe we took it the wrong way. Maybe the details were a bit too detailed. Maybe a Christmas card is not the place to write about a pig meeting its end–even if it were for the family good.

A cousin responded quickly with another letter recounting their detailed memory of the Christmas they received the “slaughter story.” A joyful romp telling of their happiness in seeing the return address on the envelope when they pulled it from the mailbox, the quaint warmth which filled them as looked over the Christmas card, and the visions of terror as they read the letter tucked inside.

My aunt never sent another Christmas letter. One was enough. For no matter what the intended meaning was, as family and friends, we did share in the well-received laughter. Through this bump in the road, and all the others we experience each year, there are shining bright spots which we can share. The best of those being laughter shared with family.

Stress Pools

~ Carie ~ 4 Comments

I work too hard. You may not believe that statement.

I come from a long, proud tradition of workaholics. We don’t know when to stop. We let work grind us into dust. We are so focused on what has to get done, we forget about the things which need to be done.

My father is a prime example. Aside from the two consecutive weeks each year he took off to drive around the U.S. with the family in tow, I don’t remember a day he didn’t go to work. He was gone before I woke in the morning. He walked in the door as dinner was being set on the table. Even today, he doesn’t stop. He’s retired, yet he’s unable sit down and relax. He has to be doing something. Anything. It’s go, go, go, until he sits down and passes out.

And then there’s his offspring. We’re not the best examples of how to live a full life. We try, but even the bulk of our travel is for work. Over the last year, I transferred to a new position, got a promotion, and dove in to the deep end of my personal pool of stress. It has paid off—in some ways. People love what I do. It’s a blessing, but confounding at the same time. I’m drowning, barely able to dog-paddle anymore, yet people stop me to compliment me. So hard work pays off. Right?

Would it pay as much if I worked a little less? Would people like it if I didn’t give it my all? I don’t know. Thing is, I have no right to complain. Every day on the news after filtering through all the extraneous celebrity hype, I’m reminded of people who have nothing, people who are hungry, people who are ill. I’m allowed to sit here and moan over work and stress.

A dear friend of mine is going through chemo. I can’t imagine that process. My descent at the office is nothing compared to her day-to-day. My closest experience was decades ago, and I was only radioactive. I couldn’t hold my nephew for most of the first year of his life. No skin to skin contact with anyone. No public restrooms. No reusable dishes. I hate to clean the bathroom today because I had to clean and wipe it down with bleach every day. I did do things I shouldn’t have, because I was only radioactive. I didn’t go to the doctor every week to have poison pushed into my body. I recovered and grew stronger. My friend suffers and grows weaker as she fights a cancer. This is supposed to make her stronger. So, my workaholic ways and the resulting stress are poppy-cock. She tells me my overwork and stress are real. I’m comparing apples and oranges. I disagree. They are both fruit.

It filters down to life is short. Our epitaph shouldn’t read, “I worked a lot.” No one would notice if I didn’t work into the middle of the night. Those things I’m killing myself to get done can wait. I need to reset my brain to understand it’s okay. I’m not a superhero. I’m not going to be the one to save the planet, especially as I sit in front of a computer putting together marketing plans and writing corporate blogs. My work is meaningful, but the world will continue to turn whether I’m stressed or not. My friends and family, on the other hand, may be happier if I spent more time with them. Maybe even on one of those two-week road trips.

Say It’s Not Your Birthday

~ Carie ~ Leave a comment

Image provided by Indi Samarajiva on Flickr Creative Commons
Image provided by Indi Samarajiva on Flickr Creative Commons

We recently celebrated a birthday in my family. Getting us together for a small fete like this is an ordeal—not because we’re a large group with complicated calendars, but because we’re all hermits in our own way. Let’s face it, I’m the outgoing one in this menagerie.

My parents tried to contact our new elder statesman, who didn’t respond. Well, who didn’t respond until the day before. So, as I am sitting at breakfast with my writing partner, I received a call from these same parents who told me we would be meeting at one for lunch. Oh, and they would be by at noon to pick me up. How’s that for planning?

Our circles and evasions must frustrate the bejeezus out of any in-laws. We’re not a gregarious “let’s-celebrate-life’s-little-moments” group. We’re more of a “I-won’t-bother-you-if-you-don’t-bother-me” set of people. We’d rather keep our nose to the grindstone, computer screen or book than deal with other people’s schedules. Not to say we won’t go out. We get the itch to embarrass ourselves often enough, but again, we like to keep that private, too.

So imagine in-laws, cousins, nieces, nephews, etc., who are more outgoing putting up with an opposing family who can sit around in silence reading books all day. That’s family togetherness to us. We’ll chat about work and the weather, but then it’s all questions about where the day’s newspaper was left. Here’s the kicker, the home we were gathered in for the birthday, doesn’t have spare reading materials. There’s no stack of The Economist or Time next to the sofa. No book shelves stuffed with first editions and random paperbacks. Nothing to thumb through for interesting pictures. It’s the opposite of my house—spotless and free of those pesky words in public spaces.

I know a stack of history and science fiction books are hidden somewhere, but my mother taught me it’s not nice to rummage through other people’s closets. I did consider sneaking a peek, though, as I sat in the kitchen watching an in-law prepare lunch. I wouldn’t have been stuck staring at them if I had something to read. I could have been tucked comfortably against the arm of the sofa with even a People StyleWatch if one could be found.

All my griping aside, the extended family brings many good things with them other than everything-has-a-place home organization. They teach the rest of us thoughtfulness and simple joys. Counter to my desire to escape with a bit of reading, they teach me how to be present and listen. There’s a lot of laughter when we’re together, and it may be because they’ve hidden the magazines.

Feeding the Homeless

~ Carie ~ Leave a comment

I bought dinner for a homeless man this week. I had stopped on my way home from work to get a good healthy dinner I didn’t have to cook myself. It’s a challenge to find those places these days, but a few made my list. I walked to the register, and a man approached me. He wasn’t clean, but he had made an attempt. His clothes were worn. He asked me a question, but the words didn’t quite make it past his lips. I asked him to repeat his question with the oh-so-genteel, “What?”

He looked down, staring at his hands as he repeated, “I’m living on the streets. Could you help me get a little something for dinner?”

He didn’t give me a creepy feeling. The one where your gut is screaming at you to get away—now. He didn’t ask me for money like a panhandler on a street corner. He asked for food. I obliged.

He wasn’t swindling me. He wasn’t looking for cash for quick fix. He seemed rational, but embarrassed of his situation. He may have been panhandling just before. I don’t know. He may have been able to scrape together enough change for a few side dishes or an entire meal. Somehow, it didn’t matter to me. He was straightforward. He asked for a dinner, and I chose to provide it.

The manager and staff angered me about the entire situation. The staff member at the register watched him approach me and mumble his question. Without waiting for my reaction, she ran to the back to get the manager. Shortly, three people stood behind the counter staring at this man as he ordered dinner. He was humbled enough having to ask a stranger for food. He checked with me before each item. Could he order a quarter chicken meal? Could he get an extra side? I nodded for him to go on. The staff was short with him and tried several times to talk him out of his order.

After we both finished, the manager asked me if my order was, “for here or to go.” I let him know I would dine in, and the homeless man responded with the same answer. This seemed to surprise the manager. The homeless man seemed to shrink. The twinge of anger in the manager’s response hurt even me. This impoverished man sulked to a table in the corner away from the other patrons. He was conscious of his place, remaining in sight of the register the entire time. The manager apologized to me, “…for the situation.” Really? I’m feeding a man. You’re the one being mean.

The counter staff watched the man as he sat in the corner eating his dinner. I know they wanted to push him out of the restaurant. People can’t handle seeing poverty up close, and the manager didn’t want customers to walk out. Some things in our society are embarrassing. We want to keep them hidden. Who is going to fix these things if we can’t see them? We need to be scared. We need to fear we could be in the same shoes as this man one day. Maybe then we’d realize we would want someone to help us.

Hit and Run Parents

~ Carie ~ Leave a comment

Like the Blues Brothers, they were on a mission from God—or Cupid. I don’t quite know, but here’s what I can tell you. My parents planned their visit on Thursday when I called them during my evening date with traffic. The beauty of hands free calling in the car is I can fill my commute with conversation instead of commercials and chatty radio hosts. My mother and I moved through our daily back and forth. I heard my father puttering around in the background as he interrupted her. He spoke with his perfect, slow drawl, “Ask her where he works. What’s the name of that place?”

My mother continued with the obligatory, “You’re father wants to know where your brother works.”

“I know, Mom. I heard him just fine,” I said, laughing since my father doesn’t believe he has any hearing loss. I’m sure the people in the car next to me heard his questions even with my windows up. I answered, and answered again when my father didn’t understand. I spelled it out, listening to my mother repeat the words over and over with growing frustration. They were coming. They made plans. They strategized and worked out times while I was on the phone.

I cleaned the house in preparation, remembering to put the broom and dustpan in an easy to reach spot in the closet. The house was clean, but my mother would feel obliged to sweep. I should have known, though. They’re hit and run, and it’s not the first time.

My father once drove up with a trailer laden down with landscaping stones. The fact he unloaded it at my brother’s house was the only giveaway he had ever been around. My mother has driven in to see the grandkids and driven right back home, having told each of us that she might stay with the other sibling.

Maybe they were itching to brush off the recent round of cabin fever brought on by the cold weather. I don’t know. They did surprise me Friday afternoon when they brought me flowers for Valentine’s Day. I tried to get them to stay, but they insisted they had to leave. They don’t want to be a burden, so they take the long drive home. Putting all my frustration aside, I am reassured what they do is out of love—and no motive could be better.

Travel Plans

~ Carie ~ Leave a comment

The beauty of a cloudy day.
The beauty of a cloudy day.

Travel is an adventure no matter how far you go. Typically, I take a weekend hopper somewhere. I’m not big on big vacations because, as previously discussed, I keep myself busy with activities—running, needle crafts, metal work, etc. This list is a little longer, but no one should be bored with that. I’m a bit of a workaholic and feel guilty when I am not doing or accomplishing something. Long vacations separate me from my distractions. Traveling with a torch and acid pickling station is shunned by TSA regulations. I’d make the no-fly list at the airport fast.

All my excuses aside, I force myself to take an extended vacation each year. I am lucky to have a friend who encourages me in planning trips. She doesn’t yearn to keep busy like I do. She’s attracted to luxury and travel like ants to sugar, which is a good thing for me. Her desire to get away leads to plans for years on end. There is always a place to go, and she doesn’t mind if I tag along. Cruises are her trip of choice. So far, I’m okay with them. I don’t jump for joy at the thought of being stuck on a boat, but I do appreciate not hauling my luggage everywhere.

For a few years now, we’ve ventured through European destinations on cruise-tours. They have been amazing opportunities to see so much of the world, to experience history first-hand, and to write in some of the most beautiful settings. On last year’s voyage, I was able to pull out a small journal as I sat at a cafe in Mykonos and take notes as I watched rain clouds move in over the island. The blue waters and crisp, white houses shadowed by the line of rumbling gray above. It’s visual poetry.

Now, though, it’s time to trade the long cruises for long stays on land. The mere hours allowed by our tours is no longer enough. I am drawn to wander through these cities. I need to find every museum and every local dive. I need to know how these people live, not just how they can sell me souvenirs. I need to spend days in their cafes watching their world as the sun rises and fades again into the night. I need knowledge.

My dear friend tries to accommodate my thirst for history. She indulges my desire to wander on occasion, as long as I let her shop. Some travelers are satisfied with a short visit and a dose of commerce in each port, but not me. The call to explore will not leave me alone. Its echo tumbled through every thought during our last voyage, and I need to answer it. My feet itch with impatience without earth under my feet, which is odd considering my Nordic ancestry. Well, odd only if I forget that they sailed out of a drive to save their communities, expand their horizons, and explore the boundaries of their world—and I love to explore.

The Laundromat

~ Carie ~ Leave a comment

Madison, WI Laundromat, image provided by danalousmatclaundry
Madison, WI Laundromat, image provided by danalousmatclaundry

I like the word “laundromat.” There’s a roundness to the first two syllables leading into the harsh and definite ending. I haven’t been to a laundromat since I was a sophomore in college—which was a long time ago. Phlphty-plus years later, I’m back. This place evokes a strange feeling. I say strange because I am a bit reminiscent due to the sounds and smells, but also because the laundromat is trapped in a time warp. It’s the same physical place, but locked in time at about 1989. A sad, lost episode of Doctor Who.

The oddly out-of-date—but possible hipster retro throwback—Armstrong tile floor. Miniature iron gates protecting the soap, bleach and softeners from being stolen out of the machines. Ms Pac-Man and Final Lap sitting dark and quiet in the back. Industrial, oversized steel washers and dryers. The constant hum of pulsing water and tumbling clothes. The aroma of clean. These would all add up to comfort if not for the Star Wars cantina patrons.

I live very close to a private, over-priced university. I expected more collegiate individuals—like when I was in college, but they’re not here. Mom and Dad must provide them with everything so they dare not need to breathe the same air as a commoner such as myself.

Otherwise, I am here with an interesting sub-culture of America. The women have aged at a high rate of speed. Their bodies come in two forms, either lumpy or stick thin, but equally misshapen with shoulders hunched forward—a visible sign of how tired they are. The men are from a wider swath of the population. Middle-aged men who look like they were still drunk when they dressed this morning. Some are confused and stare at the machines a little too long. The washers only require one decision, hot vs. cold, but these men seem unable to face this test. They wear t-shirts, which are the ever-so-slightest shade of pink. I’m guessing these are the recently divorced ones. Then there are the older gentlemen who seem to have lost their wives early. They are sad and quiet, reading the newspaper as their slacks tumble quietly in the dryer next to the bench.

One guy in the place appears to have bathed and shaved this morning. Medium height, dark hair. His giveaway is the Bluetooth headset implanted in his ear. I would say this marked him as “the jerk,” but he’s not it. He’s cheesy and chipper as he moves from one steel beast to the next, twisting this and checking that and chatting away with his kids as he fixes the machines. He’s the only one in the entire place who makes eye contact and smiles. Turns out it’s because he’s the owner/maintenance guy, and he’s happy taking my money one quarter at a time.

The rest of the patrons are creeping me out. My skin crawls at the idea some of these men are hanging out just to watch me fold my underwear. This moment deserves a loud blood-curdling scream to ease the tension and let them know I’m on the defensive. I emit nothing, though. How can the necessity of clean clothes become this eerie? Why is the maintenance man the only person here around whom I my hair doesn’t stand on end? Why can’t they remember to separate lights and darks?

The women deposited their clothes and ran back to their cars. These creepers must be the reason. I, on the other hand, cannot spend that much time sitting in my car without going somewhere. I also care about getting all of my clothes back, which might be part of my problem. I’ve seen too many movies where someone steals the clothes out of the dryer as they run from the authorities. No major prisons are around the corner, but the idea of someone making off with one of my favorite tees makes me angry. I’ll fold every last piece in front of them all to make sure my “May the Norse be with you” tee gets home safely—and un-pinked.

Of Books and Bathrooms

~ Carie ~ Leave a comment

I managed to get most of my things out of boxes. It was more difficult than the packing portion because it seems to have increased in size while stored away. Stored boxes, like luggage while traveling, seem to be the Tribbles of modern society. Luckily, I labeled every box. Even with the labeling system, I was surprised by what I had packed. The several months I had been away from my things was long enough to forget some of them. There were lingering breaks involved which I spent distracted by flipping through my college photo album, pictures of my trip to Ireland from all those years ago, and placing all of my books back on the shelves.

Putting the books away took a bit longer than expected. I spent some of the time dividing them by category—and alphabetizing them by author. Guest room is non-fiction, religion, equine reference, and my Mark Twain collection. The sitting room is fiction, poetry, foreign language, music reference, and antique books. Kitchen is cooking, of course. The living room contains personal work, research, and general reference. Then there’s my room, which houses three gilded volumes: the complete works of William Shakespeare, Rudyard Kipling and Guy du Maupassant. Laugh all you want, but now was the time to get it done. One of my friends noted it wasn’t as much a house but a library that looked like a house. Yes. I agree.

Books reside in every room except the bathrooms. I believe keeping books and magazines in the bathroom is disgusting. My mother would disagree with me. Most of my apprehension involves the thought of germs, a small portion is the extra humidity, and the last is time spent in the bathroom.

Paper and water don’t mix. Period. Damp paper never dries right. Pages ripple and stick together, and there’s the mildew. I would say that’s gross by itself, but here’s what truly grosses me out: no one needs to spend that much time on the toilet.

If you are one of those individuals who takes reading materials with you, maybe you need to see a doctor. It can indicate, at the least, you have gastro-intestinal issues. Don’t start debating with me it’s your private time, or it’s a “retreat”. There are work retreats and military retreats. I don’t want to spend time doing either, and I’m not going to refer to my bathroom as one. It is a lavatory, bathing room, toilet, water closet, etc. Whatever your terminology, “retreat” does not qualify. Get out of your bathroom, and please, keep my reading material out of it.

The Internet-Free Hacienda

~ Carie ~ Leave a comment

Life without instantaneous internet availability at the house is proving to be a trying experience. Missives need to be sent, movies to be watched, and talks to be had with you lovely readers, but I am restricted to public wifi. The difficulty is I am not fond of the “public.” I fear the nefarious hacker who could be present and up to no good. Kind of like the NSA hacking SSL info. No one needs to know that much. It’s a bit beyond Big Brother.

The real problem is the internet and cable companies obviously do not employee enough people to accommodate the demand for their services. I have a two-hour window in the middle of my workday about a month from my move-in date. For a Saturday appointment, it was a six-week wait. Does that make sense? Not to me. Hire a few more technicians. Look at me creating jobs. I would also like more evening and weekend appointments. Why are we trying to fit everything into a nine-to-five window? There must be qualified technicians who don’t want to work mornings. My office can’t be the only place with people wandering in as close to ten as they can push it. Someone else has to be a night owl willing to work until seven or eight in the evening if they can get an extra hour of sleep in the morning. It’s called work shifts, people.

In order to build wealth, one needs to work, and I can’t very well achieve much at work while I sit around waiting for people at home. Some of us don’t have minions willing to do our bidding and haven’t cloned ourselves yet. There’s not a spare me to sit around waiting during my “appointment window” while me me goes to meetings. Yet there is so much waiting to be done.