This too shall pass...

I hear my family's sounds below me. The kettle boils. Sausage fries. NPR plays. Nick urges Elias to get ready for school, the frustration in his voice mounts as Elias stalls and spews negativity.

Elias: "I don't know why you make me go to school."

Olive: "Elias, you're lucky you get to go to school."

The relief I felt yesterday at my family's negative tests is replaced by guilt that I can't walk downstairs and help. That I can't check Elias's backpack for supplies and talk to my stubborn son directly instead of yelling down from my room.

Elias, do you want to go to the Sea Life Center today? Well, put your shoes on!

I feel like such an inefficient parent and partner, as the burden of our household and children falls on Nick.

This feeling is vaguely familiar, me stuck in bed, Nick responsible for everything: six weeks of winter bedrest almost eighteen years ago. Only then we had no children, just the baby we desperately wanted to stay inside my womb as long as possible, and a roof that leaked.

I remember looking into Nick's eyes, as he tried to hold it all together, knowing what he would give to just lay down, as I desperately wished I could get up and do.

Here we are again.

The same feeling of inadequacy on my part. The overwhelming responsibility on Nick's.

Only this time we can't touch, which adds a layer of challenge, even if the timeline remains days, not weeks of an off-balanced partnership.

And this time an invisible virus claims home to my body instead of a baby.

I feel tired but not sleepy, light-headed and foggy, as if a grey film permeates my brain. My cough lingers and headaches prevail. I feel as though I should be productive up here in my room and need to keep reminding myself it's ok just to rest. It's OK to be sick.

Covid-19, the phantom I've been following in the news for years finally found me. No longer abstract, no longer a headline, no longer someone else's story but now the virus lives in my lungs, my throat, my skin. I can't imagine how I'd feel without the Moderna vaccine. Or if I wasn't lucky enough to be a relatively healthy person without preexisting conditions.

It's hard not to wonder what encounter brought Covid-19 to me. Was it my trip to Anchorage to get an MRI on my knee? Or an asymptomatic student who shared her story with me? Was it from touch or speech or the passing of objects one to another? Was there more I could have done to prevent contracting the disease?

Masks remain optional in our school district, despite our high case counts in Alaska, and though I wear mine all day most students opt not to keep their mouth and nose covered. As I sit here feeling so far from myself, its hard not to harbor anger at my district for not doing more to protect us. I want to feel healthy and energetic, not lethargic and ill.

I want to hug my kids. I want to kiss my husband. I want to touch my family.

When Olive forgets her mask during a delivery, she plugs her nose and holds her breath like I'm the "cooty" kid from my childhood. Its hard feeling segregated and alone in my own home.

And yet my family continues to care for me, bringing me coffee and breakfast in bed. Olive brings me ice for my knee whenever I hollar down for help. Nick cooks me gourmet meals, lamb chops, salmon pasta, fried egg on the Cookery's homemade bread with our last homegrown tomato.

My puppy Hemlock and cat Spruce Tip take turns keeping me company, sometimes they visit at the same time and provide me with a brief respite of entertainment as they wrestle in bed.

Friends have dropped of care-packages with everything from books, flowers, wine, chocolate, cards, candles, plants and a home-cooked meal of chicken and biscuits. I receive phone calls and texts daily from friends and family checking in with me.

I feel loved.

The view out my window constantly transforms as the tides change, the clouds merge, the sun returns.

During my brief stints outside (I feel dizzy if I'm upright for long), the mountains remind me of the beauty of remaining anchored to one place, of settling in for the storms that unexpectedly, but inevitably, shake us to our core.