We lost our Lola in April. If anything encompasses the turmoil and contradiction of the past year, it was our 13 ½ year old Belgian Malinois Shepherd’s life and death. Lola was wild and her energy boundless, though it waned slowly in her last year. She would sit on our front porch at our first home and scare away any would-be foes and friends alike with her ferocious bark. Fear of an unleashed dog venturing into an altercation with her permeated our daily walks. Lola’s anxiety materialized into destroyed furniture, chewed window sills, and demolished metal door frames. She would not be caged, literally, as she showed when she escaped from her run at the kennel and tore through her metal crate.

Lola’s ferocity extended to her loyalty and love. Her attachment to me was stifling at times. I constantly tripped over her at my feet and couldn’t leave the house without fearing she would destroy something in her anxious await of my return. I spent hours sobbing, trying to find a place for her to stay during the 3 months we waited for our home to be finished. No one could handle her separation anxiety and I couldn’t bear delicate suggestions from well-meaning family members that I put her down. Once we moved into our new home, I resorted to bringing her everywhere with me, leaving her in the back of my Subaru Forester, where she waited patiently. With all of her energy, Lola drained every ounce of mine.

And yet I loved her with the same intensity. I would not give up on her. I could not give up on her. She slowly settled into life at our new home. We walked in the park daily and the regular walkers learned her name and loved the gorgeous dog who walked with a Kong in her mouth to keep from chewing through her leash. She lounged on our new front porch as our new neighbors visited: birds, rabbits, chipmunks, squirrels, deer, and even the occasional nocturnal hunter. No barking this time, just quiet observation. We were finally figuring it all out and then… Covid.

While we all scrambled to manage the chaos of a global pandemic, Lola was living her best life. Her people were no longer rushing from obligation to obligation, but instead largely confined to our home. This meant more walks, more treats, and more belly rubs. Ironically, our notoriously anxious dog became our emotional support companion. 

This past April marked a year of pandemic tumult and we were starting to see the first signs of life returning to the now ambiguous and controversial term, “normal.” The kids had returned to school for the 4th quarter, Pete was transitioning back to the office, and Lola and I were alone in an unusually empty home that felt as eerily quiet as the neighborhood in the first weeks of lockdown. 

As I furiously graded essays and answered emails, Lola basked in the Spring sunshine behind me, sprawled on a large area rug, her rug. She groaned as she lifted her 90 plus dog-year old body and then- Crash, I turned to find her on her back, flailing. This wasn’t good. 

I was hopeful at first; she had lost her footing many times before, but her condition deteriorated throughout the day. It was too late to call the vet, so I lifted her 70 pound frame and laid her where she slept every night, at the foot of my bed, but this time I laid there with her. The next day, the immeasurable grief of losing Lola would continue the pattern of  the past year’s unending loss. The grief, the anxiety, the pain, the seismic shift of life that would never be the same brought me to my knees. The agony in Mateo and Lucia’s wails of grief reverberated beyond the loss of our beloved family pet; they reflected the depth of loss we all endured during this pandemic.

GRIEF

I am not sure if the remnants of grief from this past year will ever disappear. We’re grieving the loss of more than 600 thousand Americans,  4 million human beings worldwide and counting. New reports show that these estimates are most likely much lower than the actual death toll. An astronomical loss of life. How can we possibly process that much grief? More importantly, how can we keep from becoming numb to it all?

Lives were not the only loss of this year. We lost time. Time to travel. Time to gather. Time to learn and play and shop and enjoy the company of friends and family. We lost birthday parties, holiday gatherings, anniversary and wedding celebrations. We even lost the space to grieve all of the loss.

I lost, for good, I’m afraid, my confidence in the innate goodness of people. Not all people, of course, but so many, too many. The same people in my life I was desperate to see change, to prove to me that a few questionable decisions weren’t representative of their overall kindness, compassion, and capacity for empathy, disappointed me again and again and again. 

The same people who shattered my faith in 2016 seemed to be the same people who spread pandemic conspiracy theories online, refused to wear masks, gathered in large groups, rejected the results of an election, made excuses for an insurrection, and are now refusing to take a vaccine to protect themselves and the vulnerable. 

While of course, all of these groups don’t perfectly align, the overlap in the Venn diagram of selfish or uninformed behavior is impossible to ignore. So I’ve lost my trust and confidence in others’ to do what’s right. My default used to be to trust people and it is now to distrust. I’m not sure I’ll ever regain my naive faith in others, but maybe that’s ok.

I’ve been living, thinking, and learning how to grieve. If we allow ourselves to work through the process, the growth will come. This year has not only been fraught with grief, but it’s provided space to grow. Out of the ashes of despair, infinite possibilities can arise.

GRATITUDE

This summer, Mateo turned 12 and Lucia will soon turn 10. How did that happen (asks every parent)? When the world stopped last April, our full schedules were suddenly wiped clean. What would we do with this sudden empty calendar?

At first, we weren’t sure what to do with ourselves. We were scared, sad, and a bit dumbfounded without school, work, practices, meetings, games, parties, and all the other obligations of our lives. We slowly began to fill that space, though, and what a gift that time and space was. We walked, read, cooked, danced, laughed (often at my dancing), played, and talked. We shared stories and learned about and from each other. So while we lost time with others’, we gained time with each other. Soon, my children will assert their independence and when they do, I’ll hold on to the gift of quarantine time with my babies.

Once the tide of grief subsides, it leaves remnants of our lives laid bare. Our attention can oscillate between what we’ve lost, but also what we still have. We can learn gratitude for our own health, opportunities, and human connections. Remembering what we lost can help us to both cherish and reevaluate what’s there.

My gratitude for hugs, laughter, music, companionship, kindness, competition, collaboration, and every breath overflows. While my faith in most people has been shaken, my amazement in others’ has been reaffirmed. I’ve witnessed empathy, kindness, and compassion from both familiar and surprising places. We cannot ignore the ugliness, but must never forget our capacity for joy and love.

The contradiction of this year has left me both clear-eyed and unsure. It has been a never-ending game of Scruples, with what seems to be no right answers, but also clear wrong ones that some people insist on choosing over and over again. 

It’s been a year of exasperation; an exhausting, often infuriating group project where half the group is either refusing to help, or purposely sabotaging our progress. It’s also been a year of opportunity, love, selflessness, and kindness. A time to not just count our blessings, but truly enjoy them. It’s been a time when our flaws were exposed, but a road map for improvement was made clear. So what now?

TRANSFORMATION

Back to Normal? I understand the impulse to burn our masks, tear down the plexiglass, pull off the social distancing stickers, and erase this miserable past year. The pandemic doesn’t just threaten our health, it challenges our very existence. It upends our lives and forces us to reassess almost every element of them. Herein lies the opportunity.

Global and national discussions are already underway. How can we rethink and improve approaches to healthcare, education, social safety nets, communication, and infrastructure?

Many of us have a new understanding of the interdependence of human beings, regardless of race, culture, nationality, or borders. Exposed inequities have shown us that social justice issues are also public health and economic concerns. If there’s one thing I’ve learned from completing multiple educational assessments, a known weakness is always an opportunity for improvement.

So what opportunities for improvement can the next year and beyond bring us? During the brief pockets of calm in between the turmoil of the past year, I took time to reflect. Much of this time is spent wrestling with my decisions. Do we play sports? Do I visit with my sisters whom I haven’t seen in years? Can we eat out as long as we’re outdoors? When can the kids see their grandparents? Over and over, I agonize over how to hurt the fewest people possible.

While the anxiety of these worries often crushes me, I’ve realized that I really like this part of myself. I do not have the capacity to dismiss others’ pain and I cannot ignore suffering, whether it comes from an invisible virus or the centuries of systematic oppression that was exposed to the world through last summer’s protests. I’m an ally and a fighter who wants to help. I REALLY LOVE that about myself. I also love that my children know this, not because I tell them it’s important, but because they’ve seen me do it. 

This year also provided the opportunity and time to sit with my anger and reflect. I have been holding a fury in my heart for so long and I wasn’t sure how to let it go or if I actually wanted to. Rage can be a powerful tool for motivation. Anger can help us to keep fighting the good fight. It is also exhausting. It is an armor that protects, but also thwarts joy. 

I’ve started to learn how to take a break from the fight, remove that armor of rage, at least for a short time. I learned to forgive, but still protect myself. Some relationships rekindled with forgiveness, and others gave me the peace and relief of letting go. I’m still learning, but I can do something with this. It’s been humbling and painful, but I know I can be better, do better. I like this too.

Although it’s been months since we lost her, the muscle-memory in my heart sometimes forgets Lola is gone. I automatically turn to let her out before I leave the house or find myself in the dog food aisle wondering if I need to grab her food. I haven’t been able to bring myself to repair the windowsill she chewed and the thought of getting another dog feels like a betrayal.

Just as these reflexes will fade, so too will our muscle-memory of pandemic life, once enough people are vaccinated. If enough of us do the right thing and follow CDC recommendations, eventually we won’t ask ourselves if we need a mask or stop suddenly before asking if it’s ok to shake hands or hug. As much as we want the pain from what and who we’ve lost to subside, I do hope that we retain a bit of that pain and use it for positive change.

My grief from losing Lola was so intense, despite the 13 years of constant challenges she posed for me. I thought I would feel a bit of relief when she died, but it was only bitter heartache. A dear friend of mine opined that the struggle a pet, person, experience puts us through increases our sense of loss and deepens the hole left in our lives.

The same could be true for the excruciating experience of this pandemic. It has exposed selfishness, ignorance, and craven opportunism; however, it also showed some of us our capacity for empathy and our willingness to sacrifice for others. Covid is ravaging families and taking millions of lives too soon. It has kept so many of us from our friends and family, but also provided many much-needed time to reconnect. The pandemic exposed the idiocy of humanity, while highlighting our incredible ingenuity. 

“I’m so over Covid.” My fists clench Every. Single. Time. someone uses this callous and myopic phrase-people are dying for God’s sake. While I understand the exhaustion so many of us feel with our lives upended, it has become the calling card of someone whose extent of suffering was a cancelled beach vacation and the discomfort of wearing a mask to the grocery store. As much as I want to put this pandemic in the past, I despise this phrase.

None of us should ever allow ourselves to be completely over Covid. Despite the grief, despite the hardship, despite the anxiety, this year has given those of us who survived an opportunity. We can honor our struggle and those we lost by being and doing better.

This will look different for all of us, as it should. The possibilities are infinite and we can all find spaces in our lives to build from the ashes of our grief. Much of what I’m doing involves returning to what gives me joy: Dance parties in the kitchen, entertaining friends, long easy runs, coaching, traveling, gardening, and of course, porch cocktails. The time and space for humility and introspection paved a way forward and I can’t let the whirlwind of life-back-to-normal whisk it away.

We should enjoy life and find joy in self-improvement, but more importantly, this is a chance for a renewed sense of community and responsibility. This past year has shown us that our lives LITERALLY depend on each other and that our individual choices resonate far beyond the tiny fish bowl of our lives. This pandemic has presented us with an opportunity to be better, one that I hope we all decide to take.