The Pandemic Doesn’t Define Your Life — You Do

article by LAURA W CLARK

I’m writing this column while looking through the large living room window of my childhood home in South Dakota. I gazed through this window a lot growing up, especially when the world seemed too big, and my problems even bigger. It calmed me to look at our back yard and focus on the strawberry patch or the yellow dandelions, which despite being told otherwise, I believed were beautiful flowers. It’s March, so I’m currently looking at snow. The snow is beautiful in its own way—it blankets everything, including the dirt—with a clean, white cover.

Like many of you, I want a clean, white cover to make COVID-19 disappear. I want everyone—including those I don’t know—to recover both physically and emotionally. I want my Facebook newsfeed to feature screaming goat videos and Napolean Dynamite memes, not daunting stories about people dying, healthcare providers working without protective equipment, and people ignoring CDC’s safety guidelines. But, I have no control over how others behave. And I can take some comfort in that. I can only control how I choose to react to the crisis we all face. I can stay home, I can reach out to friends, and I can look out my window and appreciate what I see.

After I was diagnosed with cancer in 2005, I started to think about who I wanted to be when the cancer disappeared. Was I going to be scared all of the time? Or would I try to live the best life I could, despite my lack of energy and the unknown nature of the disease? One day, early in my diagnosis, I casually said to my new neighbor, “I have cancer, so I have to undergo radiation.” He responded, “Don’t claim that disease. It’s part of your life, but don’t claim it as your own.” I didn’t really understand what he meant at the time, but later I did. The cancer didn’t disappear as doctors predicted; the disease stayed with me for 15 years. However, the cancer no longer had much power over me because I didn’t let it define me. My health worries lessened because the worst thing (at least in my 20-something-year-old mind) had already happened. And I survived it; I lived alongside it.

So, who am I going to be during and after this pandemic? Am I going to mourn my freedom, which included several coffee shop visits and lunch dates with friends? Yes, I have grieved that loss. Will I berate myself for not accomplishing enough professionally and not investing enough time in my six-year-old son’s homework? Yes, I am guilty of all of that. But now, I’m trying something new. I limit my social media consumption to 30 minutes a day, not because I want to miss friend updates, but because my news feed is full of scary headlines. I also make an effort to call one friend each day. And I’m heeding my Southern mother’s advice: wear nice clothes and choose the red lipstick. So this week, I’ve ditched the yoga pants for actual pants, and I’ve been reaching for my Mac Russian Red lipstick. She’s right. I do feel better.

I won’t be perfect. There will be days when I click on the ominous headline. However, I won’t berate myself for doing so. When I watch a movie and see people interacting—in person—I will momentarily mourn our loss of normalcy, but I will move forward and embrace what I can control: how I respond to uncertainty. Anxiety has always fueled me to take action. If I can lessen someone’s pain with a phone call or a Zoom meeting, then I’m contributing to something bigger than myself, and that brings me a sense of peace.

I have also always been hopeful, sometimes naively so. And I have a lot of hope for our future. The other day, a police officer stopped at my parents’ driveway, stepped out of his car, and gave my son and nephew badges for “excellent tree-climbing skills.” My six-year-old son immediately slapped his sticker on his jacket, puffed out his chest, stuck his hands on his hips, and proclaimed, “I am a HERO.” The police officer didn’t use the word “hero,” but his actions made my son feel like one. As the officer drove away, he turned on his siren. Fueled by their new badges, both boys began climbing the tree with even more energy.

In the time I spent writing this column, the snow began melting, and with it, the reality of our backyard began to appear. That’s OK, though. I can appreciate the temporary beauty until the snow—and hopefully soon, the flowers—returns. I know we can do the same in this unbelievable chapter of 2020.

I want to thank and send virtual hugs to my friends/heroes working in the healthcare industry. I am in awe of you. I wish everyone hope, health, and happiness—whatever that looks like right now.

Laura W. Clark, owner of Vivian’s Voice, LLC, a communications consulting company, can be reached at [email protected]