Sing Me a Song of a Lass that is Gone

"Say, could that lass be I? 
Merry of soul, she sailed on a day
Over the sea to Skye

All that was good
All that was fair
All that was me is gone" (The Skye Boat Song) 

Yes, I'm an Outlander fan (more the books than the show, but the show will do), and those lyrics have been speaking to me. Last fall, I was on top of the world. I had a bout of pneumonia in September that sapped my energy for several weeks. Then after not getting better after the first round of antibiotics, I went on a "burst" of Prednisone, which as someone with asthma, is something I do every couple of years. Prednisone makes me feel amazing, I don't know why. I went on a fruit-buying spree as soon as the Prednisone kicked in and started making all the things, lugging bushels of produce off the farmstand myself, even though doing so made me cough up a lung. I don't think I've ever felt more happy and satisfied with how my life was going. All my children were well, James was a year out of his afib ablation and feeling better, I was excited for my senior year of college, and all that was coming.

Then November happened. It started one day when I woke up in the morning and noticing that my nightgown had a significant bloodstain over one breast. I knew that was potentially not great, so I tried expressing fluid to see if it was coming from my nipple. It was. I made an appointment with my doctor right away, who examined me and said while she didn't feel a lump, blood was abnormal, and I needed a diagnostic mammogram as soon as possible. Eight days later, which involved much sobbing, begging for an appointment, and fear, I got an ultrasound and mammogram, and the doctor waltzed into the room to give me results saying, "You look beautiful dahling!". Thankfully, my results were normal. On with life. We had a wonderful Christmas, and I was doing volunteer work I love and anticipating my grad school interview, which happened in March.

March 7, I had an all-day group interview for my dream Master's program. I nervously awaited results and booked a tattoo for March 13. I knew about the coronavirus, but like almost everyone, I didn't think it was a big deal yet. That all changed mid-March when everything in my state was closed down. My 12-year-old spent a year in therapy to overcome his contamination OCD so that he would be brave enough to play football. After three weeks of practicing, the league had to shut down due to coronavirus. Then my husband was laid off from his second job as a bouncer at a bar/restaurant. The financial part was not insurmountable, even though he doesn't qualify for unemployment. Still, we are sick at heart for the other employees, who have become friends, that worked full-time in the restaurant industry.

Then word came that my oldest son, who is a Navy airman, was not going to be granted leave and would be deploying immediately after completing some training at sea. I had planned a train trip to Seattle to visit him, after which he'd come home for one last time before deploying for nearly a year. All of that is now gone, and we will not see him until sometime in 2021. Then my college commencement was canceled. Just in my little way, I have had so many things changed and some lost forever, and yet, I know others are facing situations that are so much worse.

Honestly, I haven't been doing okay. I've alternated between feeling panicky about the present and the future and numb to feeling anything. It's hard to see how things will ever be "okay" again, but I know that this feeling can often be a symptom of depression and depression lies. I have taken several weeks off from Crisis Text Line and will take off more time until I feel that I can legitimately help someone who is struggling. Right now, I'm struggling, and I'm trying to put on my own oxygen mask. After my breast cancer scare, I went back to therapy because I realized I have a tremendous fear of death. With coronavirus and all the associated harms from the measures to control it, I have been struggling with the sense of loss of control again. I had a telemedicine appointment with my doctor today, and he agreed I needed some pharmacological help. I'm going on an antidepressant for the second time in my life. I took medication for six months when I was suffering from postpartum depression after I had Felix (which I wrote about here), and it helped me tremendously with getting over the "hump" of depression that I couldn't see a way out of.

I'm not at the point where I feel hopeful yet. I don't know what is coming in the future and I don't know if it will be "normal" again. There is a rational part of my brain that still cataloged my depressed thinking and sounded the alarm that I needed some help. I'm thankful that I'm able to listen to the rational part of my brain even though it doesn't "feel" like things will ever get better. My son will be deployed soon, and I'm "graduating" college on May 10 (I put "graduate" in quotes because if a person graduates from college in the woods and nobody is there to see it, does it make a sound?). These things will happen whether I am ready for them or not. I'm doing everything I can to be as equipped as possible to handle whatever the world decides to throw at humanity next.

I, like the world, am (to paraphrase Winston Churchill) not sure if I'm at the end of the beginning, or beginning of the end. Either way, I am grieving for the loss of the "Lass" who was "Merry of soul" before coronavirus came into all of our lives. I know grieving is not just for death, but for the way things used to be. All that was me is (for now), truly gone, and I'm coping with it like so many billions of people.

All this to say, there is no shame in struggling. It's okay if you don't feel like counting your blessings or contemplating all how it could be worse. Pain is pain, and it doesn't matter if you have it "easier" than some others. By the way, I was accepted into my dream grad program. I haven't been able to process it yet, and somehow I feel I might jinx it by uttering the words. As I used to tell texters who texted to Crisis Text Line, "It's okay not to be okay."