A year in the COVID-19 life of a mom who tried to stay sane and then tested positive | Opinion

Two weeks, and we can all go back to normal. It’s been a long two weeks.

Staring down the novel coronavirus one year ago, few of us could envision the dystopia ahead. Each of us became unwitting contestants on a new game show brought to you by Satan himself: World Spinning Completely Out of Control. This show has offered outstanding prizes behind every door. …

Door #1: A new and deadly virus! The constant uncertainty and lack of consensus was the hardest part in those early days. Mask-wearing was still up for debate. And grocery-shopping? May the odds be ever in your favor. My own family of four adjusted as the loved ones we’d always counted on during times of trouble became potential bringers of death. Trusted and tested advice from experts — If you do this, you’ll be OK — didn’t exist. Suddenly, we were homeschooling. Afraid and isolated, I grasped at straws for some semblance of control over my existence. And, I’m embarrassed to admit now, I washed the Cinnamon Toast Crunch box.

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Door #2: Murder of innocent people and worldwide protests! Shortly after the United States began to understand that COVID-19 was our new normal, the police killing of George Floyd ignited a powder keg. Boom.

Racism finally became real to people who’d previously refused to acknowledge it. The planet watched as the cat scampered out of the bag: White privilege exists? An inconceivable shift of collective consciousness began as conversations about race and Blackness became mainstream. My children quickly picked up on the change in the air. I felt a pit in my stomach answering their innocent questions about grave topics. Why does color matter? Why do they hurt us?

There were also beautiful moments, such as when my 8-year-old daughter touched my hair — I’ve grown out my relaxer this year into an admittedly sketchy Afro. (I’m still working on it.) Black is beautiful, Mommy. You are beautiful. I felt sad knowing my upbringing in pre-2000s America meant my child had to remind me I am beautiful. I felt gleeful knowing that she gets to grow up in a world where Black self-love and confidence are demanded.

Door #3: A frightening presidential election, a precarious transfer of power, and a shiny coup d’etat! We watched the fabric of America unravel on live television.

Part of remaining in control involved finding inventive ways to protect my children from the madness. Our family was able to create a learning pod to combat the isolation, which came with its own uncertainty. No one had a crystal ball to know if or under what circumstances schools would open. Uncharted territory led to clashes and confusion among kids, parents, and caregivers. A friendship imploded in the process.

Meanwhile I was battling depression and anxiety during a pandemic, plus major social and political unrest. On good days, I feel like a decorated general screaming at my mental troops: PULL IT TOGETHER! KEEP MOVING! On bad days, I’m spiraling out of control, nurturing an unhealthy addiction to social media, attempting to stay one step ahead of whatever is coming next.

When our school finally offered a hybrid model, that sounded to some like a chance for relief, for children and adults. Most of the kids in our pod opted to go back to a brick-and-mortar building. But our family readjusted (yet again) since we chose to keep our own kids at home. No hard feelings — I get it. Kids really should be in school. But for me, in-person school still feels a little too uncertain at the moment.

As the pod wound down and we all prepared to go our separate ways, the boogeyman we’d worked so hard to avoid finally struck: COVID-19. What should have been our last week together as a pod was spent in quarantine. An asymptomatic child had an unrelated medical procedure and tested positive during a routine test. All of us in the pod retreated to our homes and got tested.

It turned out I was positive, too.

I isolated from my children and husband, who’d tested negative. Luckily, my symptoms ranged from mild to nonexistent. My desperate quest to cheat COVID-19 and death led to taking more vitamins and herbal remedies than I care to admit I’d found via desperate 3 a.m. internet searches. Had they actually paid off?

More than likely I just got lucky. But it’s comforting to think maybe, at one point in this hellish year, I controlled my own outcome.

I wish I could say I’d been more productive over the past year — perhaps mastering a language, learning a new instrument, or growing a garden.

“All of us struggling deserve a pat on the back.”

I didn’t do any of that. I paced (a lot). Watched Netflix (way too much). But I did accomplish something very important: I kept my anxiety from taking over. I kept myself and my family healthy and sane. My kids and their friends experienced relative social normalcy in a pod for almost 5½ months, thanks to a valiant group effort and a little ingenuity. They watched history as the world began to change for the better. And I had the surreal experience of witnessing blissful children and tearful parents of our pod chant “KA-MA-LA!” together on Inauguration Day. Maybe the tide will turn, after all.

As Satan’s 2020 game show extends well into 2021, I remind myself that all of us struggling deserve a pat on the back. Overall, we’ve been pretty good sports about the world imploding. We’ve rested and grieved where we needed to. We’ve created our new normal and kept moving.

We need this demonic game show to get canceled soon. Until then, together we can commit to taking a deep breath, celebrating that we get to wear masks instead of washing down individual cereal boxes, and controlling each episode the best we can.

Bethany Watson-Ostrowski owns Bethany’s Events Catering and is a project manager and external liaison for Vector Group Consulting.