Anniversaries

Charlie’s teachers have told her that her class is behind because they have some learning loss from the pandemic. Charlie understands this. She says not getting to see your friends and having to go to zoom school was so awful that everybody just wants to forget everything about that time—including whatever it was they were trying to teach the kids over zoom school.

Charlie, forgetting zoom school. Photo by author

Forgetting the pandemic is a tempting idea. Especially now, as we begin what I think of as anniversary season.

January 20, 2020 was a pretty normal day for me. In some ways, I think of it as the last normal day, because that was the day the first person in Washington (and in the US, for that matter) was diagnosed with COVID-19. I was in Tacoma with colleagues at a conference on equity in state government. I remember the meetings; I remember the carpool; I remember the text messages from across the country: “Must be an interesting day to be in public health in Washington.” On that day, I could respond with a shrug. Sometimes we see unusual diseases appear, briefly spread, and disappear. We’ll be busy, doing what we can to make sure one case doesn’t turn into 10, or, you know, a global pandemic. But, really, on that day, there was no reason to foresee what was to come.

I get through this anniversary just fine. Soon, we’ll get to the anniversary of the day we announced this first death in WA (and the US) from COVID-19. The anniversary of the weeks and weeks of unprecedented work. The anniversary of the Valentine’s Day I spent at the Public Health Lab. The anniversary of the day in March I walked through the building telling my team to take a week or two worth of stuff with them and go home for just a brief shut down to stop the spread. The anniversary of the first time I got “hate email” for doing my job. The anniversary of the day in March the kids came home from school for what would end up being an entire year. The anniversary of the first time someone I love told me they were rejecting public health and medical advice. Well before the anniversary of the day in April when the kids had to start zoom school, my body starts to react to the remembering. Generally, by insisting on a nap.

One Saturday in March of 2021, I got up and then just kept going back to bed. I remember the heaviness, the exhaustion, my husband gently suggesting, “I can’t help but wonder if something is wrong?” I called the doctor, got a prescription, and took two weeks off. I napped the entire first week. By the second week I was coming back a bit.

In March of 2022, we knew what was happening and called the doctor to adjust my prescription the first time I crawled back into bed midmorning.

As we approach March 2023, forgetting starts to seem like a good idea.

But then, as Charlie points out, forgetting comes with learning loss, and some of the ways the pandemic changed us I want to remember.

I take even minor respiratory infections more seriously now. I think more about how they spread, and I don’t want to spread even a cold to others. I think more about ventilation—at home and in public buildings. I stay home when I’m sick. I spend more time outside. I have a favorite type of mask. I wash my hands more.

I’m grateful for curbside pickup. I’m grateful I learned about all those services that bring groceries or restaurant meals to your house. I’m grateful for every time I get to hang out with my friends, because I remember the time we couldn't. I’m grateful Charlie can be in choir again, because I remember when it was dangerous for her to sing with her friends.

I’m grateful for work meetings that we can hold in person. I’m grateful that I can travel again and see, support, and be supported by my public health colleagues across the state. I think about my job differently. I work at home and have my work and home lives integrated more seamlessly than I ever have before. I don’t take for granted my ability to plan for the future, because I remember my disrupted and canceled plans.

I remember how it felt to be isolated, and I have compassion for those still isolated. I know on a more cellular level that anyone I run into may be dealing with loss. Or grieving. Or traumatized. I think differently about what it means to be healthy. Yes, it means not getting COVID or some other infectious disease, but it also means healthy relationships, time to connect, time to grieve.

In the US, we are grieving the loss of over one million people. More than 15,000 of those lost lived here in Washington. The loss of a beloved family member is crushing. Multiplied by a million families across the country, the grief is unimaginable.

I want to remember the people we lost, the people still isolated, and the lessons we learned. I want to remember what we did. Together.

A recent report from the Commonwealth Fund estimates that 3.2 million people are alive in the US today because December 2020 through November 2022 so many of us (80% in the US!) got vaccinated to protect ourselves, our families, and our communities. In Washington state, the work we did to follow stay-at-home orders and wear our masks saved thousands of people—we have the 5th lowest death rate from COVID-19 in the US.

I want to remember that, to quote Glennon Doyle, we can do hard things. We can work together to protect each other. We can build communities that take care of their neighbors. Communities where we value each other, and we don’t take our health or our lives for granted. I know we’ll be able to make the sacrifices needed to keep our planet alive. I know we will come together to help each other survive the storms and struggles we will see as the climate changes.

I know this, because I remember that we’re the people who came together during the hardest period of our lives to save the lives of 3.2 million of our neighbors.