This morning, like every morning, I got out of bed and made my way to the bathroom. However, unlike mornings of the past, for these last seven weeks, when I sit to pee, I reach for the tiniest square I can get away with, realizing that I will never look at toilet paper in the same way again. And then, while still sitting there, as I do every morning for the past seven weeks, I look at the wall and say to myself, “Well, here we are again.” 

I pull on yesterday’s t-shirt, sweatshirt and pajama bottoms and make my way downstairs anticipating my hot cup of coffee. Honestly, sometimes I think that if the world didn’t have coffee in it, I might not bother. Recently, I was diagnosed with an irregular heart rhythm and had to give up caffeine. Although, I thought death might be a better option, I gave hot water with lemon and dandelion tea the good ole college try.  After a week or so, death seemed more attractive. I’d always hated decaf coffee, and although even the scant amount of caffeine left in it caused a few flutters, I figured if I could drink dandelion coffee, even for a few days, I could get used to the taste of decaf and deal with the flutters. It wasn’t perfect, but it was good enough. As I stirred in my non-fat half and half, I went to my calendar. There is literally nothing on it; coronavirus has stopped the world and other than a few Zoom calls, and birthdays listed, gone are the lunch dates, dinner dates, tennis matches, practices and basically all things that make life worth living. Knowing there is nothing there doesn’t stop me from looking because my calendar, made by my daughter-in-law, is full of pictures of my granddaughter, Cora. So, I head over, coffee in hand to get my first morning smile as I gaze at Cora’s yummy face. And then I realize April is over. GONE. 

Turning the calendar over hurts. On the flip side, I will get new photos to look at every morning, but also on the flip side, is another month that I am only too sure will be spent trying to fill with something worthy, only to realize that I don’t want to do any of the things that qualify, in my mind, as worthy. For some, the coronavirus lockdown has been a gift of time to accomplish things like cleaning out basements and reorganizing closets or getting fit. They’ve learned to sew face masks, have organized fundraisers to help the essential workers, or taken up knitting. I’m not one of those people and choosing to do none of those things creates a vicious cycle of Netflix, raw cookie dough, self loathing, Hulu, brownies, self loathing, bed. Time is marching on and I can physically feel it slipping through my fingers. It’s time I can’t get back and don’t choose to fill with household chores. It’s time that has been stolen from me.

My children are grown and no longer live with me. I don’t see them everyday and haven’t for years. Yet, somehow, this virus has brought back those feelings of loss I experienced the first week they left for college or moved out. My heart hurts. My freedom to see them, to touch them, to wrap them up in a hug has been taken from me. Embracing them; the most natural thing for a mother to do, has become taboo; dangerous. And in their desire to keep me safe, they keep their distance, diligently. It’s killing me. My granddaughter, Cora, video chats with me and every time she says, “Nana, read me all the books,” it breaks my heart. She won’t remember this time, but I will. At her age, every day makes a difference and she is changing so quickly. Too quickly for another month to go by. 

After I turned 50, I began to understand that time is not something to be afraid of, but it was also not something to be toyed with or taken for granted. A certain settling takes place and you come to understand that when gifted a beautiful day, you should take a walk. When the daffodils first bloom, you might want to grab a vase and cut a few for your kitchen table. Old hurts and transgressions should be healed or released and you should take the chance to hop on a plane, or jump in the car to do something you want to do. After 50, if a book I am reading doesn’t grab me in 30 or so pages, I go on to the next book. If relationships, despite my best efforts, still cause me pain, I let them go. There is no time to waste on pettiness, gossip or other 7th grade mean girl drama.

 There is also an understanding that nothing lasts forever and the limits of the body become more obvious daily. At first, I needed reading glasses, then special inserts for my sneakers. My knees made terrifying noises as I climbed stairs and eventually I realized I needed to start following the girl doing the modified version on my DVD workouts. Blood test results changed, the heart began to flutter and the passage of time became more visible, more physical. 

 I don’t have limitless numbers of tennis seasons left in my knees and shoulders. Cora can’t stop learning words, or stop her baby face from turning into a little girl’s. My parents won’t live forever and my kids may not always live near me, possibly putting a number on our times to be together for birthdays, holidays or vacations. My chicken neck will only get worse, leaving only so many days to go without a stylish scarf. I want those days back. 

 I can take solace that this experience has given me the knowledge that life can change quickly, and our freedom to choose how we spend our time and who we spend it with can be taken away.  Going forward, I won’t allow days to go by without knowing they were precious. Hugging my kids, once taken for granted, will feel like a gift. Being with Cora will be time spent watching for the little things; her eye rolls, her silly grins and the way she cuddles up on the couch next to me for a book. I will revel in the details and the little things. I will play tennis with wild abandon, complete that modified workout better than the instructor, and keep the scarves in the closet for a few more years. 

And while I wait, I’ll pause Netflix, and go for a walk. I’ll bring scissors to cut what’s left of the daffodils for my kitchen table. I will accept that, for now, the video chat is my only option to read to Cora. I’ll be sure to tell my kids I love and miss them. I will allow May to arrive and be optimistic that by the next time I turn my calendar, it will be on a morning when I have plenty of toilet paper and am headed out for a tennis match with friends, followed by dinner with the kids and a sleepover with Cora.  “Time is on your side, yes it is…"