My Unwelcome Guest

It was late in the year of 2019 when the novel Corona virus sent a ripple of alarm through the medical communities of the world. By March of 2020, what should have been a social and ruckus maple syrup season, with families gathering in our bush-lot to boil sap down to a sugary goldness, became a solitary event; my husband and I alone but for a few precious brave stragglers, as we watched the world close up its shutters. Glued to our cell phones for closure updates and case numbers, the generator humming outside, wood crackling and sap bubbling, we could hardly imagine what was to come.

I was so naïve. I foolishly thought the break would be a welcome relief. I stewed in my secret joy, believing I was going to achieve so much with this lock down. I was going to finally have the time and bandwidth to WRITE. I would finish editing my second novel, find an agent, polish up my fourth novel and practically go on tour with all my new brilliant material.

It took a while for the virus to ship its way to us, up here in Grey Bruce, but the stress of the pandemic settled upon me almost instantly as we grieved with the world. Like an unwanted guest, stress pulled off his sweaty boots, rolled down his fragrant socks, and then he proceeded to drop them on my floor. I’ve nurtured this invader, camped out on my couch for these many long months—feeding him by watching the news, hanging off statistics, and judging others for their actions or lack of action. It has been a jarring and belly dropping roller coaster of adapting to never ending protocol shifts and policy changes and all the while I’ve failed to meet my lockdown writing goals.  

We were so sanctimonious in our little part of the world, naively thinking the virus would never reach us here, nestled in the Grey-Bruce farm land and bush. We were wrong. This virus thrives on humans who interact and we, in this relay race of life, need each other. The viral baton, passed with Olympic efficiency, finally found my home town and a colleague unknowingly brought the virus, picked up from an asymptomatic family member, to work. That’s when I got the dreaded call from the Health Department.  

Unfortunately, with almost our entire practice considered high risk, the exposure put our business into lock down. You would think two weeks of isolation would serve my writing, but this was not the case. Going into work-isolation, only allowed to be at home or work, with my blood pressure spiking and nights spent churning over our team’s safety, I pulled my unwanted guest, stress, in close.

We broke into teams to rotate emergency care for our patients, juggled COVID testing appointments, accommodated sick days and orchestrated innumerable tiny details to support our team and patients. To top it all off, we were battling our own version of a pet pandemic, with a local kennel cough outbreak plaguing our canine friends. 

Needless to say, as a parent during a pandemic, supporting my children through home school, a business owner accommodating the needs of our team and clients, my writing, like everything non-essential–suffered. 

And now, I’ve had enough—dam my Canadian politeness.

It’s time for me to kick this free loader and his stinky socks off my couch. I know I can’t obliterate this virus on my own—although I will continue to do my part by following the health expert’s guidelines, but I can swing open the door and boldly demand with rather colourful language, that my house guest leave. He has outstayed his welcome.

As I emerge from isolation, ever grateful for my health and family, I choose optimism and embrace the faith that this pandemic is coming to an end. It’s time to get back to what we love and what we’ve missed. Time to put myself out there, begin querying again and share the stories only I can tell.