The New Year has certainly brought its challenges. I planned on a slow start. That way, I’d have lots of time for the next steps of my new book, The Promise of Women’s Boxing, set to be published in June.
What I got was my second bout of COVID-19, and worst of all, Jed came down with it. Sure, there was sneezing, coughing, fever, headache, and some GI discomfort, but for Jed, there was also a sudden wave of confusion that was scary for both of us.
He quickly went on a course of Paxlovid to try to squelch the illness as quickly as possible, and for me, a turn in Izzi’s old room, where I’d set up my work area but now, a bedroom of sorts to make sure my non-stop coughing didn’t disturb Jed.
What I didn’t expect was a night of calm sleep.
Yes, I still responded to the sounds of Jed in the night. Even mopping up the floor where he’d had an accident, a feature of his COVID-19 response. But my time alone in what had been Izzi’s room was a respite of sorts. Time alone to drift. To sleep. To not sleep. To be fitful. All the moments that one has, but unscrutinized and interrogated. I was not awakened in the middle of the night; not plagued by my caregiver’s grumpiness at never having a break.
I’ve written about a caregiver’s need for self-care. Putting that into action is something else again. For me, it’s been a combination of claiming space to write a book, to go to the gym, to sit in a drift in a cafe when I have respite care from Jed’s companions Lynn or Maya, or some other action. But I admit to its being fleeting at times, and as Jed’s illness moves forward as an inevitability, I’ve come to learn that those moments to oneself become more and more a required feature of day-to-day life, any guilt about it be damned.
I also admit that it is unsettling at times. As Jed’s ability to recall who I am or whether we are actually married or not becomes a fact of our lives together, the notion of a shared room recedes as well. And yet he’ll ask, “Where are you sleeping?” Feeling his way to a past where we’d never have slept apart.
In those moments, I feel a shattering loss.
An echo of what was.
And there is a grief in life that can become so great that receding into Izzi’s old room becomes my only defense against a sense of utter devastation.
So now, Izzi’s old room is my room. The place where I climb into my bed at night, having firmly wished Jed a good night at the end of our evening routine of washing up, brushing teeth, and turning out the lights.
Girlboxing 