Hindsight is 2020

Today, December 22nd, 2020, marks nine years since my mom lost her battle with cancer. Instead of grieving in silence like I normally do, I’ve decided to write about my feelings in the hopes that facing up to my trauma will help other people overcome theirs (we’re all in this together, right?)

We hear it all the time, but 2020 has truly been a handmade gift from Satan. My fiancé and I have been fortunate in the sense that we’ve managed to keep our jobs and our loved ones, but a pandemic is still a pandemic. As essential workers, we worry constantly about getting sick. The phrase “return to normal” is interesting because it acknowledges that nothing is normal at the moment. Having a routine helps, but it often feels like trying to extinguish a house fire by taking a shower. (Normal doesn’t feel so boring anymore, does it?)

As we grapple with a public health crisis, weather economic uncertainty, and update our 2020 Bingo cards, self-care has become more important than ever. But how do you care for your mental health when you’ve taught yourself to care for others first?

I was 19 years old when I learned my mother had metastatic liver cancer. For the next 18 months, our lives became a never-ending nightmare of doctor appointments, hospital visits, difficult conversations, and trying to make the most of every moment (it didn’t always work, but that’s life). I was in university at the time and commuting three hours a day, which didn’t exactly have a positive effect on my stress. Did I mention we were also building a new house? (And I wonder why I struggle to relax: even on her deathbed, my mother was full of life. We should all be so lucky.)

Things really started to deteriorate in the second half of 2011, when her body stopped responding to chemotherapy. The difficult conversations became part of our daily routine, and I found myself wondering what life would look like without her in it. A few days after her funeral, as my father and I sat alone at the dining room table in our half-finished house, I had asked, “How am I supposed to [grieve] for the rest of my life?” But the strangest part of all this was how 2010, previously the worst year of my life, suddenly felt like "the good old days." Sound familiar?

I guess what I’m saying is 2011 was my 2020. The past nine years haven’t been easy. Most days are normal, but sometimes I suddenly remember that my best friend is gone, and I ask myself “How do I go on?” Right now everything is grey, like a highway shrouded in fog so thick that even the taillights on the car in front of you don’t penetrate the haze. We move forward out of necessity and habit. If we’re lucky, we end up where we need to be, even if it takes nine years to get there.

When I sit down to write a book, I don’t think of it as writing a book. That kind of monolithic thinking would guarantee I never wrote a single word. I mean, it’s a BOOK. So, I think of it as writing 80,000 words—not because that’s any less intimidating, but because the act of breaking down an ambitious goal into small steps is like driving slowly through the fog until the road signs become clear.

Although I can’t be sure what 2021 will bring (personally, my money’s on zombies), I know that 2020 will be over soon. Even if life isn’t the same after this, that doesn’t mean it can’t get better. If my mom were still alive, she’d say “This too shall pass.” And we all know that moms give the best advice.