Almost Spring, Tired of Resilience, and Contemplating Ten Years Ago

Pink rhododendrons

Almost Spring

Spring on the East side of Seattle typically starts showing up mid-February, with daffodils, cherry and plum blossoms, and camellias, but this year, winter has kept its cold grip on us, and all the gardens – including mine – are showing barely a spark of life. So we went driving around yesterday looking for signs of spring. We didn’t find many – these pink rhododendrons by Lake Washington, a red swirl camellia, and the jonquils in my yard were the only signs spring might – MIGHT – be on its way. And we’ve had more than our share of rainbows, but mostly in between the gloom of hailstorms, thunderstorms, and just plain rain. We are ready for more light, and more than just metaphorically speaking.

House finch and chickadee

Tired of “Resilience”

Are you as tired of that word as I am? If I am told one more time by a newsperson or magazine article that I need to build more “resilience,” I will scream. It has been a year since the pandemic was recognized here in the states, a year in which we lost 500,000 people in our country and 5,000 in our state. I am still waiting to hear when Washington State will start vaccinating people like me – disabled, chronically ill types who would certainly be at risk of death if they caught covid – but alas, they are only focusing on age as a risk factor, so I guess I’ll be waiting forever? It’s enough to give a girl a nervous breakdown, especially with the news that more contagious, more deadly variants of covid-19 are developing in CA and NY.

Add on top of that, the writer’s life that is mostly rejection, rejection, rejection, and the advice to build resilience can get really old. I did get an acceptance today, and I have some poems coming out soon in “dream journals” of mine, journals I have been loving for years, like Fairy Tale Review and Image, among others. So I am thankful for that.

But as I as listening to hail hit our roof and windows the other night, I was wondering if one of my three manuscripts I’ve been sending out will get taken soon, or at least before I die. I’m not kidding about that, and I’m not being melodramatic. Everything feels dangerous right now – I have to go to the dentist for a broken tooth this week, and get an MRI for my liver tumors which could kill me if we don’t keep a close eye on them- and without a vaccine it literally feels like I’m risking my life. And let’s not even talk about how impatient my neurologists are being for me to get brain MRIs and other MS tests I have to do in person. I can’t imagine how it feels for my friends who are young but have cancer and are going to regular treatments – and I have several – and be unable to get a vaccine while constantly being in a dangerous hospital environment. Much worse than me, probably. In the meantime, I’m happy for friends in other states who are able to get the vaccine, but I wish my own state would start acting like it values the lives of people like me. I’m happy the third vaccine, Johnson & Johnson, has been approved, but no word on rollout yet. No amount of resilience is going to make up for the tension, anxiety, loneliness, boredom, danger and strain of the last year, and platitudes do not make things better. My usual coping mechanisms- spending time in nature, reading and writing, and connecting with friends (these days, mostly by phone) – may not be adequate to what we are facing.

Reading before a party, 2011

Nostalgia and Reminiscing: Ten Years Ago

What were you doing ten years ago? I couldn’t really remember, so I looked back in a fit of nostalgia at pictures and blog posts from ten years ago, in 2011. I was 37, my second book came out, and even though Glenn remembers me being very sick that year (as yet undiagnosed with a mast cell disorder, a primary immune deficiency, or MS, I was really struggling with symptoms of all those things uncontrolled), I noticed I traveled, I saw friends, I even hosted a couple of parties and did readings. When I was younger, it was easier to “push through” than it is now. I am lucky enough to still be friends with most of the people in these pictures, too! We can’t always say that!

In March 2011, I was very concerned about the Fukushima disaster in Japan, especially as I have several friends that were impacted by the earthquake, tsunami and nuclear meltdown, and its enormous environmental impact. We are always experiencing some kind of crisis here on earth, aren’t we? I was looking forward to going to the Skagit Tulip Festival, I think I was planning a birthday/book party (?), and the Skagit Poetry Festival was coming up. Even though I was sick, I managed to go to a lot of things that cheered me up, and saw a bunch of friends. Looking at these picture makes me impatient for the time I can be inside a bookstore with friends, having people over the house without worry. When will we be able to do that again? Experts are giving us different times – summer, Christmas, 2022? Hopefully sooner rather than later, and hopefully science (the vaccines) will outpace evolution (mutations of the virus).

Sylvia and Shakespeare, looking like negative photos of each other

So much happens in ten years, right? But some things are comfortingly the same. The tulips will bloom in La Conner this year, whether or not there are crowds to greet them. I lost cousins, a close Aunt and Uncle, both my maternal grandparents. I gained four nieces and nephews. Spring will eventually come to us in Seattle, the days will get longer, more people will get vaccinated. Over ten years, I published three more books, getting correctly diagnosed with several health problems meant I could manage my symptoms better, and I am thankful for friends and family that are still with me. Getting older for me really does feel like a blessing, given that I was given six months to live back in 2018 from liver cancer, and multiple cases of pneumonia could have killed me, but didn’t. Even in quarantine, I am thankful for birds outside my window, my little garden, my cats, husband’s steadiness in the face of disasters. I am wishing you things that can make the next few months, if not joyful, at least bearable.