Presence and Practices
From the moment Sage’s fever registered over 103 degrees, I started getting worried. Not complete panic, but worry. See, there’s a spectrum of fear. On one side is the almost benign “concern” and on the other side there is “screaming, what-the-hell-is-going-on” panic. I was somewhere in the middle.
But by the time we reached urgent care and the nurse reported that his fever was a blazing 104.6, I was hitting the panic button. The doctor told us, “Well, if we weren’t in a global pandemic, I would send you to the ER,” words I didn’t think I would ever hear. “But since we are, you have about 24 hours before things could go completely awry, so I might wait.” “Hmm,” I thought, “wait 24 hours before we are at the bursting point? I think not. But risk exposure to the COVID-19 virus? I don’t know.”
My husband and I decided to take our chances. Since he’s a hospital chaplain and already at risk for exposure, he decided to take Sage to the children’s hospital about 30 minutes away. Since Sage was so young and unlikely to die from COVID-19 (these are strange rationalizations to make in these days) if he contracted it, I decided it was for the best. Since I have a compromised system, my husband told me I shouldn’t go. As he and Sage pulled away, the tears stung my face. I can’t be with my baby. What’s going to happen? Will his fever go down? Are we making the right decision? What if he gets this monstrous virus?
That night I waited and watched the clock. I did the only thing I could think of — I called a dear friend. My voice started to break when she answered, but then deep down, almost from some ancient place, I calmed, and the words that came out of my mouth were quiet, slow, serene. I shared the details: the fever, the urgent care visit, the struggle to decide what to do. But all as if I was being held. Maybe, as I say to my children, “I was holding on to myself. I didn’t give in to the fear. The adult that lives in me showed up to the table, spoke to the frightened child and said, “Not now, not this time. I’ve got this. You’re not alone. You’re going to get through this.”
At the end of the phone call, my friend said the words I needed to hear but didn’t know it at the time, “You did the right thing.” Tears again came to my eyes, but I felt a sense of relief, peace, and grace. I truly had what I had prayed so many times before “the peace that passes understanding.”
Over the next seven days, I waited to hear the test results. It felt like purgatory being apart from my child and watching his fever yo-yo. But, somewhere in the middle of it all, I felt steadied, calm, assured. I didn’t recognize it at the time, but now upon reflection, I see it as resiliency, formed after experiencing many other little and large losses in my life.
Though we don’t usually see our own transformation in real-time (it’s like watching hair grow!), we see it in hindsight. I realize I have been doing the very things I’ve counseled others to do: lean into your sources of strength. For me, that was a caring presence (my dear friend), my faith, and the practice of surrender that I thought I had been failing terribly at. But for that horrific Tuesday and the days that followed, I felt carried. Carried by Presence and practices.
So, now, when anxiety tries to rear its ugly head, I remember those sources of strength. And for good measure, I move that fear out by taking a brisk walk around the neighborhood or a bike ride. I continue to be baffled at the mystery of how those practices do their work in and through me preparing me for whatever comes next. And I am in awe of those who have been willing to walk alongside me as a caring presence. Today, I am filled with an overwhelming sense of gratitude. I can almost locate that gratitude in my body somewhere. It feels like warmth washing over. In these tender and charged times, may we all lean into our sources of strength and build our own resilience knowing warmth and Presence.