The First Week

I don’t think I’ll ever forget what life was/is like these past 12 months. And I pray I never forget what it was like before March 2020.

But that narrow window of the first week. The uncertainty. The dark gloom. The lump in my throat, the constant verge of tears… that was its own unique time. One I could easily forget. One that faded as we settled into April, into the mandates and cliches, into re-learning how to function, re-learning how to live, re-learning how hope and to find joy.

That first week was its own separate experience for me. I was so scared. So stressed. Just waiting – not yet indefinitely because we didn’t KNOW it was indefinitely – for the hope that the 2-week mark would bring.

The last time I stepped off a plane was March 2. I was home – from Florida. I prayed thanks I had landed. That they’d let me back home. There were whispers, already then. Whispers about death, whispers about Florida, whispers about the end of everything we knew.

March 12. We knew we were moving to Wisconsin – in about 2 months. We didn’t have our Minnesota home on the market yet, so we weren’t ready to make any offers, but it was Spring Break and it was time. Time to have a meeting with the lender. Time to meet some of Libby’s new school staff. Time to meet our realtor and tour a home or two – start to feel things out.

We loaded the car on a Thursday morning and Tim drove first. I scrolled social media. Things were getting intense, that morning. I checked the glove compartment for a bottle of hand sanitizer. Thank God – almost a full bottle. Later we switched drivers. Tim became my “breaking news” eyes and ears. The biggest deal of the morning was the NCAA tournament being cancelled. “At least it’s March,” we said. “We’ll be fine by football season. Can you imagine?”

We drove through a McDonald’s for coffee. I paid in cash (change) and was suddenly keenly aware of how dirty and germy money is. It felt slimy and creepy-crawly as it warmed in my hand, waiting for the car in front to pull ahead. I basically threw it at the poor cashier. I sanitized my hands three times before I would touch the steering wheel again and pull up to next window. Tim watched in… awe? Derision? Admiration? Let’s go with admiration. Admiration at my commitment to slow the spread.

March 13. We met with our banker that morning and got the ball rolling. His finger was a bit more on the pulse of the implications of “all of this” for finance. For real estate. For job security. He said some things I don’t remember, but I do remember how I felt. So very insecure. Wobbly. Like everything as we knew it was about to crumble.

I met a friend for coffee who was supposed to be leaving that weekend for her big, beautiful trip of a lifetime. To Italy. We sat there in our very Wisconsin café drinking very Wisconsin coffee and wondered how this could be happening. Conversations were hushed. Intense. People glanced around with what looked like suspicion. Scooted closer to the wall as others walked past. Should we even be here? Is coffee allowed? Is smiling allowed? Nobody knew.

March 14. We toured a home. It was dirty and gross and probably had had a meth lab in the basement. It was never going to work for us. But I remember the ickiest thing about it was actually being in someone else’s home. Someone I didn’t know. Someone who could be “unclean.” Is this how people were going to feel, touring MY home? Would anyone even come? How on earth would we sell?

The second home tour had been cancelled. They had accepted an offer 2 days earlier, as I was throwing coffee money at the cashier. Today, a year later… that’s the home I write this post from. That first offer fell through, 10 days before closing. Due to Covid. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that, when “the one that got away” came back on the market, and I heard why. We got some mail once, for those first buyers. Paperwork for the homeowners insurance that they hadn’t remembered to cancel. I cried for them.

Tim and I went out for dinner. Gotta love free babysitting with Grandma and Papa. This will be SO nice when we actually live here. And let’s go say goodbye to Kristal and Justin before we go back. But… should we even be in a restaurant? Is this safe? Is the food going to make me sick? Are date nights even going to be a thing by the time we actually live here? Is it really responsible to go take our restaurant germs into Kristal and Justin’s house to say goodbye, or should we just honk and wave from the driveway?

March 15. We went to church. IN a church. The church that would be our “new” church. We didn’t pass offering plates, and there were no coffee and donuts, but we went to church without pews marked off and shortened services. We didn’t know it would be the last time. We didn’t know we wouldn’t go to church at Trinity again. Wouldn’t say goodbye to so many.

We toured a FSBO that felt less “dirty” but that’s probably because the owner herself welcomed us in and led us around. I got to see the human on the other side of things. See her smile, hear her stories, witness her love for her home.

We drove home. It was a quiet drive. We were so deep in thought, and exhausted by our thoughts. Wisconsin schools were cancelled. 4 weeks, they said. Minnesota hadn’t made an announcement yet, but it had to be coming. How would we do this? We were coming off one week of Spring Break – she was already desperate to go back. How would we pack? Clean? Do ANYTHING with her home, and miserable?

Mom and Dad came with us for the week, following in Dad’s pickup. Dad was supposed to be traveling off to Arizona, but decided to call it off. He took that free week and they came to help us instead. I remember feeling judged as I drove around Wisconsin with Minnesota plates. “You’re not supposed to be here. You’re supposed to stay home. Take your germs and go home.” We crossed the border. Now Mom and Dad were driving around Minnesota with Wisconsin plates. I remember wanting to somehow let everyone on the road know that they were just coming to help us prepare our house for sale, and we would stay home. We promise.

I stopped at Kwik Trip – for groceries. Of all places. I’d been monitoring the community FB group all weekend we were away, and understood that the grocery store, by Sunday evening, was basically out of EVERYTHING. I spent $60 at Kwik Trip on stuff that would have cost me $25 anywhere else, but we needed some basics.

That week we scrubbed. We painted. We boxed and taped and wrapped and boxed some more. We repaired. We did projects I’d always wished we’d done while living there. In one week, it went from disaster to photo-ready. We were proud – but we were also feeling like we were naughty or something. We had been to the store. Daily. We had gone to the dump. We had picked up boxes and bubble wrap and newspaper from friends’ garages. We had work to do, and it had to be done, and we felt like horrible humans. And was that a tickle in my throat?

When they pulled away the next Saturday morning (after extending their visit about 3 times for project after project), I hugged my mom harder than I had in many years. I cried. “I don’t know how to do this. I don’t know what’s happening. I hate this.”

She cried, too. My brother and his wife were about to bring sweet baby #4 into the world. Mom and Dad were headed home, but wouldn’t be able to see him. Hold him. Smell him. In the span of just a week, so much had changed. We had first heard the words “Shelter in Place.” The quarantine times had begun.

THAT was the first week, for me. Before I really understood anything other than fear. Sometimes today-me holds really harsh judgment for one-year-ago-me, before I pause and remember that’s just not fair. It was the first week. We didn’t know what we didn’t know. Those were some huge, dark, ugly days. As as much as I’d love to forget them – I also really never want to. So I write it all here to read again, every March 10. I write it for me, but if you read it for you, I appreciate you.

What was your first week like?