Summer of Healing: The Garage Door and Me

 Our garage door broke again.  I'm not even mad about it anymore.  This is the fourth time in eight years, the achilles heel of our house.  I grew up without a functional garage, so whenever it breaks I remind myself that having a garage with a working door is an extra tidbit, untethered to happiness.  

I was kinda proud of my limited reaction to its breaking.  I said one small string of curse words then immediately switched into problem-solving mode and cruise-directed our taking turns holding it up for the other to back our cars out - unlike the time where we had to take Ubers to work and back. 

I think part of me expected it would break. I was significantly less surprised.  More surprising was my lack of day-slumping reactive mode.  I almost behaved as someone with...maturity.  Grace, even.    

*  *  *  

This week marks one year since experiencing my first ever panic attack.  It was not because our garage door broke.  

I used to think panic attacks were a made-up thing for the dramatic, psychosomatic type.  I really did.  Several of my friends describe me as "grounded", "level-headed", "easy-going".  Panic attacks don't fit into that mix.  My grandmother was a hypochondriac and even she didn't have panic attacks.  I don't need panic attacks.  I'm grounded.  Level-headed.  Easy-going.  

So, lying in the fetal position on our upstairs hallway floor was a type of grounded that I didn't recognize.  The room was spinning, my head was throbbing, and my entire body was nauseous.  My toes felt sick.  It was immersive, like I was at the bottom of a barrel under water.  Everything in my brain was stripped down to the minutiae of breathing.  Okay, in.  I did it.  Okay, out.  I did it.  Okay, in again.  I did it.  Okay, out. 

It had been coming on all day, but I was calling it other things like hunger, thirst, fatigue.  I guess they added the word 'attack' to clarify the absolute halting effect it has; the giant monstrous stop sign pummeling you from all angles until you cease and desist.  

Arthur was only three years old and found my lying on the floor confusing, then frustrating when I wouldn't, or couldn't, spring off the floor to play with him in his room, which is where I was headed when the panic took over.  I called him over, patiently waited for his repetitive, now at eye level "just get up Mama" to fade, then asked him to go downstairs, tell Dada that Mama needs help, and come back upstairs together with Dada.  

"Can you do that for me, please?"  

Okay, out.

"Okay, yes.  I do that for you right now, Mama."  

I would have two more panic attacks over the next four months, all triggered by the same basic concept:  returning to school buildings as a teacher of hundreds of children during a pandemic.

That first one was specifically during a very long, very tedious school board meeting in early July that I gave up almost an entire summer day watching.  At least one hour was dedicated to changing the social distancing from 6ft to 3ft, doubling the amount of students that could be invited back into buildings.  Protective eye wear was being thrown around for safety mitigation strategies, along with recommended ventilation upgrades.  Most of the people speaking of such necessities were not those ever involved in school buildings or budgets, but were from other, more supported and respected professions with budgets.  My mind raced to the scene in Life is Beautiful where Guido sees that his doctor friend is employed in the same concentration camp, experiences a rush of hope for his family to be freed, then slowly realizes that his dear friend is incoherently babbling on about a riddle he cannot solve - his once sharp mind already consumed by the trauma.  A lot of that meeting sounded like babbling riddles, yet decisions and procedures potentially affecting the health of many would come from them.  

The second and third attacks were both somewhat milder than the first, and were during two school-based team meetings specifically targeting return to school timelines and details of all of the additional responsibilities that would be stacked on top of teaching.  Both were in October and involved uncontrollable trembling to the point of teeth-chattering, full body cramps, and the same shallow, frantic breathing from July.

One week after that third panic attack, I filed a Leave of Absence request with human resources.  This decision would cost me approximately $35K in take-home pay alone, not considering income taxes or retirement.  The county gave all employees exactly one week to choose between returning under the given circumstances, obtaining ADA accommodation through a medical consultation or evaluation for proof, taking an unpaid leave of absence, or resigning.  

At the time of decision, there was no timeline for vaccine availability and no plan for when or even if teachers would be granted access to them.  Words were minced down to statements like "vaccinations are not part of our five safety mitigation strategies".  The plan seemed to whirlpool down to "let's try and see" and "you're either with us or not".   

Though employees had a hard deadline of making this decision and filing necessary paperwork, human resources would not process my leave of absence request until late-January.  Meanwhile, return to school timelines changed at least three times as cases in the area aggressively spiked.  I crossed out the words "potential last class" in many squares of my plan book and eventually stopped writing in it altogether.  I was getting daily emails from job search sites where I had dabbled with trying to find at least something I could do part-time from home in the absence of the $35K take-home.  

I was still teaching the entire time, virtually, and never mentioned a word to my students that I might not finish the year with them.  I only told a few teachers outside of my team of my plans.  It felt like defeat.  I felt crazy, irrational.  This was happening to everyone, how am I, the even-keeled one, the one not okay about it?  I felt outnumbered and meek in my little corner of shallow breathing that I didn't understand.   

In early February, I rescinded my leave request, as I was able to get vaccinated and my husband seemed to also have a path to vaccination through his employer within the next six weeks.  My principal had very kindly not filled my position and welcomed me back, nerves and all.  The panic attacks had not returned; I was just down to more frequent insomnia, headaches, and some stress-related skin issues.  

In mid-February, I very nervously returned to the building with my teammates.  That was back when I spent a lot of effort believing I could actually stay distanced from every single person, with zero breaking of any rules ever, all with the sort of manic, sleep-deprived energy of a new mom.  That lasted approximately six minutes into the school day, by no fault of anyone, just because if you remember anything about school and children, you are not surprised.  

By mid-March, all seven grade levels of students who wanted to return were back in the building.  Those who were not in the building were still being taught simultaneously through concurrent teaching.  Concurrent teaching doesn't just seem like you're doing two jobs at the same time, you are precisely doing two jobs at the same time - and ineffectively, unless you are a robot or a clone that can speak, type, read, manipulate multiple computer screens, and listen to and interpret multiple things at the same time.  Rage would boil up during simple things like someone interrupting me during dinner to ask me to do something, taking me out of the present moment for the 12,367th moment that day.  

By the end of March, they changed the distancing to 3ft and invited all students who were already back to return all four days of the instructional week instead of a hybrid T/W or Th/F alphabet split.  March was the last time I ever knew which students were actually in front of me in any class.  Every few days something would change, but no matter what we still had to teach concurrently, if only for a minority of students who remained virtual.  Many already drained Friday afternoons were ruined with emailed updates to interpret, plan for, and mentally consume the weekends.  

In late-April, I took one day off.  There were no subs.  Eight other teachers were pulled to cover parts of my responsibilities for that one day.  That was the only day I missed in the entire year.  I know several teachers who took no days off.  

On more than one occasion, I couldn't will myself to open my car door and walk into the building from the parking lot in the morning.  Sincerest thanks to whoever, usually someone on my team, would pull in and model putting one foot in front of the other.  

This is all the very short version.  

I got through it. But I'm not the same person. Some parts of me are better for it, but I mostly feel worse off for it.  I'm trying to recover.  The recovery feels like an active thing I'm supposed to be doing for most of my free minutes.  What I've lost in trust, I've gained in anger.  

The better-for-it parts are when I can safely reflect on what I gave to my students.  I gave them a massive effort that was consistent and kind.  I gave them empathy at every turn.  I gave them sharp, focused, prioritized, thoughtful teaching in the absence of the more spontaneous creativity of normal years.  I gave them my concern for their well-being and safety.  I did all of this while only accessing half of the curriculum and half the usual regulated teaching minutes.  I started a new creative writing club for 44 of the most magical, spirited humans.  I gave a lot.  I don't know a single teacher who didn't give a lot.  

At the end of the year, we were able to fill out a survey for the county.  I wrote very honestly about my experience.  I spoke of the straightforward questions I had about ventilation that were never answered.  I spoke of how it took a school board member 42 days to respond to my concerns about safety, specifically for specialist teachers who would be rotating through hundreds of students per week, pre-vaccines.  I spoke of how that school board member used an excuse of only having a part-time assistant as to why they took 42 days to respond, without actually responding to any of my concerns other than to say, "everyone has to carefully weigh their own risk assessment."  I spoke about learning of changes after the community learned of changes, despite being an employee.  I spoke of the unfair expectation that we were to be first responders - heroes if you're a screenwriter - actively responsible for recognizing potential trauma and crisis of our students even after-hours.  I spoke of tone-deaf communication from leadership, seemingly unaware of what they've asked of their staff and under what circumstances they too are experiencing.  I spoke of the lack of empathy for the human side of all of this.  I spoke of a lot of things - things that I suspect they didn't want to really hear, things that I suppose they assumed were coming from a disgruntled, negative, likely older employee who probably doesn't like kids.  I'm not even convinced that anyone actually read it.  

A month later, I stand behind every single word.  It was the first chance I had to self-advocate.  

I've been searching for reasons for my anger, for what seems to cause it the most, for how it might stack up against others' experiences.  Reasons why I'll waste minutes of a much-needed dinner date with my husband talking about it, shocked and self-conscious that I usually start crying in public.  Feeling as though my and my family's health and safety were disregarded and less important than other people's health and safety is hard to reconcile, or spin, or un-feel.  Witnessing the vitriol coming from the community at a profession I've loved and devoted much of my world to since age 13 and hearing the deafening silence in our defense was tough.  Feeling as though I had to sideline my fears on someone else's timeline was exhausting.  Teaching concurrently, virtually, hybrid, and every which way to Sunday and still being asked to do more, with general hints of "you're not doing enough" was demoralizing.  Feeling pressure to constantly portray an "everything is great" vibe, for me, felt like an entirely separate workload.  

Everyone brought their own history, perspective, and perception into this pandemic.  What was unacceptable to me was tolerable to others.  What was unbearably stressful for me was motivating to some.  Everyone handles stress differently.  It doesn't mean that you can't empathize if another's stress looks different than you want it to look.  At least, I hope that's the case.  I certainly don't fault others who handled things more gracefully - in fact, I'm glad they were around to keep a lot of plates spinning and to offer a twig of positivity on occasions when I had capacity to reach for it.  

Maybe the pandemic scared the absolute daylights out of me because my family is already tiny.  Maybe because I've experienced an untimely loss of a parent and cannot fathom repeating it and all the fallout that comes with it.  Maybe because it took me a really long time to get married and start a family and it's so unbelievably joyous a thing that I can't bear anything threatening it.  Maybe it's my personality type.  Maybe the folks at Meyers-Briggs will develop a "What's your pandemic style?" quiz in the coming years as we all grapple with the enormous weight of what has happened.  

I'm taking notice of small victories of growth - times that I feel a little less fanatical in reaction mode.  The garage door was fixed by two very friendly men who appreciated my garage door mishaps banter.  They even gave us a sizable discount, claiming one of them is married to a teacher.  He used the words "god bless all of you" as the reason for the discount.  I found jeans in the exact color, distressed style, and length I wanted for gobs less money than I thought possible.  I encountered a horrific spider in our basement and I didn't even panic until hours later when I decided to try and research what type it might have been.  The little seeds from the nature center that Arthur and I planted in a small terracotta pot have sprouted into rough drafts of wildflowers.  I'm reading some really great stuff.  I've walked over fifty miles already this summer and each mile feels like it lightens some of the mental baggage.  All of us in our tiny family remain healthy.  There's a new season of Holey Moley.  I found a new perfume that I like.  Our kid is absolutely magical and kind and used the word "reversible" correctly in a sentence this morning.  I'm writing a lot and the project I'm working on is growing legs.  I watched the NYC fireworks on TV through teary eyes, a sign of a few emotional circuits reconnecting after their drain. 

 Sometimes the garage door breaks because maybe that's its purpose.  I say a few curse words and move on.