When Andy took off for school this morning, and I didn't.

Tomorrow I need to bottle apricots. That was my plan today but I couldn't move.  THANK YOU to Doug and Kay Baker who called me today because they knew it was going to be tricky to step back into the house as Andy drove off to work. I cried all day and wrote a clunky blog about it. The Bakers are both retired teachers who changed my life. I can never say how much - but I see their influence on me almost daily. They are family. They are my people. I rarely see them - they live in Las Vegas and now work on cruise ships all over the world but they remembered to check in on me today, perhaps the greatest moment of the decade. I love you. 

A 30-year education career is scary now. I'm tired of the drills, spooky dreams about hiding from shooters with 60 kids in one dressing room, the ever-moving standards, the endless theories of best practices, kids drawing penises on my Prius. For real. My dad retired after his career of 34 years; teaching junior high. I want him to know how astonishing it is to me now that I have done it too. I KNOW how hard you worked! I LOVE YOU SO MUCH! So few people last even 3 years. He and my mom brought up 7 kids on that salary, none of us are in jail and they are still married. My parents are a miracle.

(Alas, he's on a bowl full of meds just like me.)

I knew this day was coming. After leaving Tuacahn High School 12 years ago, I felt the birdcage door bang shut, and reverberate inside me. I needed to finish the 30-year sentence so I could collect 60% of my salary while I still live. It's called a pension. I felt trapped trying to earn this pension, but I knew it would be a blessing if I could do it. To know Andy and I can still pay our medical bills despite our limited skills and our bodies, minds, and hearts breaking down because of our jobs... a blessing. LOL. The irony.

When Andy (my husband, whom I also call and will call The Goat) and I left the overfilled Tuacahn High for the Performing Arts (which no longer exists), I ugly cried. Tuacahn had failed to support the families I begged to enroll. I was embarrassed and heartbroken to leave that student body, but we knew too much. The abuse was real behind the Padre Canyon curtain. I had to go. I had to take The Goat with me. We were also reeling from working 60+ hours a week through many miscarriages and the death of a child. Depression they said. Zoloft they said, in fact, Zoloft with a Lexapro chaser just for kicks and giggles. I waited for the giggles.

It became impossible to maintain our mission statement at Tuacahn but I might have been the only one who cared. I was the one assigned to build accreditation requirements after all. I knew the lies we were living. But I adored the kids (Trent! Tanner! Too many to name!) They were my people. One day, after ugly crying to a board member, I pressed print on a letter of resignation that I had typed three years earlier. I pinned it to my cork board - but no one ever came into my office, so no one ever saw it. It took me a full year to have the guts to turn it in. After a particularly difficult meeting, The Goat said (like the good pioneer he is) "we will find our people somewhere else."

Our beloved Sheldon Worthington gave us both jobs at his charter school "Salt Lake School for the Performing Arts." We headed north. If misery had company it was that school. Had we not learned our lesson? Within 2 years the school had been named "Utah's Best Charter School" but the entire faculty, including Sheldon, left.

Charter schools are fickle as hell. Being an administrator at a charter school = hell on steroids.

Without a job to speak of, we parked our UHaul in Spanish Fork for The Goat's interview at Spanish Fork High School. A miracle of hiring occurred - my brother from another mother, Everett Kelepolo, happened to work in that district office. So within ten minutes of walking into the Nebo District offices to sign The Goat's paperwork, I had a job as a Debate and English teacher. I was thrilled to go back to the classroom. That would fix me. Theatre be damned. I was a good debate coach - not great, but I could come home at a decent hour and my paycheck would actually go up. (Ah, charter schools...)

The only job ALMOST as tough as being a drama teacher, is debate coach who also teaches English. That fire to "bring home the hardware (trophies) and instill in my students the PASSION I had for writing cases and developing argument papers... could do it for 12 more years? After year two, the debate program was exploding and I was imploding. To keep the program competitive, we had to go to tournaments every single weekend. I would grade essays while listening to the pros and cons of how we were on the verge of nuclear war with China and what we should do about it. I started crying out in my head, "Please, God, find me a drama job. I'm suffocating in here! I need to open my wings! Please, if You could make the cage just a little bigger..."

So I finally fasted and prayed.

See the thing about me fasting is interesting. I haven't written in a long time and you will see that I am a devout Latter-day Saint despite the grand exodus of my friends. I judge no one. Agency. Use it. I can't leave religion because too many things have revealed themselves to me through fasting. It's a gift. I'm humbled by its power. Latter-day Saints believe (and I swear by it) that if I deny myself food and water for 24 hours it will clear my mind and help me focus on a specific need. Answers will be quick. That is my official signal to my Heavenly Father that I am at my rope's end and need BIG help. Well, that fast went past the 24 hours. I hit the carpet in prayer for hours.

I digress. But fasting, try it. You'll see.

The next day, an unexpected part-time drama job became available at the high school, just two miles down the road.

Their principal had called to ask me for advice about how to get a drama program to grow. So I went over to Mr. Peery's school, nonchalantly thinking he would pick my brain for a minute. I often consult administrators and fine arts departments now (that I'm old). I was so sad that this job was only part-time. We had just built a new house in Spanish Fork! So, without a hope in the world, I came straight from my school, wearing jeans and a t-shirt that said "I'm secretly judging your grammar right now." He laughed, but the joke was on him because he didn't know I was still fasting.

When I walked through Mr. Peery's door, an ARMY of sustaining angels walked in behind me. That office was FULL. I almost laughed out loud. After an hour of spilling my secrets, I agreed to teach three English classes while I built the drama program to be full-time and he allowed me to open a class called "Musical Theatre." (Also the Nebo District has been a great place to work! There are a lot of water fountains at SHHS. Stopped by two on my way out.)

Salem Hills High School sits in the middle of some affluent neighborhoods. As I drove around, I knew there would be families with college degrees and kids in private lessons. That is the recipe for building arts programs. Lesson one: market to the families who live on the side of a mountain. There it is folks. You're welcome. It will cost you a consultant fee to hear the rest of the lessons and I am not cheap anymore.

After a year at SHHS, I was delivering my English textbooks back to the SHHS library from whence they came. (I fasted a lot that year - ha!)

I had the best group of students and Drama Mamas and Papas at Salem!! GAH! Building the program was fast and fun. Opening doors and gifting kids your time is such a high for me! It was a Mutual Admiration Society almost immediately.

Almost.

As I've written before, 90% of the parent population at any given school is wonderful! The other 10% will skin you alive and eat your bleeding heart. The problem with all those BYU folks heading up those fancy families on the hill, is that they want to impose on you what they think is appropriate for their children to perform in. (Yes, I did just end a sentence with a preposition.) And I KNEW what was going to be best - but they didn't know me so I can't blame them.

My first musical was changed from "Children of Eden," the world's most moral musical, to the Pagan "Once on This Island" with a measly 18 white kids. Three of the leads were sophomores. Even the stage manager was a sophomore. Everyone else dropped out of Children of Eden "for religious reasons." You can read that blog another time. I had caught my foot in an ant hill immediately.

I would have to work my butt off to earn the trust of the ants.

It took those four sophomores (and the great juniors and seniors that gave me the benefit of the doubt) just three years to rally their friends to a STATE CHAMPIONSHIP. Gosh, I love you Grace, Hyrum, Emma, Katie, the entire cast of The Curious Savage...David!!!! You know who you are. I love that your parents let you stay in my controversial program. I love your perfect parents too. Lesson 2: don't do anything controversial. Oh, wait, I was going to make you pay for that. (Make sure that the only controversy is over you stealing kids from the choir program. BTW - I love Justin Bills more than my luggage.)

I'm not going to lie...I was in seventh heaven over that 30 lb. State trophy and the fire engines escorting us into town as we yelled and screamed with joy in our yellow-striped chariot. But instead of feeling the passion come back after so many years of crawling out of the Padre Canyons of the charter world, I had learned another truth too: once you find yourself competing against The Goat and you beat him and then he beats you and then you beat him...you see the problem? Also, you stay at school longer, your dogs become feral and your medications do not go away, they just change from depression to anxiety. Hello, Propranolol with Cymbalta chaser! Oh, and don't forget the Ambien. SO MUCH AMBIEN.

Four years into building that awesome program with those awesome parents, a strange death occurred of someone from my past. I got a text from my brother that the inevitable had happened. I ran across the hall to Justin's office. He just closed the door and went back to class making the kids sing something louder than my sobs for the sake of my hard-as-ice reputation. I truly thought I was having a heart attack. Urgent care. Nope. "Trauma-induced anxiety attack" they called it. The attacks were getting so hard to control but my meds could not be increased, legally. "You need a therapist." Teacher, teach thyself. I was an empty vessel. Dry as a desert canyon. No passion, no joy, just pumping out shows, one after another to avoid going back to English, no reason to go home because The Goat was also pumping out plays to build the Spanish Fork program.

The Goat was in therapy. It was awesome for him. I was hesitant. SO MUCH to say to a stranger. Could the knots be undone? The Goat convinced me to go to a therapist! And in my second session, he fell asleep. For real.

I had hold of a rope but I didn't have the strength to tie a knot in it and hang on. At that point, in cage living, I was just three years away from a pension earned by teaching kids to love themselves through and on the stage and I had to walk away. I knew the signs. I stayed long enough to let a few of my blessed and dear students graduate with me, and then I headed back to English at the junior high level, for an excruciating last three years in the cage. I could teach those tiny tots how to love "The Outsiders." And I did. (S.E. Hinton, who wrote The Outsiders was famous for beginning a sentence with "and" so I dedicate that last sentence to her.) This time I learned how to teach English from the other English teachers at the school. They nurtured me. It was a gift. Thank you ladies. Thank you, Merissa.

To make a 12-year-long story short, (me?) after three blessed years of working with two of the greatest administrations on the planet, On May 23th, 2024, I shut the door to room #103 at Springville Junior High. I pulled out my daily Honeycrisp apple for the drive home. But I couldn't move. I ate the entire thing sitting in the parking lot, in my old Prius, afraid to start the next chapter of my life. I ugly cried all the way home and my little dogs greeted me like they always do, like I had been gone for 34 years, only this time, it was true.

...

The restorative summer weeks are over. When The Goat walked out the door to go back to school this morning, I waved from the door. I wanted to yell "Come back! Don't do this to yourself! I'm sorry I got you into this mess! I know what's ahead!" He has 12 years left in the cage from today. I ugly cried, but not for me this time...for him.

Epilogue: 

Teaching school is a trip. A very long, very dry, thankless sacrifice to humanity. I denigrate all teachers to lie and say "It isn't a sacrifice. I just loved kids and it was a dreamy ride!" HA! Well, opening nights were pretty dreamy sometimes. Taking kids to the Shakespeare Festival was always dreamy - but I never thought "travel agent" was going to be part of my job. That part sucked so much. (I just heard my mom, from the other end of the county, say "I wish she wouldn't say suck.") Seeing my kids in casts on Broadway - dreamy. Being sued by a certifiably crazy parent SUUUUUUUCKS. Having a superstar parent sit for hours and sew costumes - DREAMY! Well-earned standing ovations - dreamy. Ah-ha moments are dreamy, someone begging you to help them "come out" to their parents - positively holy. Seeing a kid in a wheelchair get the spotlight in a musical, also holy times. But the backbreaking overtime, hearing someone say "you knew what you were getting into," or "You make more than our police do..." makes me ugly cry. 

Now that I've retired, I think I'll open this blog back up and blow your mind. You might be a born teacher (like I always thought I was), but there will be things you can never control...without meds and a therapist that is. 

Stay tuned. I have wings now and I'm going to use them.

Covid is like an onion...

I am reading a lot about Covid now from a whole new perspective. Of course, there was a reason why Andy got tested in the first place -he felt lousy, and then one morning he had a temperature. In the days following I have been checking off the symptoms as they have arrived.

We both started off with temperatures and that has remained steady for all of Andy's 7 days. We check it in the morning and again at night. 100.5 is pretty average. It goes up and down a little. I suspected that it wouldn't stick around. We've done cold showers, Tylenol. 

The burning chest. Ah! That's been hard for me but Andy hasn't had any of that. He describes it as a "heavy chest" but it didn't last long. I feel like a human water heater. I need that part to stop. Why won't that stop? Feels like I'm having heart attack all day long. 

The next symptom is a sore throat, ears and glands. Painful. Andy has pushed through most of that and I'm a few days behind. I sound better today. You know when you swallow and stretch to try to pop your ears to relieve pressure? I try to do that all day. 

Andy lost his sense of smell and taste on day 3. Still gone. 

The exhaustion is hard for Andy. I've been able to move except for yesterday. I even did the dishes a few days ago. The joint pain is weirdly specific to areas that I already have arthritis like my hands and ankles and it's strange to have painful elbows! So weird!

Yesterday's big symptom was/is the confusion. The brain fog is...foggy. Thank goodness for spell check.

 

Today the nausea came in. The fire has moved lower in my torso and I connect this with how I feel when I get migraines and I throw up. It feels like that today. Surprise! My temperature is 100.1 right now.

Everyone suggests that you sleep on your stomach to take the weight off your chest - but I have tried to do this and I just can't breathe. My sinuses are so impacted that I have to sleep half sitting up. Just seems like something new every day. I don't think there is anything else on the list, though. Tomorrow will be a better day. I feel like we have been through the worst of it. We didn't get a bad case (we aren't hospitalized), nor a mild case - we just got it. And it isn't one-bit fun because it's a new symptom every day.

****

Speaking of pain...I have been reading about going back to school. I want to know if once we go through this we are immune. Some of the things I've read say "yes," and some say "yes for a couple of weeks" and some say "You will need to be tested for antibodies periodically." I'm hoping for 100% immunity, baby! I would love to have that freedom. But I also get a flu shot every year for the traditional flu "just in case." So as soon as they have a vaccine, I'm also willing to be vaccinated as many times as I need to be. Hahaha... I worry that there are those in society that aren't willing to be vaccinated for anything...ever. Hmmmm. Freedom has many layers. 

I know that with any new disease our scientists are doing their best to figure it out as quickly as they can. The traditional deadline for school to start again is coming. I don't feel like teaching theatre online is optimal. Haha. The things we teach - teamwork, listening, focus, courage, problem-solving, critical thinking, etc... isn't done from a computer screen. We need to perform. We need characters to develop - stories to build and tell. 

And if I'm immune - I'm lucky, right? We've paid the price to have some kind of sense of safety. But are we? My classroom is big. Really big. I can scrub my tables down after each class period. I can be careful. But I was SOOOOO careful NOT to get Covid. I was the poster child for mask-wearing and hand washing. And what about my colleagues that teach in half my space? 

If I decide to do a traditional performance assessment (a play) and my audiences come with their homemade masks on, how can I be certain they will keep those masks on for two hours? Is that a new job I want to take on, "mask police?" How will I sustain my program? Can I live with the chance that Covid could get to one of our beloved sets of grandparents or someone that is compromised in any way? Is that their fault, or mine? Sheesh...so much to think about. 

Hmmm...how are we going to do this?

Last thought...now we know for sure that if a teacher got sick during the school year they would be out for about 2 weeks. First, you have to get enough symptoms to be able to be tested, then you go through it, then you have to test negative to get back to work. This is a great time for any of you that would like to try substitute teaching to give it a try. I think we will need a lot of subs this year and it won't be just for just a day or two. 

BUT - if you take a drama class at Salem or Spanish Fork - you can be assured that you won't get Covid from your teacher. Hahahahaha.... at least that's what they're telling us...today. 

Covid 19 - Day 4, Exhaustion and Brain Fog

When I had the very first sign of Covid, I thought "come and get me - let's get this over with." 

The first few days were uncomfortable, heavy chest, sore throat, but I didn't have a fever. 

The fever is everything. 

I haven't had a fever in my adult life that I remember. And it's not a high fever -just a steady 100. But three days of it is wearing me down and now I'm having a hard time finding a full sentence and spelling simple words, just typing this...taking unbelievable concentration.

I have had a hard time sleeping the past few days but I have been asleep 17 hours today. Andy said my mom called. Don't remember it. Sorry mom. A nurse from the state called us both to remind us to stay inside. That's nice. I can barely climb the stairs. I don't think she asked us how we were. She didn't gather any information Andy said. 

That's the funny thing about something new, the only instructions we have gotten are "take Tylentol and stay home. If it gets bad, you can go into an ER" What does bad mean? 

I would not wish this on anyone - except Trump. I don't want him to die - just to know. 

We are watching "Alone" on Hulu. It's pretty good. I'm in and out. But when I'm actually awake I just keep wishing I could stand up and shower. I stink.

Day Two of Covid 19 - It's Confirmed

Just got the test results back. That was just a 36-hour turnover. They told me it would be 3 - 5 days and it was much sooner. So that's good. I'm so grateful for those people on the front lines. We are so lucky that we have a way to find out if we really have this stupid prickly virus 

Seeing the test result "SARS-COV2 POSITIVE" really takes your breath away. Too soon?

I mean, I saw Andy's result and I felt wiped out but seeing my own is conflicting because I want to take care of Andy. It's so shocking even though I sort of knew. I kept saying, all night, "maybe it's a false positive for Andy and we just have bad colds." Then 2 for 2. Whaaat?!

Let's talk about the quick evolution:

Andy - Andy is only 41 so maybe his reaction so far, when he got tested on July 2 haven't been too scary (except for seeing the initial test results! Ha!) His biggest complaint is that he can't move. He also can't smell anything. His insides are imbalanced. He is dizzy. His eyes hurt. That's interesting. I have that too. He has a dry cough but it isn't too bad yet. We are actors and vocal teachers and we tell our kids all the time - "don't cough if you can help it!" So that is our habit - but there is a point where you just have to let it out - however, with Covid, nothing happens and the pay-off is that it BURNS like a son-of-a b***h. 

I am 55. I am in good health, and Andy and I have been running around the junior high track every day. I feel stronger than I have ever been in my life. However, the little stoker's in my chest are just like "you should have taken care of yourself BEFORE you hit 50, you idiot." 30 years of teaching, never going to the doctor. My lungs are shot. This is day two or three - I think - my chest feels like an inferno and I sound like a 75-year-old lady who sits on the porch of her single-wide and smokes cigars all day. 

One thing is that has been just incredible in the last 24 hours is the ARMY of support that our neighborhood, friends and co-workers have assembled. We were given a list of neighbors that are taking over dinner and yesterday we had incredible teriyaki chicken and tonight we had hot homemade rolls and chicken noodle soup that melted in our mouths. So if you want to eat well - just get the virus! (I'm not serious here) I should videotape the opening of the front door after the doorbell ditch. It's like Christmas. Just minutes ago another beautiful neighbor doorbell ditched a pulse oximeter AND warm brownies. S.T.I.L.L. W.A.R.M. Shut. the. front. door. (Quickly.)

Because we feel oxygen deprived it was great to know, through the pulse oximeter, that we are not. When I first got tested it was 87% - "a solid B+" Andy said. I went as low as 82% but then figured out that if I took a deep breath I could get it to 95. SOOOOO... I will do the breathing exercises that several friends have sent me. I need to keep moving. It makes me take deeper breaths. There has been so much incredible advice. THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU.

We have also been able to Venmo our friends and send them to the store for us. THANK YOU FRIENDS and THANK YOU VENMO, we didn't have to touch a single thing. The texts and outpouring of assistance you have all offered is humbling. We will take care of our debts when this is all over. Be sure of it.

More reasons to wear a mask, wash your hands, stay at home, don't touch anything:

     1. I really want to get things done around the house - but don't have the energy. My summer is wasting away while I cough. I tried to cut out a sewing project today and I gave up after five minutes. 

     2. With Covid - I can't sleep - it's like there are bugs in your brain. I have had the world's strangest dreams. Andy too. There just isn't good sleeping or good napping and even our Ambien is standing there with its hands up in surrender. If only I could rest.

     3.  Guilt. Who did I give it to while I didn't know I had it? Gah! This is the worst part. Don't live with that. STAY HOME. Invent fun stuff to do at home. We need to say "I might be a walking weapon of disease." COVID IS REAL. 

Things I have googled today:

"If you have Covid-19, what does your oxygen level have to be at before you go to the hospital"

"What over the counter drugs will help people with Covid-19" (So many different answers - we tried Dayquil - didn't touch it. We're popping cough drops, Tylenol and Vitamin C) 

"Best of Netflix July"

Covid 19 Arrives - Day One ITS REAL FOLKS

When the world-wide pandemic first became a daily news item I figured it would be something that we watched from the center of the country as the coastlines dealt with it. I was fascinated by it. Having seen live animal markets in Southeast Asia on my mission, it didn't take me a full second to believe that the virus could be passed through zoonoses. Those markets are just frightening.


Then school was postponed for two weeks "out of an abundance of caution." Weird. But hurray? On that day I pulled a stack of newspaper from the faculty recycle bin to take home for the dogs (which I do sometimes) and the headline was "Utah Confirms Third Case of Covid-19." Can't say it hasn't been a pleasure to watch my dogs pee on those papers for months.


The day we left school we were smack in the middle of learning the choreography for The Drowsy Chaperone and I figured we could learn it from home with the videos we had taken. Brilliant cast. Just incredible. Region was the next week and we had just performed The Crucible and we were ready. We weren't in big trouble - dates would be pushed back. I could use the time to make costumes, get the posters printed, the program...etc...etc...etc... the quiet would be nice.


Then it seemed that every 24 hours the instructions changed. We got used to listening to the governor's daily press conference at 1:00. We learned to hang on every word of a woman named Angela Dunn who looks like she drinks lattes and shops at L.L. Bean.


Then they closed church. CHURCH! WHAAAAAT?!?!? Jesus take the wheel, I was convinced that The Man Himself was going to be presiding at the April General Conference of my church. He did not. Disappointing. But I'm still convinced that the Prophet, Russell M. Nelson, knows more than he can say. All the buttons to scriptural prophecies of wars, rumors of wars, plagues, and diseases were being done up.


As the numbers accelerated across the country I looked around and wondered why we weren't really taking it seriously here in the central part of the U.S. Of course, Utah is one of those fishy middle-ish states like Kentucky. Are we West? Central? North? Surely we would be fine - but I bought my toilet paper like everyone else.


Then they closed school until the end of the year. Then I filled my freezer. Thanks, Stokes in Payson. I felt as though the best use of my time was trying to get in touch with my kids and especially the kids that absolutely had not checked in online. That's a whole different post. Teaching theatre and film online...gah!


Instead of making 1920's fringy dresses, I made 150 masks for the Navajo Nation and some for my neighborhood, family, friends, colleagues...I was starting to get freaked out. I stole all the elastic out of the props room at the school after the stores ran out. Not going to apologize. We can give back. I used weird chunks of scrap fabric from the costume shop too. Those were some funky masks! I took everything the Governor and Dr. Dunn were saying to heart absolutely.


Andy and I have a cold storage room - we shelved it, re-organized it, and filled it little by little as I could find items. We also have a freeze-dryer and gardening is my crack cocaine so I now consider myself an honest to goodness "prepper in training." If anybody finds themselves dying for some strawberries or green peppers during Armageddon - we are stocked, come on over.


I digress.


Our good friend Olivia and her sweet family were moving out to Virginia and we offered to drive their extra car out there for them. SWEET ROAD TRIP. Just the two of us. Dreamy. We prepared by taking 14 masks - one new one for each day, 24 oz of hand sanitizer, Lysol wipes and spray...I felt a little nutsy, but I wanted to be prepared. Along the way, we noticed that people were here and there about mask-wearing but the further East we got, the fewer people were out. It seemed more real as we went along.


In D.C. we were basically alone. I have never been there, so it wasn't a great time to go, everything was closed, but I got to see the monuments and the incredible architecture of the Capitol, the White House (from a great distance and through chain-link fencing - he is holed up in there). We stayed in a hotel that was next to Dupont Circle and the mile-long road of international mbassies. That was amazing. Still good things to see. Mt. Vernon was open - sort of. Incredible.


We flew home. Plane was only 50% full on purpose. The restrictions and precautions we had taken to go across the country and fly home were second-nature. I'm to the point where I forget I have a mask on and when I don't have one - I'm panicked that I need one. It's like the seat belt feeling.


Andy has been taking his temperature every single day since school got out. He's obsessed a little over making sure we are not giving my 80-year-old parents COVID. We got home, and I spent the very next day making bite-sized treats for my niece's wedding shower and for the 4th of July party. My house would be full of my siblings and their families. I was pumped! I love it when there are people in the Hunsaker Hotel. It's my favorite!


Then on Thursday - Andy said he felt like crap and his temperature was 100.1. I was still non-symptomatic but life stopped. I literally screamed out loud. He drove immediately to get tested and they said it would take three to five days for results. Everything was canceled...my siblings stayed in a hotel and we waited.


Because Andy's only symptom was a temperature, I didn't get tested immediately. I had no symptoms and I thought maybe he just had a cold. Kept making food for the weekend and then while we waited, Andy got sicker.


At first, he felt weak and tired. Then his temperature went up. And down. And up again. Then more weakness and now he is couch-bound. He has a sore throat and a heavy chest. He is popping Tylenol because that is what he was told to do. And that is it. There hasn't been any more dialogue about it. We got a pamphlet from the testing site, but other than taking Tylenol, drinking water and staying home, there is nothing else we can do. I would consider it pretty mild right now. I hope it stays that way. I'll let you know!


I got tested this morning, Sunday. I woke up with a temperature of 99.5. I think everyone ought to be checking their temperatures on their own EVERY DAY. This would be very helpful. Because even if your spouse has Covid - they won't test you until you exhibit symptoms. I have had a sore throat and a heavy chest but no temp until today and I couldn't get an appointment until today.


What's hard about it? Seems like it would be fun to have a reason to shut out the world for two weeks? Are you still trying to convince yourself that it's not real, you flat earthers? Just kidding. But I know there are people that don't think it's real and to you I say - ALL THE GOOD STUFF ON NETFLIX IS OVER.


Couple of things:


1. We have been running our Couch to 5K App nearly every day this summer and now we can't go up the stairs without stopping half-way to take a breath. (And the good TV is downstairs damnit!) That is REAL. That part is, quite honestly, terrifying. If that gets worse for me tomorrow or the next day, I will get to see a doctor about getting on a steroid. I heard that's a thing. My chest, from my ears to my stomach feels like it's full of little stokers from the Titanic just flaming the fire. It is getting worse by the hour. I have two earaches and my throat is an inferno. I have a fever and it goes up and down, up and down.


2. Andy has had the varying temperature too - steady now. He tells me he feels like he has "bugs crawling on his insides." That's fun. I don't have that. (Oh please, if I can avoid that...).


3. Every joint in Andy's body aches. I'm a few days behind him, but I am noticing that my arthritic hands and feet are tightening up. So far though - I'm good there.


4. All that food storage that we organized? That will be great when we can't get food - but when you have no energy to make food - what use is it? We did let our neighborhood know about it because we are a tight group of people and they already have a meal schedule set up. Of course they do! They are incredible! At first, I felt embarrassed by it - but by 6 o'clock tonight when the Cleggs brought us gourmet teriyaki chicken, I cried.


5. We don't have our own children so we feel blessed that we aren't having to take care of other people right now and we can just take turns re-filling our water bottles for each other - but can you imagine how whole families are dealing with it? OH MY GOSH PEOPLE - we have to stay in, wear masks and check our temperatures every day. PEOPLE ARE DYING and grieving. It's just a tragedy no matter what.


We don't notice everything we touch. We have to be CRAZY AWARE of what we touch, how close we are when we are speaking to someone or how clean a restaurant table is before we sit down and put our hands on it and then rest our hands on our face. YIKES!


The flip side is - IF this Covid is a definitive one-time thing -we will get to go back to school as IMMUNE TEACHERS!!! WOOT! Have no fear signing up for a Jandy class... but that's a big IF.


Let's pray for that and for a vaccine.

Ladies in Waiting 14 - Surviving (Mother's Day)

CHAPTER 14 - Surviving the Holidays

“Laura and Mary each had a pan, and Pa and Ma showed us how to pour the dark syrup in little streams onto the snow.”

                                                            Laura Ingalls Wilder

Right after Noah died Andy and I decided to go to Disneyland. We were so naive.

In our defense, we wanted to go to a happy place. Disneyland is Andy’s happy place any day of the year. I can’t imagine a bigger mistake for me. We had just buried Noah a few days before. We were still carrying that raw, open wound around with us. I was wide-eyed like a kind of carrion bird looking for food. Every child I saw was Noah. Every stroller and there were thousands, contained a baby named Noah. We ate our sorrow in corn dogs, turkey legs, churros, Monte Cristo sandwiches, bread bowls full of steaming chowder, fried chicken at Carnation Plaza...all the reasons to go to Disneyland - we ate them. I staggered around as if I was drunk on sadness and Dole Whip.

We were grasping at anything that would take our minds off the recent past.

Then that night the famous Disney parade happened while we were standing in line to go through the ride It’s A Small World. The magic of the evening lights and the music...then Mickey entered and Andy finally lost it.

We stepped out of the line so as not to scare all the little kids standing around a 6’4” man having a sobbing breakdown in front of Mickey Mouse.

“Why can’t we have Noah here with us?” he cried.

“I don’t know.”

“I just want to be able to bring him to Disneyland and introduce him to Mickey and all this.”

“I know.”

“It’s just not fair that everybody gets to do it but us.”

He cried and cried. He had been putting on such a strong face for me through the entire delivery and subsequent burial, that I thought it didn’t really affect him. I thought he was going to be okay. 

Clearly, he was not.

I wondered if Christmas was ever going to be the same for us.

It has not.

For teachers, Christmas vacation is great because it gives us a much-needed break from the drama, haha, and the classroom. The drama classrooms. So we need it - but we’ve been groomed from birth to do things at Christmas that involve large groups of people, parties, and pleasantries. Would we ever feel “pleasant” again?

The holidays present such a conundrum for our groups of waiters. There’s Christmas, Mother’s and Father’s Day, and the horrible Valentine’s Day to get through. Those are just the big ones. We often create other sentimental “holidays,” or they are thrust upon us. For example, I can often forget my own wedding anniversary but the anniversary of the death of my child is an earthquake that shakes me for a full 24 hours year after year…after year.

Long-suffering through a holiday is sheer torture. We’ve been groomed to believe that if we had a companion or kids, the holidays would be so much better because of the matching pajamas and trips to Disneyland.

When I was in eighth grade I was absolutely addicted to the Little House on the Prairie series written by Laura Ingalls Wilder. I guess I’ve always been fascinated by survival (I love camping!) and the theme of those books is definitely how the Ingalls family survived and thrived on the prairie in the 1800’s. In the first book Little House in the Big Woods, Laura and Mary learn how to make “Snow Candy.”  The recipe is literally molasses and brown sugar boiled to the hard crack stage and then dropped into the snow in “circles, and curlicues and squiggledy things,”^[1] until it hardened up and became candy. I think I attempted to make snow candy every February of my life when, in Utah, we had a lot of snow. I can see my mom rolling her eyes right now at the number of attempts I made and the sheer bottles of molasses I went through learning what the “hard crack” stage looked like and how not to burn myself. Candy making is not for sissies.

I outgrew the Little House series (in my 30’s!) Though I still own the book set my parents gave me when I was in 7th Grade. I intend on reading them again when I retire, first thing. They were a huge influence on me.

Because I also love any excuse to cook, I have found a way to survive one of America’s worst excuses for a holiday - Valentine's Day. No, my survival strategy isn’t eating myself through Kneaders Bakery. That doesn’t make me feel better just bloated and guilty. No, I don’t cook for a multitude of singles and cry over “She’s Got Mail” for the three thousandth time. I don’t call it “Single Awareness Day” and I don’t have a pity party by myself with a gallon of Ben and Jerry’s. But if you do -I’m all for you doing you! If any of those things make you feel better about the giant microscope that terrorizes all single American’s every February 14th - by all means, you do you.

Let me preface my big plan with some history.

In 2002, I took a group of 40 students and chaperones to Scotland to perform at the International Fringe Festival. We were part of the American High School Theatre Festival there and it cost us about $4000 per student for the experience. It was life-changing and in the end I’m glad we did it. But preceding the trip we organized and executed 31 fundraisers to get enough money to take every talented kid, and not just the ones that could afford it. That part was a nightmare.

But I digress.

One of those fundraisers was making suckers, er...lollipops. Not sure what to call them for this book. I’ll say suckers. Mostly because the term sucker was also a metaphor for how I felt about the entire trip. Anyway - these suckers were homemade. There was no Amazon.com or Alibaba at the time to simply order 3000 from China and call it good. Enter the skills I had learned from Laura Ingalls Wilder. Hard crack stage baby!

Because I was SNK (Single No Kids) I made the initial investment (as I usually do) and purchased 300 sucker molds in different shapes from our local craft store (I still own them if you need to borrow them). I also purchased sticks, flavorings, and sugar. So much sugar. Then nearly every Friday night for a year I gathered whoever was going to Scotland and we turned my little kitchen into a sucker factory. Literally. Some stirred, some wrapped, some labeled. I measured, poured, and watched those candy bubbles slow down to their hard crack stage. The kids got to choose the flavors and colors. We learned what sold and what did not. It was a noisy, messy, happy time and I would not have given it up for anything.

We tried to make between three to five hundred suckers each time we would drag out all the supplies. It was exhausting. But we figured out that we could make each sucker for less than a nickel and sell them for 50 cents each. They were pink bubblegum, blue raspberry, Pioneer Grape (our school color was purple) and there were times when it got so hectic in that little kitchen and we were trying so hard to work fast that I would burn a batch and by mistake, we found out that we could call that batch “Campfire Marshmallow” and it was a quick selling favorite. It made my kitchen smell like death but...worth it? Oh yes.

See, despite a sugar-covered kitchen, in the end, we had the time of our lives! We laughed, we listened to Broadway tunes, of course, talked about and planned the current show (or the next fundraiser).

During school lunch and at the play concessions we had permission to sell suckers. Drama kids are exceptional hawkers! It wasn’t long before we had regular customers that were addicted to their favorite flavors. After a solid year of sucker making and selling, we had earned thousands of dollars, but the most important thing was the camaraderie that built the team. It was tedious work and everyone had to participate, but in the end we estimated that we earned someone’s entire trip just from those wild nights of pouring and wrapping sugar that was the temperature of liquid magma.

The whole point of this...and I do have one...is that one night after a school performance of a play I saw one of my students, a kid that I knew was having difficulty at home. She was slumped over in the hall, probably waiting for a ride home. She was a new Sophomore that was not going with us to Scotland but was heavily involved in our technical theatre program. She wore a severe hairstyle and painted her nails black back when that was a statement of emotional context. She had an army green jacket that had a great patch on it - I’ll never forget it - it said: “these are my church clothes.” At first glance, you might stereotype her to a dark category with one raised eyebrow and a mental “oh boy!” But once you got to know her you would find out that her family situation, which was completely out of her 15-year-old control, was something you could not imagine. I’m not at liberty to tell you what trials this sweet kid endured at the hands of adults but she was a little bit untouchable because of it; She was like a little broken bird that doesn’t trust anyone. As I approached her she put up a quick wall of “I’m okay!” But she was not.

There was no one left in the halls of the school that night except us and the custodians. I was not in the mood, nor did I have time to give a single student my undivided attention. See, I don’t want to give you the idea that I am that teacher that searches out and finds weeping kids and makes it all okay. But Heavenly Father has given me tests in these dark and quiet moments where He checks my true intentions now and then. I knew this was one of those moments and I shook my head a little and kept walking toward her with a “Why tonight Heavenly Father? I’m so tired I just want to lock up and go hooooome!” whine. I took a deep breath and slid down the wall next to her with my huge box of left-over concessions still in my lap. (I wondered if I was going to be able to get up again.)

Jan:                  Are you waiting for your ride?

Techie:            I guess.

Jan:                  Do you have a ride coming?

Techie:            I don’t know. I called my sister but that was an hour ago.

This was back in the time when you used the school telephone outside of the office and called landlines and hoped someone was home.

At that point she started to cry. I sat my box to the side of me on the floor and I put my arm around her. Side hug. She cried louder. I didn’t move. Her cries turned into “mighty yawps”^[2] and I feared she would pass out she was breathing so quickly. In my head I was panicking, saying “Heavenly Father tell me what to do, tell me what to do…” I felt that I should do nothing. So I changed the prayer to “Heavenly Father tell me what to say, TELL ME WHAT TO SAY!!!” I felt I should say nothing. So I changed the prayer one more time to “Heavenly Father help [my student] calm down. Please send comfort and peace. Please, please, send peace.” After a few minutes of utter despair, my sobbing student took several deep gasps at that very moment and was finally able to catch her breath. She was hugging me so hard that I knew at that moment all she needed was someone to hold onto her. I’ll be honest it was awkward for me. I am not her parent and we teachers are admonished not to get so physically close to our students especially when no one else is around. But I did not let go of her. I felt The Spirit take over through me. I felt her body relax and I felt the absolute holiness of this precious daughter of God while HE dealt with her wracking pain.

She was able to stop crying.

I wish I could say that we had this big conversation about her life and I was able to help her see some fabulous new options she could take, etc… Ha! But it occurred to me that she didn’t want to talk. She wasn’t going to talk about what was bothering her. I sure didn’t want her to start crying again. So I got into my big cardboard box of concessions treats and pulled out a red hot cinnamon sucker in the shape of a heart and gave it to her.

She actually smiled! “I love cinnamon!” she said and I told her it was by far the most popular flavor. She said she couldn’t afford to buy the “drama suckers” but after popping it into her mouth she knew why they were so popular. I gave her a couple more “for her pocket,” I said.

I actually stayed with her until her sister came and got her. My backside was completely numb from sitting on the hard high school tile for over an hour! We didn’t talk about anything but the show that was going on and the shows coming up. Mostly we just slurped on suckers and waited. If I had a video of her trying to help me up from the hard floor it would go viral for sure.

So here’s my big idea. I want to create a holiday revolution. Instead of waiting for someone to meet our cultural expectations, let's overthrow the economic monsters, make our own cinnamon suckers and distribute them as a powerful message of love to someone that might need to know that we genuinely care.

Valentines (or Christmas) is the perfect day for this to happen. The paradigm of giving is already set up. But this way we turn the attention to others and get it away from ourselves. We don’t have to book a fancy restaurant or worry about finding expensive roses. We only have to find someone that needs a cinnamon sucker. I’m telling you, the power of a cinnamon sucker is extraordinary.

I know you are saying - how is this different from sending a card, an actual Valentine? DUH - you can’t eat a card! Ok...send the card...whatever. But I swear to you that after selling thousands of sugary sweet suckers over the years, NOBODY turns one down, and EVERYBODY smiles when they get one. No need to attach a message  - it’s intrinsically there as both a homemade gift and the symbol of giving away your heart.

I’ve heard of people that hate the entire month of February because it pierces their insecurities and detonates emotions that they are trying to bury. Seriously though, we can mope around and make the day all about our singularity or we can make it all about finding people that need our love, our time or just a connection. Be the Valentine you wish someone was for you. (And then - like me all those years, go out and buy yourself something you’ve always wanted, or just eat a pint of Ben and Jerry’s all by yourself. Nothing has calories if you are single on Valentine's day.)

Mother’s and Father’s Day are the same for me too. I've never thought of myself as a dangerously jealous person. I don't plot the kidnapping of some baby in Walmart. Our friends have some amazing babies right now and I stalk them all on Facebook but that's a close as I go. I'm truly happy for everyone that has been able to add kid stuff to their home and more chairs around the dinner table. Our dinner table is the drop off for bags, keys, mail...We never eat at the table because there is a pervading feeling that people are missing.

That...bitterness. There it is. Bitterness is a pool in my heart that I sometimes swim around in. Yes - I have considered drowning myself in it a few times, but I have a prescription that just reaches out and rescues me from those moments. Generally speaking, I wish everyone on earth a full and happy family. There is nothing more important to the fabric of society than the family. 

Mother's Day, however, is one of the days I suit up for the pool. It is, without a doubt, my least favorite holiday. I focus on my own mother, who is a saint, and the good teachers and neighbors that helped raise me. But my bitterness only lasts a few weeks, from the first FTD floral ad on TV to the last.

It's inevitable. It happens once a year whether I like it or not. The great and horrible Mother’s Day. That is the one day of the year that, ironically, I remain in the fetal position most of the day.

I acknowledge my ridiculousness.

The second Sunday in May is the annual grand pity party. I don't do anything on that day.  N.O.T ...A ...T.H.I.N.G. I don't even shower. I prep for the day, just as if I was buying groceries for a Fourth of July block party. I eat anything I want, I watch violent action or horror movies and I skip church like a delinquent. I haven't been to church on Mother's Day since 1988, when I first noticed the biological clock start it's evil countdown. It used to seem that, as the years passed, the clock was louder at church, where EVERYONE is pregnant. At least, the ticking clock had hope back then, though quieter and quieter each year, at least it was still whimpering out its relentless call right until the end. Now the silence is deafening. The silence of my body in response to every flowering pregnant woman cackles at me in stereo, gives me a big, wet raspberry as they pass by me, sit by me, say hello to me. PLUHPHPHPHPHP!

Those women don't even know how much their very presence makes my ears ring. Maybe I shouldn't tell them so publicly. I don't want them to feel bad...I just need to get my feelings OUT of my system and into a book where they can stay.

I don't go to church on Mother's Day because the meetings are always dedicated to the grand role of motherhood. Which is indeed, GRAND. And should be celebrated! Your mother gave you life! The role of creator is akin to the role of being God. That's holiday-worthy. It's the fact that in the LDS wards, the younger kids hand out flowers to all of the moms. Every single mom gets a little potted plant, or a booklet, or something on that day... At least that's what they do around here.

Back when I still went to church on Mother's Day, years ago, I would watch the little 12 year-olds, go up and down the pews, flower pot in hand, look at me in confusion, "flower or no flower?" Then they would look at the people around me, no kids... right...no flower. Some time ago, they changed the rules. I'm told they have the older men hand out the flowers now. EVERY female over 18 gets a flower, mom or not. As if to say, today is female day. Today we are celebrating the fact that you have ovaries whether you use them...or not.

But if you aren't there, Sunday after church, someone will bring it by your house and they KNOW you aren't in church because every year, I STILL GET the dang flower. It's as if they are saying "we know you weren't in church today because you have issues with your singularity... or your infertility. They don't acknowledge the fact that I might not have been there because I just don't like to be reminded of it so thoroughly all day long. Then you have that flower in your house, all week long until it dies. Because I let it die.

I KNOW they mean it in the kindest way. I know it!!! I really do! I do not deny them the opportunity - nay the responsibility - of honoring the women in their lives. So I just take myself away from it, instead of adding my negativity to it. But that little innocent flower with all that it represents and all that I have hatefully eschewed it with...makes me want to throw it against the nearest wall. I could plant it. I could water the little thing and let it fulfill the measure of its true creation. But that would mean that I would be giving my bitterness away...and on this one day a year, my bitterness blanket comforts me. As does the entire pan full of mac 'n cheese that I will be eating while I watch "The Grudge."

I could try to see that it isn't about my inabilities, but it's about my mother and her infinite abilities - she is the world's greatest mom. Then I formally request, that they send her my flower. She will allow it to fulfill the measure of its creation because that is one of her gifts. There isn't anything that won't grow in her presence.

There are a few things the average person can know about how to approach a couple that doesn't have children, or how to deal with a couple that would rather be parents than anything else, but haven't been given that opportunity on this earth.

First of all, you don't have to know WHY they don't have children. Maybe they don't want kids. Maybe they are gay. Maybe they are waiting for better times. Maybe they are infertile...all issues that are none of your business. Why do people always want to know? Many times people have said, for lack of something better to talk about, "how many kids do you have? or to compound, it, "have you tried having children?" Answering either of those questions is a hotbed of coals for me. What I really want to say is "We heard that you have to have sex to get children and that's just weird to me, I'll have nothing to do with that craziness." Then I'll sit back and watch what happens.

Secondly, if you are a leader in the church, remember that it's tough for people that are single, divorced or infertile, to give lessons on the subject of raising children, improving your marriage, or to speak in church on Mother's Day. Most of those people have tender feelings about that issue or simply feel like failures in that area. No need to draw attention to it. Just pre-empt that if you can with a lesson about faith. They know a lot about faith.

Thirdly, if you notice that there are certain people that aren't in church on certain holidays, abstain from calling them and asking if they are okay. They are. Or at least they will be tomorrow.

Number next, if you are a blessed mom with children, when you are around those that can't have children try not to complain about your new baby, or your kids. It may seem like you are telling us how lucky we are to be getting all of our sleep or how lucky we are that we aren't changing diapers, but we would KILL to change a diaper if that little bum belonged to us. I always want to "one-up" people like that and say, "my child is back in heaven where he will never look at porn, cheat in school or be addicted to anything...my child is perfect.” (Because he is.) But some people would think that was weird. However, it calms my heartache sometimes.

Finally - I have some advice for us waiters...in fact, I'll shoot this advice directly at myself:

1. Quit taking offense. People don't know that you can't have your own children. So when they say how many kids do you have, just say "We don't have children yet." And when people that DO know your struggle say "but you are a teacher, you are a mother to so many," don't be offended. Buck up. BE a mother to sooooooo many. Some of them need you to be their mom. Don't think of that job as the consolation prize. Don't be offended when you get called to teach other people's kids. The Lord isn't asking us to do something difficult, he's asking us to help out. Dry your tears and get back to work.

2. And while you're at it, give away your bitterness. (I'll work on that.)

3. Look outside yourself. Realize that others are suffering too. They may have been given children as their personal test. They are sleep deprived and covered in kid juices most of the time. They are constantly teaching too and sometimes they just need someone to talk to someone that has a vocabulary of more than 37 words...just like you do.

4. Celebrate your own mom. This is her day. She probably put her life on the line, and her formal education on hold to raise you. Her outside shell is like titanium armor. Take a lesson. You turned out! What can you do to make her life easier in return? I feel like Abraham Lincoln when he said "All that I am or hope to be, I owe to my angel mother."

When I look at it this way, there have been so many HUGE gifts to me on Mother's Day. I will adjust my grip today. I will "press forward with a steadfastness in Christ having a perfect brightness of hope."^[3]

  

Recipe for Chapter 15 - Surviving the Holidays

LOVEly Cinnamon Suckers

4 cups granulated sugar

1 1/3 cup light corn syrup

1 1/2 cup water

1 teaspoon cinnamon oil flavoring (or any flavor)

Liquid food coloring or gel food coloring (as desired)

Heart-shaped sucker molds

Sucker sticks

Sucker bags (optional)

Twist ties or ribbon (optional)

Boil the first three ingredients together in a heavy, tall pot with a candy thermometer. I stir it only once at the beginning and then walk away - but don’t go far! While it is boiling we put the mold and sticks together on cookie trays that have been sprayed with non-stick spray. You can also lightly spray the molds but be careful not to get non-stick spray onto the paper stick. Messy.

When the temperature on the thermometer reads 280 degrees add flavoring and food coloring. Don’t stir! The bubbles will distribute color and flavor evenly. When the candy reaches 300 degrees, take it off the heat and pour it CAREFULLY into the hard candy molds.

Cool completely before you take them out of the molds! We usually just take them outside and lay the trays on top of the snow! When cool, place in a sucker bag and tie with a ribbon! Don’t refrigerate!

Homework for Chapter 14

1. Obviously - take the suckers out and distribute them. You don’t even need to explain why you are doing it. Just as a gift of love serves both giver and receiver - it will soon become apparent to you how important it is that you look for other people that need a gift of love on this day (or any day). YOU can be that person!
2. You might have some leftovers. Keep them in a place where you can “give yourself some love” when you need to. Think of it as a symbolic hug from me. Ha!
3. This Valentine/Mother’s/Father’s Day/Christmas - give yourself a gift just for getting through it. Record your gift here: (Stay accountable to yourself!) Give yourself something you have always wanted EVERY HOLIDAY. Save up for it and reward yourself just for getting through it. 

---

^[1] Little House in the Big Woods, Laura Ingalls Wilder, 1932

^[2] Walt Whitman

^[3] 2 Nephi 31:20