Quarantine Rosary
Where are we now? By my count, this is day 18 of quarantine. 18 days of the world turned on its head: kids not in school, no soccer practice or games, no dance class, no gymnastics. 18 days of the new normal we've been asked to adjust to.
In that time I have felt a mounting panic; my dad had open heart surgery 18 days ago, and he was hospitalized while his body recovered. The hospital is a place crawling with germs. He needed to be there, so he could begin to breathe on his own again, and begin to walk the halls slowly of his own accord. He needed the life saving measures that the doctors and nurses provided. It also put him inside a germ hotel. Now as he recovers at home, he seemingly has pneumonia, diagnosed from televideo doctor appointment, and my mom, The Nurse, listening to his heart from home. He has a cough, a wheeze, and the doctor prescribed antibiotics and an inhaler he can use three times a day. He says he's getting better, but the cough and wheeze hangs on.
Of course we all think Covid-19. Even his doctor wanted him to get tested, but he doesn't qualify. The state of Missouri only has so many tests, and my dad was told that only people who have traveled outside the country or have been in direct contact with someone who's tested positive for Covid-19 can get the test. This means that if my father has Covid-19, he's been refused the test, and he waits to see if these medicines do the trick.
This worry about my dad, and our inability to go visit them, it colors my every day. Yes, I work with kids on their school work and make sure they get outside to move their bodies everyday, but I feel a constant, nagging worry. What if this pneumonia takes my Dad down? What if it's Covid-19 and we don't know? I know this doesn't help my anxiety, but it's there nonetheless.
My parents have been praying the rosary in the evenings. They offered if any of us wanted to join them via phone, we'd be welcome. I neither accepted nor rejected their offer. Yet.
This took me immediately back to all the times as a child they imposed the rosary on us: kneeling around the bed, saying the rosary as a family of 6 - each child more distracted and bored than the next. It reminded me of every single car trip as a family when my parents insisted we begin the road trip with the rosary.
me: Why? Why do we have to?
Mom: The Blessed Mother asks us to pray the rosary. It's a prayer of peace for the whole world. It draws us closer to God and to her.
me: (indecipherable low moan)
As the prayers began, and familiar words came out of my 11 year-old mouth, I internally fought my own anger and resentment: I can't believe we're doing this AGAIN. I can't believe this is how we have start every single car trip. This is the worst. It's so boring. I hate it. Then as the tires continued to turn, the sun continued to beat down, and I settled into my seat, I would give over to the prayers. By the time it finished, I felt my body calmer, felt like I left a more anxious and angry version of myself a couple miles back. I let that version of me go wander off into the Missouri landscape as we chugged along towards Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico and then Arizona to see my grandparents.
The prayers of the rosary - some skeptics have said - are just prayers we Catholics know by wrote and they don't really mean anything.
Last night, after feeling worried about my dad, I surprised myself by digging my rosary out from the back corner of my dresser. When I got married, my mom took pieces of her wedding dress and my grandmother's wedding dress and sewed me a satin rosary holder. I neither accepted or rejected her offer to pray the rosary, but on this night, 12 years into my marriage, I pulled that rosary out for the first time.
I crawled into bed and began saying the prayers I know by heart. I could feel my skepticism dwindle, and my thoughts turned towards my dad. My worry about what's going to happen to him began to soften, and I just thought about all the things I love about him. A smile slowly formed on my face there in the quiet of my home, miles away from where he was sleeping. I continued through the prayers, giving over to the centering and calm that grounded me to my freshly cleaned sheets. I breathed. I prayed. I left a more anxious version of myself back at the beginning of the glistening line of beads. By the time I ended one decade of the rosary, I was ready for sleep.
In that time I have felt a mounting panic; my dad had open heart surgery 18 days ago, and he was hospitalized while his body recovered. The hospital is a place crawling with germs. He needed to be there, so he could begin to breathe on his own again, and begin to walk the halls slowly of his own accord. He needed the life saving measures that the doctors and nurses provided. It also put him inside a germ hotel. Now as he recovers at home, he seemingly has pneumonia, diagnosed from televideo doctor appointment, and my mom, The Nurse, listening to his heart from home. He has a cough, a wheeze, and the doctor prescribed antibiotics and an inhaler he can use three times a day. He says he's getting better, but the cough and wheeze hangs on.
Of course we all think Covid-19. Even his doctor wanted him to get tested, but he doesn't qualify. The state of Missouri only has so many tests, and my dad was told that only people who have traveled outside the country or have been in direct contact with someone who's tested positive for Covid-19 can get the test. This means that if my father has Covid-19, he's been refused the test, and he waits to see if these medicines do the trick.
This worry about my dad, and our inability to go visit them, it colors my every day. Yes, I work with kids on their school work and make sure they get outside to move their bodies everyday, but I feel a constant, nagging worry. What if this pneumonia takes my Dad down? What if it's Covid-19 and we don't know? I know this doesn't help my anxiety, but it's there nonetheless.
My parents have been praying the rosary in the evenings. They offered if any of us wanted to join them via phone, we'd be welcome. I neither accepted nor rejected their offer. Yet.
This took me immediately back to all the times as a child they imposed the rosary on us: kneeling around the bed, saying the rosary as a family of 6 - each child more distracted and bored than the next. It reminded me of every single car trip as a family when my parents insisted we begin the road trip with the rosary.
me: Why? Why do we have to?
Mom: The Blessed Mother asks us to pray the rosary. It's a prayer of peace for the whole world. It draws us closer to God and to her.
me: (indecipherable low moan)
As the prayers began, and familiar words came out of my 11 year-old mouth, I internally fought my own anger and resentment: I can't believe we're doing this AGAIN. I can't believe this is how we have start every single car trip. This is the worst. It's so boring. I hate it. Then as the tires continued to turn, the sun continued to beat down, and I settled into my seat, I would give over to the prayers. By the time it finished, I felt my body calmer, felt like I left a more anxious and angry version of myself a couple miles back. I let that version of me go wander off into the Missouri landscape as we chugged along towards Oklahoma, Texas, New Mexico and then Arizona to see my grandparents.
The prayers of the rosary - some skeptics have said - are just prayers we Catholics know by wrote and they don't really mean anything.
Last night, after feeling worried about my dad, I surprised myself by digging my rosary out from the back corner of my dresser. When I got married, my mom took pieces of her wedding dress and my grandmother's wedding dress and sewed me a satin rosary holder. I neither accepted or rejected her offer to pray the rosary, but on this night, 12 years into my marriage, I pulled that rosary out for the first time.
I crawled into bed and began saying the prayers I know by heart. I could feel my skepticism dwindle, and my thoughts turned towards my dad. My worry about what's going to happen to him began to soften, and I just thought about all the things I love about him. A smile slowly formed on my face there in the quiet of my home, miles away from where he was sleeping. I continued through the prayers, giving over to the centering and calm that grounded me to my freshly cleaned sheets. I breathed. I prayed. I left a more anxious version of myself back at the beginning of the glistening line of beads. By the time I ended one decade of the rosary, I was ready for sleep.
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