All the Small Things: Life Lessons from a Survivor During a Pandemic

Last weekend marked one year since the original date of a concert I was going to attend with my youngest sister to celebrate being halfway done with chemotherapy. The concert was cancelled abruptly a couple days beforehand as everything began closing down (and has since been postponed two other times). I assume at some point, we'll get to go see the band play, although it's becoming more difficult to picture the packed Target Center. It's funny to think that if I'd bought tickets for just a slightly earlier date, we may have actually seen them last year.

Those first few weeks of the shut down last year, I remember feeling very oddly like I was in a movie. Specifically, a zombie movie. (Yes, that's right.) It may be because Zombieland: Double Tap was the last movie Eli and I saw in a theatre, but I swear for a while, the combination of my body falling apart from the chemo and the news making me feel like the world outside was falling apart had me peering out the windows like I was anticipating a hoard of monsters to come rushing toward our front door.

We never needed to barricade our door, though we did need to turn the news off after a while. Life went from shock to surrealism to something maybe akin to acceptance, and we kept moving along. There's a lot of nostalgia out there right now, but I feel like that can get in the way of growth sometimes. I'm sure some probably feel that they changed or grew (or admittedly, regressed) in some way this last year, and I think we can take a lot of what we learned to make things better. 

Especially as a kid but even as an adult, I used to picture life as a series of boring moments until something big and exciting would happen: holidays, large gatherings, a family trip somewhere, a friend's party. I would always find myself counting down the days until the next exciting *big thing*. I mentioned waiting for that concert with Andrea. When that was cancelled, I thought I needed something else to celebrate: I planned to visit some friends and have a night on the town! Then bars and restaurants shut down, and I needed a new plan again. Everything kept getting foiled until I ended up... like, simply toasting my husband with a beer at our kitchen table. I remember being so frustrated last March: wasn't it bad enough I had cancer and had to go through all this awful treatment-- now I couldn't even have any fun? But then I realized I had to switch my thinking around. It took a little time, but I started to really appreciate all of life's little boring moments. Honestly. 

Of course, it was difficult to have three small kids at home when I was going through all the cancer stuff. Really, though, it was a blessing in disguise. Little kids have such a unique way of looking at the world. They see the simplest things as wondrous. Something like reading a favorite bedtime story or sitting outside enjoying the sunshine on your back feels special, almost sacred. I've watched my kids be amused by an ant crossing a beach blanket or the sound of a leaf underfoot. When you pause like a child and live fully in the moment, it's actually difficult to be bored. I still love being over-productive, but I started to really enjoy all of the ordinary, seemingly boring days. We took little walks as a family and did chores together. I asked my toddler what he was building with blocks and we've helped each other design a bunch of different "robots". I asked my 6-year-old to pick out a book for us to read together, and he now brings home a few of our favorite series each week from the school library. The baby and I spent (and still do) a lot of time admiring the different birds eating in our feeder and our chickens in the backyard.

I think joy in the ordinary things is probably three parts living the moment, one part empathy, because you have to occasionally embrace empathy to enjoy something a small person wants to do that you may find dull. For instance, reading "Mighty, Mighty Construction Site" for the hundredth time with my two-year-old is not exactly thrilling to me as an avid reader, but when I see his eyes light up, I make the truck noises and bounce him along to the rumbling construction work. He is having his best moment, so that can also be my best moment. 

This past year, so much interaction has moved online. I've seen a lot of people argue, grow bitter, or belittle others. It was hard to see society seemingly growing more distant and hard-hearted, especially when I felt like I was moving in the opposite direction. Talking to other survivors, I've found a common thread: cancer seems to make a person more empathetic, as you can suddenly relate to emotional, physical, financial, etc. pains of so many others. But of course you don't have to go through cancer to feel empathy. When we have our "keyboard warrior" weapons out, it's easy to say things we wouldn't in person. 

Still, it doesn't have to be that way. I've looked more carefully at some of my students' emails this year, especially ones that I would be quick to consider "rude" in previous years. Tone is tough online, and everyone is going through something weird and difficult; it isn't that hard to think it through and be more understanding. We've heard it a lot, but it still applies: walk a mile in someone else's shoes. We don't always all agree, but taking the time to listen can go a long way to understanding. I've always thought I was a good listener, but lately I've been doubling down. I'm shy around new people, and I've wondered in the past if that makes me less approachable, but this year I've found myself just being myself a bit more wherever I am: in my virtual classroom, at the doctor's office, online-- asking people how they're doing and sharing something that I hope makes them laugh. I'm appreciating the beauty in everything small, from acts of kindness to simple conversation.