The Edge Of All Maps
Last year’s family vacation, desperately needed by all, was fiercely planned by my sister-in-law, and then furiously cancelled in the wake of a lump. Which turned out not to be benign. I can’t say we weren’t all disappointed at having to cancel, none so more than she, having jumped through all the hoops of who needs what and where and why and miraculously coming up with a perfectly planned week, despite the fact that the age range she was trying to please was from 8 to 82. But in the grand scheme of things, a missed vacation is a small price to pay for a life, and we were all beyond grateful for the trade. In the months that followed, while the cancer laid waste with all the nuance of a missile strike, as her physical landscape seemed to change daily, it seemed the one constant was her smile. Conveying not only her joy that she was still here, but also her gratitude that she could still fight.
When we planned our next vacation, it was just the three of us — mommy, daddy, kiddo, and there was no thought except where to be on March break that was not here. There was no news of any interest besides the average daily temperature of our destination. In the days leading up to our departure there were rumbles of something overseas, but that was all it was… closed borders to places we weren’t going, and even our closest southern neighbour wasn’t a concern, since we would be flying over instead of through, missing them completely. It was a short direct flight which equaled out to be just half a night and a scant morning between our relentless grey skied knee deep winter and a sudden descent into a dazzling array of tropical hues. Between the view and the welcome cocktail, we were brilliantly tipsy by the time we reached our room.
Things changed drastically while we were away. More illnesses reported, more borders closed, more outrage and panic and suddenly, it seemed, more death, more shortages, more rules. But an all-inclusive resort in paradise is not where you go to watch the news. We had set our phones aside, in the safe most days, left the TV off, and concentrated on entertaining both ourselves and our ten year old. We ate and drank — cocktails and dessert (which were sometimes the same thing) with every meal, plus snacks in between. We danced often and anywhere, we played and swam, splashed and slid. We lounged with intent, and napped frequently. The kids club turned out to be a huge hit with the kiddo, and for the few hours each day that he went wild there, we went wild too — longer naps, with less clothes. All of this on repeat for seven glorious days with little to no concern for anything taking place outside of our small resort on its tiny remote island. Blissfully unaware of the chaos reigning in the rest of the world is what I have come to think we were.
But bad news has a way of spreading, and creeping, of finding its way in. On our flight out, suddenly confronted with screens at every turn, we were shocked to find out how much of a risk we had taken by leaving home. We tried to take comfort in the fact that there were no known cases on the island we were flying out from, and that information allowed us to maintain our little bubble of safety and calm almost all the way home. Until we landed, and realized that our airport was filled with passengers from many many other locations, most not nearly as safe as ours. Fear set in quickly and I found myself moving us gracelessly through the terminal, stiff-spined and sharp-tongued, desperate to get to home-safe-home. I didn’t even understand what I was afraid of, or how to protect us, or even how very much I had to be afraid of yet.
We came home to a world where only the birds can fly freely. A world in free fall from any aspect, with more questions than answers. A relentless amount of information and data spelling certain doom, with no real plans for salvation. All of us left standing at the edge of the map, the unknown territories marked only “here be monsters”. It took time — it always does — time none of us really had as it turns out, to figure out what the monsters were, and what they wanted. To realize these monsters are like nothing we’ve ever known, and find out just how ill-equipped we are to fight them: our weapons inadequate, our treatments insufficient, our arsenals filled to the brim with ineffective potions. It took even more time to realize they could not be vanquished by any amount of attention, could only be gradually diminished by utter avoidance.
And so, in the meantime, we took chances we didn’t know we had, used up all nine of our cat lives and then some. We shopped for food and toys, and pleasure, went to parks and bars and restaurants, spent time with friends, and hugged and kissed them goodbye. We did not know it would be months before we would see them again, and there is no timeline for when we might hold our loved ones again except that magical time called “someday, maybe”. With casual loving contact denied, we find the physical pull toward another does not diminish, but rather intensifies. We substitute with kisses blown over video screens, and while that is not nearly enough, I mean how could it be… right now it is also everything.
We are depressed by our losses, which are many; not just freedom, but friends, and family, and much of what we considered to be fun. We consider ourselves lucky to be only depressed and not utterly devastated as so many others are. After all, we still have “someday, maybe” to look forward to. We are painfully aware that for so many that is no longer an option, at least on this planet.
Mostly, we adapt. We adopt whatever best practices we can, we make whatever sacrifices we have to. We make the most of what we have, and the least of what we haven’t. We try to be kind to others and even kinder to ourselves. We are stretched thin to a brittleness that harsh words easily break, and so it seems as days become weeks become months, what becomes safe to say shrinks. Constantly biting back bullets exhausts. When even a shrugged shoulder holds the timbre of a slammed door, we begin to long for quiet and mute ourselves accordingly. Silence reigns, even as storms gather. Out in the world (only when we have to be) we are learning to make more eye contact. With the rest of our faces covered, safe distance maintained, our eyes are becoming our primary communicators. What use are these weapon-filled mouths now? We are trapped in this new reality, and no amount of gnawing through flesh, sinew or solid bone will free us from it.
So we remain, here in the no-fly zone, where nowhere is safe to go and nowhere should be gone to, and while our gratitude at still being here at all is almost unutterable, being here is not easy. It’s hard, so very fucking hard, and even on the best day, the terror of those lurking invisible monsters is nearly unbearable. Some days it is easier, not to mention safer, to stay in, stay away, sit and stare, say nothing, do nothing. Some days we sit shiva for all that has gone from our lives. We mourn what we had, and grieve that we cannot have it. We keen for how it was and rage against how it is. But as months stretch those days become shorter, the time spent there thinner. Most days, we look around for our bootstraps, hoping once found we can not only put them on, but pull them up. We look for the advantages of this new world, and try to savour them. We look for the adventures still possible, and try to make plans for them.
Most of all, we take serious notes from survivors of other invisible monsters, survivors like my sister-in-law. Out here at the edge of all maps “here be monsters” and our salvation may well depend on making peace with that fact. We are learning not just how to fight them, but also how to smile brightly while doing so. Because we can.
