April 24: Juggled, 33% Chance, Poem from "Kyrie"

It has been a long, tiring week in a succession of long, tiring weeks.

I often find myself too tired to do much of anything by the time I get home from working at the medical office, but I have other obligations at night.  Teaching.  Cleaning.  Writing.  Grading.  Fathering.  Husbanding.  I've juggled all these balls pretty well for most of my life.

Now, however, I find myself struggling.  Before I know it, I'm staring at a stack of papers or a blank computer screen at midnight, frozen and exhausted.  The stress of working in a hospital/medical office environment is draining.  Sure, there are times when I laugh and joke.  And I'm surrounded by people I care about and who care about me.  But this pandemic sort of consumes me, physically and mentally, for a good portion of every 24 hours.

I know that my story isn't any different from thousands of other stories out there.  I'm not unique.  I try to keep that in mind.  It's difficult, however, when I read statistics about how much Covid-19 affects people with diabetes.  That, if I get this virus, I stand a 33% chance of ending up on a ventilator.  Just thinking about that makes me want to wash my hands for about a half hour straight.

My great friend, Helen, said to me a couple weeks ago that she believes something good is going to come out of this pandemic.  At the time she said this to me, I had a hard time believing her statement.  But, as the shelter-in-place extends and extends, I have come to truly treasure the time I have with my family.  Long walks with my puppy.  Zoom meetings with siblings where we just eat dinner together.  These simple acts of sharing have become serenity in the middle of a chaotic time.

Tonight, I am giving thanks for these small moments of joy.  They sustain me.  Give me hope.

They allow Saint Marty to continue juggling for another day.

from Kyrie

by:  Ellen Bryant Voigt

All day, one room:  me, and the cherubim
with their wet kisses.  Without quarantines,
who knew what was happening at home--
was someone put to bed, had someone died?
The paper said how dangerous, they coughed
and snuffed in the double desks, facing me--
they sneezed and spit on books we passed around
and on the boots I tied, retied, barely
out of school myself, Price, at the front--
they smeared their lunch, they had no handkerchiefs,
no fresh water to wash my hands--when the youngest
started to cry, flushed and scared,
I just couldn't touch her, I let her cry.
Their teacher, and I let them cry.