By G.
After at least an hour of spinning in one of the spinny chairs at the kitchen island in my childhood home, trying to write something here that you might want to read, it hits me: I can’t remember things. You see, at the end of the year, I usually like to do a list. A retrospective, if you will. Not only because it forces me to reflect on what I’ve learned and how I’ve grown, but also, and perhaps more importantly, because it’s much easier to write a list than it is to write many paragraphs in a row with topic sentences and transitions. While brainstorming prompts that I thought might yield 7-10 items for my listicle—prompts such as, “10 Scrubs Reruns That Don’t Seem Racist and Sexist in 2021” or “Five Face Masks that Will Stand the Test of Your Tears”—I realized I simply could not string together a coherent story from the last 12 months.
I mean, I can remember some things. Like, I remembered there was a gas station on 200 South and 1300 East, although I did not remember that its windows are now boarded up and it’s surrounded by hoar-frosted tumbleweeds. And I can remember my home address…usually by the second time I tap it into a website that doesn’t accept Apple Pay. But I can’t remember enough right now, on December 31, 2021, to create a timeline, connect logical dots, or craft a narrative that would be meaningful to you, me, or anyone.
It’s not just me. The pandemic has wrecked our brains, collapsed our concept of time, and scrambled our neurotransmitters like…those fragile, goo-filled rock thingies chickens shoot out of their bums.
What I can remember are numbers. Random numbers attached to specific memories from this year that I’ve retained but refuse to explore long enough to find meaning in them. So here they are, with minimal context and commentary, for your enjoyment and/or judgment:
1: Elbow surgery, the second in the series. I had a screw loose, which is both literally true and figuratively more than a little on the nose.
2: Black widows murdered in the driveway of our new house. (Which reminds me that I need a better Black Widow eradication strategy.)
3: Times my new puppy tried to unalive my mom’s tiny elderly terrier.
4: Kindergarten potty accidents, but only one involving the play apparatus, which feels like a win.
5: Raging adult ear infections.
10: Shots administered. Two child-sized Pfizers, three flus, three Modernas, one J&J, and a Moderna booster.
12: Pounds gained. (After this week, could be more like 15.)
22: Social invitations declined due to pandemic anxiety. (This is almost certainly an exaggeration, we are not this popular.)
30: COVID-19 tests, taken by me and the five-year-old (who is tested weekly at school, for those who may find that number alarming). Zero for the husband, which feels like a trick.
50: Fat stripy caterpillars metamorphosing before our eyes on the milkweeds in the driveway.
500: Front-yard cherry tomatoes eaten in bologneses or thrusted into the hands of new neighbors.
1,500: Dollars paid over sticker price for the car we had to buy when Rob’s trusty steed of 16 years gave up the ghost. (Due to the microchip shortage, this is widely considered a triumph in our house.)
2,000: Miles traveled to get to the only place we went this year: my parents’ house (twice). If we didn’t see you, don’t take it personally. The link between our planned vacations and the variant’s peaks is downright uncanny.
My flabby brain won’t let me tell the cohesive story of 2021. Maybe it’s the mess the pandemic has made of my mind. Or maybe it’s because another whole year of our lives forged in the fires of a pandemic feels too unreal and unfair to be made deliberately meaningful. But when I look at this list of numbers, I can pull up snapshots of magical moments, like chasing butterflies in our side yard, trading backyard produce with our new neighbors, walking and talking on the way home from school about listening to our bodies, and finally getting that long-hoped-and-prayed for vaccine. It paints a picture of our ups and downs and all the ways my little family has endured and triumphed.
I’m not under any delusions that the year ahead will be that much better than this one. I don’t expect to see COVID-19 in the rearview mirror anytime soon, and I don’t see us as a society adapting to our new new normal with any more grace or trust than we have heretofore demonstrated. But it’s clear to me that, even in relatively dark and difficult times, there can be moments of gratitude, connection, and even joy. And I think that’s something we can count on for next year, too.