Zibby Mag

By Darcey Gohring

In June of 2021, I was at a high school graduation party in a sprawling suburban backyard sipping rosé. A woman was talking to me about where her daughter was going to college in the fall. We sat in our summery frocks perched on a slate-topped stone wall while other guests mingled around us.

I nodded at her explanation as to why her child had selected one university over another, muttering uh, huh, and mhmm at the right intervals. In reality, I could barely think of anything except my foot. I stared down at it in its strappy sandal. The toenails were freshly painted a bold shade of coral but that wasn’t what was drawing my attention. It was the sensation that I couldn’t shake — like an electric current was coursing through it and exiting through my toe making it twitch up and down. I tried to push the toe further into the sole of the sandal, but it only twitched again.

“Can I top you ladies off?” our hostess asked as she approached us with a fresh bottle of wine. I looked up smiling and held out my wineglass. Then, I crossed my ankles, burying the twitching-toe foot behind the other leg. I needed to stop thinking about it and relax.

The problem was that I felt like a kindergartener being dropped into a college classroom. I didn’t know how to go through these motions anymore. I had spent the first few months of the pandemic living in virtual isolation because of breast cancer, the following months with a weakened immune system tiptoeing back to reality, and now I was being thrown into a never-ending array of social engagements I hadn’t seen the likes of — well, ever.

Our children were seniors and the consensus seemed to be we needed to make up for a year of lost time, which meant team dinners, cocktail parties, graduation parties, after-game parent get-togethers, senior celebrations, and on and on. And since I had twins, it meant double the amount. How could I say no to any of it? Why would I want to? They were my only children, and this was a big moment in their lives.

The weather was warm enough for outdoor gatherings, everyone was vaccinated, and they were chomping at the bit to get back to “normal.” As I overheard more than once, “I am so done with Covid!” and “the whole thing was so overblown,” I tried to ignore the words. I tried to push away the images that kept flashing through my mind: the hospital recovery room filled with doctors and nurses in PPE, the Covid patient in the hood being wheeled past me in a hallway, the treatment waiting room filled with other cancer patients, terror in their eyes, fearing that today might be the day they finally catch the virus.

I kept my mouth shut. I knew most people didn’t have my experience. While I was in the hospital, they had sat home and watched Netflix. If I got Covid in the middle of radiation, I would have to redo the entire series of twenty-one treatments; most people got a mild case and said, “It really wasn’t that bad.”

But now that was over. I was “healed.” So, why couldn’t I just be happy? I tried to will myself into it. No one wanted a downer. What they wanted was to forget about the last year. They wanted to ask, “You’re healthy now, right?” and briskly move on. They wanted the person they saw running most mornings past their house. The one they could share a glass of wine with and have a laugh.

More than anything, I wanted to be her again, too. But as much as I tried, the symptoms kept surfacing — insomnia, racing thoughts, a twitching thumb, tingling limbs, a slight jerking movement in my legs, toes spasming. I even began to worry if something more sinister was happening. Parkinson’s? Multiple Sclerosis? My body had betrayed me before, why wouldn’t it again?

I was “healed.” So, why couldn’t I just be happy? I tried to will myself into it. No one wanted a downer. What they wanted was to forget about the last year. They wanted to ask, “You’re healthy now, right?” and briskly move on.

For weeks, I sat at social events chatting idly while I silently battled my body’s seeming revolt. I swallowed my words at every sarcastic Covid comment. I convinced myself that if I kept moving back into normal life, my brain would eventually catch up.

In that vein, I decided to go to the mall and buy a new dress. The last time I had been there was Christmas of 2019. I thought this was what I needed — to do something frivolous and treat myself. I stepped into one of my favorite stores and glanced around. People were milling about — so many people. They all looked the same. Normal. As if nothing had changed. They were chatting, holding up garments, looking at price tags, talking on phones, and standing in lines. It looked all wrong. I felt outside of my own body. They were in one reality, and I was stuck in another.

I walked quickly to the closest rack, grabbed a shirt, and made my way to the dressing room. “Just one item?” a saleswoman asked. I nodded and she pointed to an open room. I shut the door, hung the shirt on a hook, and sat down.

It took me a moment to realize I was crying. I didn’t even know why. What was wrong with me? This was supposed to be a happy time. I was supposed to be grateful, to savor this new chance at life. Cancer was behind me, and the vaccine was bringing new promise. So, why did I feel so alone?

“Are you okay in there?” the saleswoman called from the other side of the door.

“Yup,” I choked out.

I emerged a few minutes later and practically sprinted to my car. By the time I got there, I was out of breath, my hands shaking, and full sobs were coming out. I didn’t know how I was going to move forward, but it was clear what I was doing now wasn’t the way.

The next morning, I sat on an examination table at my doctor’s office. “So, what’s going on?” she asked. Five minutes later, through more tears, she finally coaxed it out of me. I said I felt like an emotional mess, and I was falling apart.

“This isn’t surprising,” she said. “You went through trauma and it’s all hitting you. You were in fight or flight for the entire time and now the reality of what happened is sinking in.”

She explained that the symptoms were physical signs of anxiety. I needed to approach them just as I would a broken arm and get help to mend them. As I listened to her, I wondered indignantly why my doctors hadn’t talked more about this from the outset. After all, including treatments and surgery, I had been to nearly eighty medical appointments in the past year.

What was wrong with me? This was supposed to be a happy time. I was supposed to be grateful, to savor this new chance at life. Cancer was behind me, and the vaccine was bringing new promise. So, why did I feel so alone?

So many of the conversations I had with doctors, friends, and family revolved around my physical affliction, which made the emotional aspect feel like something I was supposed to deal with on my own. Was it because everyone was collectively trying to forget the same thing? Was acknowledging the weight of our trauma too much to bear? How many others were out there silently battling their bodies’ resistance to the purported return to “normal.”

We all knew where we wanted to be, but some of us had lost our compass, or perhaps never had one. I only started to find my way again after I began seeing a kind therapist once a week.

Whether we acknowledge it or not, we are all trying to process our trauma. Some of us might be in denial, hoping that it will miraculously disappear, while others, like me, needed to shed the tears we were holding within before we could move forward.

In truth, whatever path we take, we all want the same thing — a way back to normal. That journey will be different for all of us. The time it takes for us to get there — and how much help we need along the way — is immaterial. What matters most is that, eventually, we all make it to the other side.

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Darcey Gohring is a freelance writer based outside New York City. She specializes in human interest and lifestyle content. She is a contributing author to the anthology book, Corona City: Voices From an Epicenter, and recently completed her first novel.

Connect with Darcey on Instagram or Twitter to learn more about her work.