Work-life balance: we’ll get through

‘OK, we’ll get through this,’ Suzanne Westover pledges.

I’m writing this at 1:52 a.m. My house is quiet, but my brain is abuzz.

I’m one of the lucky people with the theoretical ability to work full-time at home. The practical considerations are only hampered by the reality of solo-parenting an eight-year-old.

My husband is chief officer on a luxury cruise liner. But these days, luxury is in dwindling supply. His regular updates from the ship are disquieting.

They ping onto my WhatsApp in the middle of conference calls.

They pop up while I’m throwing together a haphazard supper after a day of listening to colleagues with one ear — phone on mute — as my daughter calls out things like, “How do you spell activities?”

“A-c-t-…” I trail off, distracted. Thanks to auto-correct, my spelling has really gone to hell. Why is the English language so un-phonetic?

I pivot. “Ask Google!”

During my next call, I run upstairs when asked my opinion as my daughter yells at full volume, “Hey Google, how do you spell ‘create?’” She hollers at technology the way an elderly person uses a phone.

I tune back in to my work call, jotting down, “press release, statement, all staff message.” Another late night.

Ping, goes my phone. “Nowhere to land,” my husband has messaged. My stomach clenches. “Hawaii doesn’t want us,” he continues.

My husband is navigating some particularly rough waters. His ship is trying to disembark 800 passengers before cruise lines suspend all sailings. His industry has taken a big hit during this global pandemic.

“They’re saying we might be onboard for months,” he is tapping away furiously. I can

Sometimes, I believe my own messages of hope ... I can put a positive spin on anything. But right now, I’ve got little use for fancy turns of phrase.

read panic between the lines. I begin to type something soothing. Erase it. Try again.

“The dust will settle. You’ll be home soon. You don’t want to be flying right now anyway.” This last one, at least, I am certain of.

Sometimes, I believe my own messages of hope and calm. I write for a living. I can put a positive spin on anything. But right now, I’ve got little use for fancy turns of phrase.

Someone on my conference call asks for a wellness check-in.

Where to begin?

I listen to colleagues. Some are faring better than others. All are like me, collecting full pay, equipped to work remotely. But it’s interesting how quickly the cracks in the veneer begin to show. Phone calls with big groups are unwieldy. People stop and start. We’re Canadian, after all.

“Oh, no, no … you go ahead,” a colleague says. “No, I didn’t mean to cut you off, you first.” At this rate, we’ll have spent the afternoon making sure we didn’t interrupt anyone and accomplish a half-day of “being polite.” It’s something.

I pace my bedroom as I listen to people express various states of mild to moderate anxiety. We humans don’t like our routines to be upended.

I take a fleeting glance at my closet, where my sharp blazers are neatly organized by colour. Then I look down at my baggy sweatpants. Be grateful, I chide myself: There are people losing jobs left, right and centre.

My phone pings. It’s my husband again. “I don’t know if I’ll have a job when this is done.” I start to write something reassuring. Then, from downstairs: “Mom, are you done yet? Can you please get off the phone already?”

I look at my computer: 20 unread emails. To my colleagues, I write, “I’ll be back online in an hour.” I close my laptop and hang up the phone, feeling blessed relief as I yanked out the ear buds.

To my daughter, I call, “I’m coming, let’s get out your scooter.” To my husband, I write, “It’s OK, we’ll get through this.”

After all, what else can we do?