SEPARATION
Coronavirus kept me separated from my 5-year-old daughter for nearly a month
Iheard the car tires crunch against the gravel. I hustled to put on my shoes. Even though I knew the visit would be brief, I just had to see her. We’d already been apart for 12 days because I was “resumptive positive” for COVID-19. In terms of a mother not being able to see her 5-year-old daughter, that was nothing short of an eternity.
Her father had graciously offered to pick up some groceries for me. I wasn’t able to go anywhere, not only because it was exhausting to simply walk down a flight of stairs, but because two hospitals, a walk-in clinic, my primary care doctor and the CDC had told me not to. “Please do not leave your house unless it is to seek medical attention,” the nurse had said on the phone.
I was already petrified that I had infected people before my symptoms presented themselves; I didn’t want to infect anyone else now. The message rang loud and clear.
I couldn’t see her well through the car’s tinted windows, but I could make out her delicate profile — hair messy, the sides of the car seat consuming her tiny form. As she saw me making my way toward the car, she opened the window. “Mama!” Her whole face lit up. “Put on your mask, baby,” her father yelled. She did as she was told. I stopped dead in my tracks. Was I 6 feet away from her? Was that enough? My heart started to race. I had never been so happy to see her, and so eager to leave, all at the
same time.
“Hi, baby! I miss you so much! Are you having fun with Dada?” I almost asked if she was going to spend some time playing outside that afternoon, but then I realized it was raining. I had been so thrilled by her sweet face I didn’t even notice.
She said a few quick sentences about grocery shopping. Something related to how she got more of her favorite cereal, and that she picked out lots of Gatorade for me. I tried to fake a positive attitude as I responded. “That’s great, baby! Thank you for bringing me groceries.”
“Of course, Mama. I want to make sure you don’t get dehydrated.” Dehydrated? Her kindergarten vocabulary never ceased to amaze me.
I could feel my anxiety getting the best of me, and a lump in my throat began to form. I knew it was already time to say goodbye. I didn’t want her to see me get upset. She had learned about the virus in school and asked me over FaceTime nearly every day if I was going to get better; I didn’t want to add to her already obvious worry.
“I am going to head back inside.
You help Dada unload everything when you get home, OK?” The squint in her eyes proved she was smiling her usual giant smile, even with the mask covering her mouth.
“OK, Mama. I love you,” she said with excitement. Her hand reached up for an enthusiastic wave as I turned around.
As soon as I felt the door click shut behind me, I let my weight fall against it. I felt defeated. I started to do quick math in my head. Wait, my fever started last week? No, it was the week before. I was losing track of time. Seeing my daughter in the flesh caused my mind to race. I needed to see her for more than 60 seconds in the driveway. How many days would I have to go until I could be with her again?
It took another 10 days to learn the answer. It was 22 days between the time she left after I first got sick until she was able to come back home to me. For
what it’s worth, I was almost thankful that I hadn’t been feeling well, because it meant my body told me to sleep as much as possible. And while I was passed out, I couldn’t miss her.
Before the pandemic, I could have never imagined I might go over three weeks without seeing my daughter, at least until it was time for her to spread her wings and head off to college. I had no way to be emotionally prepared for such a thing, especially when my ability to see her again was dependent on numbers staring back at me from a thermometer.
Many of us know what it’s like to miss our kids here and there. Occasionally, we get to embark on work trips, an anniversary getaway, or a girls’ weekend. In these situations, we are away from our babies for a few days and typically have the rush of meetings or fancy dinners to distract us. But this type of separation does not compare. This is beyond those experiences in so many ways. We don’t want to be without our children for an amount of time measured in weeks, rather than days. And more importantly, they don’t want to be without us, either.
I hope I never have to experience such a thing again. It’s hard to describe the way a heart can ache when missing a child. But the hope isn’t only for my sake; it’s also for hers. Her words “I am so sad I will never see you again” will forever be with me. While I tried to reassure her that was not going to be the case, I could tell she only believed me to a certain extent.
And as much as it hurt me to keep my distance from her, the fear she experienced of forever being without her mother haunts me far more.
We are now back together and adjusting to the new normal, which consists of Google Classroom, bike rides for recess and far more hours of Barbie than I ever knew one child could play.
There are growing pains for both of us. Yet such growing pains are far milder than the pain of being apart for weeks, and both pale in comparison to the devastation some families are experiencing with a loss that means there is someone they loved they will never be together with again.
We are lucky to have each other, and the time we spent separated reminds us that through all this uncertainty and chaos, that is what matters most.