Ten Days.
It’s been ten days since we stopped allowing clients into our building.
I could not believe it today when I made an updated client blog post, you can read it here if want, that it had been ten days since the last one.
It feels like three days ago.
The days have melded together.
We are getting into our stride, and everyone is adapting.
Some genius (not me) suggested numbering our parking spots and marking them out in chalk. Someone else suggested papering basic instructions and our phone number on our windows.
But at home it all melts into one.
Again, I’m still very lucky. I’m employed and well. I have a vaguely normal schedule. I’m not on the front lines, even in the veterinary world. Its more, so much more, than many.
But I can only decompress and try to relax, or go back to work.
I’m either on or off. There is no middle ground.
It’s grief.
That’s the only word I can find for it.
Grief for the dog park.
Grief for dinner with colleagues or friends.
Grief for home projects, for which I always have had boundless energy.
Grief for Hockey, I miss my Golden Knights.
Grief for meeting with my team, usually the highlight of my working week.
Grief for my town, everyone else’s playground that I call home.
Grief for how things used to be.
I am so spoiled.
My loss is measured in an unwillingness to do vaguely productive things with my free time.
Until my friends start to get sick, as one did today.
Until my friends tell me of clinic owners wanting to cut their losses and sell.
Until my 90-year-old Mom starts off our weekly transatlantic phone call with “I’m not sick.”
Until the worry, fear, anger, frustration, boil over into words.
It’s been ten days since we stopped allowing clients into our building.
Mike Falconer 