Enemy of our soul, you don’t have the last voice. 

Day 76 of solitary lockdown...
The country’s gone mad. Briefly overshadowing the pandemic, injustice lays wide open, pain spills from protesters, and anarchists try to silence necessary voices with wanton violence. 
Oh, and a space rocket successfully launches from U.S. soil, a historic event that momentarily unites us. 
Maybe I don’t really want to re-emerge. 
Meanwhile, I’ve made peace with leaving my career and have officially resigned from a ministry limping on life support, not exactly a giant leap for mankind, but pretty big and courageous steps for me. 
So in the lonely hours, I finish a couple of courses to keep my license for volunteer work. (I suppose I’m not so brave; I’ve yet to entirely let go.)  I’m whittling down my tower of meant to read books and revisiting some old vinyls, the best friends I have in my present confinement. I miss glancing up from my page to share an interesting quote or sharing a memory evoked by the music, and mostly, debating the hard stuff of humanity.  If I could just remember there’s no one on the receiving end. 
I keep asking, Lord, how long?
I, too, may go mad. 

Week 10

I’m emerging from my loneliest week of this global lockdown...dark, empty days which almost strangled my soul. Truth be told, last week was not much different than most of the last seven years of singular living, but the inability to anesthetize this loneliness with external activity sheds an imposing spotlight on it. 
Anesthetic. Is that what I want when my world reopens? I don’t have a plan, but the present lack of a meaningful social structure is not an option going forward. This is not an indictment on current friendships; it’s a need to address my lack of social interaction: weekend dinners, church connections, travel mates. (Yes, travel will return.)
I know there are others in the same lane; I’ve heard the conversation. This serves as a launchpad for discussion of another pandemic. 

I needed human interaction on this pandemic Mother’s Day, not just a drive-by wave as in weeks past, but time to watch my grands run around the yard without fear of abusing the 6 feet rule. 
It took a lot of preparation and creativity, but we managed a fun outing. I convinced the littles that we were playing dress up with masks, homemade face shields and my nursing PPE. Peekaboo with my headgear made Chloe laugh and feel comfortable with this new version of her Gigi. But it was surreal.

This morning,  I’m staring down my last necessary continuing education courses to renew my professional license. Why follow through?  Is this another dead end, another loss? Will I ever be able to practice again or volunteer with a medical ministry? I want so much to head for the front line, yet, I’m stuck in the reality of vulnerability. I no longer don my armor to heal; my equipment now monitors my own malady, not the vitals of my patients.

Am I permanently sidelined?