By Molly Flinkman
@molly_flinkman

My husband Jake’s phone alarm beeps at 5:45 a.m., but after a restless night of sleep, I am already awake. The bed shifts as he gets out of it, and then I hear the bathroom door click and the shower turn on. Rolling over, I put my right hand on his warm pillow and run my fingers across one of the seams in the pillowcase. His side of the bed feels especially empty. I’m not sure the next time he’ll lay here next to me.

A few days ago, we sat together on our couch watching TV while Jake’s phone buzzed relentlessly with text messages. “What’s going on?” I finally asked.

“It’s a group thread with the other ER doctors,” he said. “They’re predicting the coronavirus cases are going to surge in the next few weeks, and the hospital needs to know if we’re willing to work extra shifts when they do.”

I took a breath and nodded.

Then he said what I already knew was coming next: “Some of the other doctors are going to quarantine away from their families now. I think it would probably be smart for me to stay away from you guys—at least until the peak is over.”

The memory twists in my stomach as Jake comes back into the bedroom and gets dressed. I listen to the sounds of drawers opening and closing—my hand still on his pillow—until it’s quiet without him. A few minutes later, I slide out of bed, put on a sweater, and tiptoe downstairs into the dimly lit kitchen. Jake stands behind the stove, and two eggs sizzle in a pan in front of him. He looks up at me and smiles.

“Morning,” he says.

“Morning,” I mouth back. As I pour coffee creamer into my favorite coffee mug, I notice the words “You’ve Got This” have almost entirely faded away on the side. I pour my coffee, and then Jake turns my shoulders toward him and wraps me in a hug. I put my face in his neck, determined to memorize the way I feel in his arms. A few moments later, he moves away to finish his eggs, but the smell of his soap lingers. I breathe it in.

We sit down together at the kitchen table in silence. When he finishes his breakfast, he puts a hand on my wrist, and the tears are sudden and hot in my eyes. “You can do this,” he says.

My hands tremble as I lift my coffee to my lips.

“I’m going to load up my car and then wake the kids before I leave,” he says. “Do you mind if I get them up a little early?”

I shake my head and then watch him pick up a big Rubbermaid tub filled with clothes and shoes and other miscellaneous things he might need over the weeks ahead. He disappears outside. Moments later, he comes back in and heads upstairs to the kids. Noise fills the house as our three oldest bound into the kitchen. Jake follows with our 18-month-old in his arms, kisses his cheek, and hands him to me. Then, kneeling down, he hugs the other three one by one. 

We follow him to the front door and step outside with him. He gives me one last glance. “I love you,” he says.

“Love you too,” I say back, embarrassed that I can’t seem to stop crying. I put a hand on my oldest daughter’s shoulders and pull her into my side as we watch his tail lights disappear at the end of our driveway.

“What do you want for breakfast?” I ask her as we head back inside.

 ***

A few hours later, I’m sitting cross-legged on the living room floor trying to entertain our youngest son while his oldest sister listens in on a first grade Zoom call and the two middles are watching a show—a routine I have already made sure to solidify.

“Go find a ball,” I say. “Let’s play catch.”

He throws a wooden block at my head.

“No,” I try again. “A ball. Find a ball.” He throws something else that isn’t a ball, but this time it’s softer. I turn it over in my hand. It’s a plastic raccoon finger puppet my mom bought him when he was a baby. By the time I look up to redirect him again toward a ball, he is enthralled by a toy jackhammer, so I let him be. I put the raccoon on my finger, and as I do, I’m reminded of a story I once heard on an episode of This American Life about a woman who was attacked by a rabid raccoon.

The woman, walking alone on a secluded road near her home, spotted a raccoon walking in the middle of the day. She stopped, but as soon as the raccoon saw her, it ran straight at her without any hesitation. As it bit and clawed at her, she managed to get her body weight on top of it and pull out her cell phone—which proved especially difficult as she tried to keep a rabid animal at bay. Her husband and son showed up a few minutes later and, thanks to a tire iron from the back of their car, ended the immediate threat of the raccoon.

I was fascinated by this story mostly because of the woman’s calm recollection of the events. There were no hysterics or overdramatizations. She screamed for help initially, but when she realized no one could hear her, she stopped and made a different plan. In her retelling of the events, she never once talked about being afraid. She did what she needed to do—the story itself was a matter of facts.

When I listened to the podcast episode, I wondered if I would have the wherewithal to withstand a rabid raccoon. Naturally afraid of most things and jumpy when relaxed, I wonder how this would have played out with me as the central character. Could I have calmed down long enough to formulate a plan or would this scene have ended with me in the fetal position, hoping someone would eventually rescue me? In the question of fight or flight, I’ve always assumed my instinctual response would be flight.

Another block hits me in the face and brings my full attention back into the living room. I look up to see my son smiling at me.

“Don’t throw blocks!” I say, tossing him the raccoon.

 *** 

A few nights after Jake has gone, I open up On the Banks of Plum Creek—the fourth book in the Little House on the Prairie series—with my daughters before they go to bed.

“Can we read the footbridge chapter tonight?” My oldest, Lily, asks. “Please?”

She has been looking ahead at the pictures and found one a few pages ahead of Laura, caught in some rushing water and held in place by a wooden board. “We can,” I tell her as I open the book.

Together, we read about melting snow and rising creek waters until finally we hit the page Lily has been anxiously awaiting in which Laura, not knowing the danger of fast-moving water, decided she wanted to play in the creek. She climbed out onto that wooden plank and then, holding on, rolled her entire body into the water—instantly realizing that what looked like fun was a mistake. The water, unrelenting, pushed and pulled at her, but she didn’t panic. Instead, she slowly pulled herself back onto the board and then crawled backward until she reached the ground. In the end, she acknowledged the strength of the water, but also thought proudly that it had not gotten her. “It had not made her scream and it could not make her cry,” I read to the girls.

I think about myself at eight years old and know that I did not possess this resolve—this defiance in the face of trouble. I imagine myself trapped under that piece of wood and picture my body being swept away, victim to the strength of a stronger power. I’m not convinced I would have been strong or calm enough to get back on solid ground, but even if I could, I would have been a weeping mess when it was over.

“One more chapter?” Lily asks.

I smile, turn the page, and read on.

***

The days without Jake turn to weeks, and we sink into new rhythms without his physical presence. We distance learn and ride bikes and watch shows and dance together in the living room. We cry and lose our tempers and ask for forgiveness. We talk to Jake through the window screens when he can come see us and through the phone screen on the days when he can’t. I pray constantly that God will continue to sustain me. I ask for patience and grace and kindness, knowing the choice to live well is mine, but the strength is not. I acknowledge my sadness and exhaustion but refuse to give way to despair. Time moves on. We press forward.

And then one morning, as I’m pouring coffee into my faded mug, my kids all eating breakfast behind me, I realize something: I’m more like Laura Ingalls and that brave woman in the woods than I thought. There is some fight in me after all.

Guest essay written by Molly Flinkman. A lover of side braids, houseplants, and good books, Molly spends her days in central Iowa with four kids and a husband who works unpredictable hospital hours. In her margins of free time, she writes about how her faith intersects the very ordinary aspects of her life. You can find her on her website or Instagram.

Photo by Lottie Caiella.