The Worst It Will Get
By Molly Flinkman
@molly_flinkman
The blue carpet was rough on my face, but I stayed anyway—flat on my stomach with my arms at my side and my face level with my three-week-old baby, Norah. A squeal carried up the stairs, and I smiled knowing my 18-month-old, Lily, was being entertained by someone other than me—my mom in this case.
The three of us had been living in my parents’ spare bedroom since Norah was six days old. My husband, Jake, was in his last year of medical school and interviewing for residency programs, but because there were no options in our city, he had to travel across state lines for multiple weeks at a time—each interview acting more as a month-long internship. He had been gone when I was two months pregnant, four months pregnant, eight months pregnant and now here I was—on my own again—just a few weeks postpartum. This was our last stint apart, but time felt like it was standing still.
I turned over on my back and looked up at the ceiling. Exhaustion stung my eyes. Norah still woke up three times in the middle of every night, and Lily insisted on rising before the sun each morning. I remembered my FaceTime call with Jake an hour earlier in which he had walked me through every room of the house he was staying in. “I wish I wasn’t here,” he kept saying. “I wish I was home with you and the girls.”
I couldn’t seem to muster many words in reply. I wasn’t alone, but I felt alone and unsure of how exactly to ask for the help it felt like only Jake could give.
Footsteps on the stairs told me Lily was on her way to join us. I rolled over and propped myself up on my elbows. As she jumped on my back and said, “Hi No-wah,” I willed myself to look forward to the future. In a few days, Jake would be home. We would move back into our house, and our face time would be actual. The difficult season of weeks apart would be behind us. “This is the worst it will get,” I thought.
***
I glanced at the clock thinking it must be dinner time, but 3:30 p.m. blinked back at me instead. I never knew time could move so slowly, but staying home full-time with a two-year-old and a one-year-old had taught me otherwise. Gone were the days I had spent teaching ninth grade, which had been broken up by eight periods, a lunch break with other adults, and a quiet 21-minute commute home. My schedule could no longer fit neatly on a white board and instead was scribbled with crayon all over the wall beside the stairs. All day long I looked at the clock thinking it must be later than it actually was.
I watched Lily put together a puzzle and tried to remember the last time I saw Jake for more than 30 minutes. We made it through two rounds of medical school boards, long-distance interviews, and graduation, and then we moved 600 miles away from home for a four-year residency program in Ohio—a much more challenging test of our resilience than anything we had already weathered. We had been in our new home for three months, and Jake was gone almost every day for at least 15 hours. He left before I woke up in the morning and finally walked back through the door long after I put the girls to bed. I only saw him in the moonlight.
I combed my fingers through Norah’s wispy hair and scrolled through Instagram on my phone. Apple orchards and cozy fall pictures filled my feed—friends whose lives had gone on without me while I was alone, three states away. The only other adult I had talked to in person that week was Ms. Mary, the librarian who led our local storytime. I looked at my phone and willed it to ring or beep with a text. It stayed silent—rejecting my plea—so I set it down and walked into the kitchen to refill my water bottle. I glanced out the window and noticed the way the sun was hitting our backyard at an angle—illuminating the fallen leaves.
“Hey girls,” I said, “let’s go outside and play.” I grabbed a blanket with one hand and Norah with the other, and Lily led the way into the backyard. As we made our way outside, I looked forward at my mental calendar. Jake wouldn’t always work this much. I knew some months would offer reprieve and that, ultimately, residency had a lifespan. Four years would eventually end even though right now it felt like forever.
I spread the blanket on the grass for Norah and worked with Lily to make a pile of leaves, knowing Jake would join this scene eventually. “This is the worst it will get,” I told myself.
***
“Dad’s here!” I hear Lily shout and then all four of the kids race to the screen door at the end of the living room. They press their hands into the screen and jockey for a prime position. Jake stands in the three-season room and his eyes smile at the kids. His mouth does too, I’m sure, but it's hidden by a yellow hospital mask.
“Hey guys,” he says, making purposeful eye contact with each one. Then, he sets two things on the table: the game Battleship and a long paint roller extension pole.
“What did you bring?” Norah asks.
“This is a new game,” Jake tells her. “I thought we could play together while I sit in here. And this”—he picks up the pole—“is so I can play Checkers later with Mom.”
The kids look back at me and laugh, and Jude, our one-year-old, settles into my lap. I look at Jake through the screen door and smile with my mouth closed—a small gesture that doesn’t quite accurately convey how happy I am to see him.
“Hey,” he says, and his eyes tell me he’s smiling too.
After he chats with the kids for a few more minutes, I grab the Battleship box, tear off the plastic, and then wash my hands before opening it up. I put Jake’s half of the game back on his table and then work with Lily, who is almost seven now, to separate her pegs and place her battleships. I explain to her how the grid of letters and numbers work and then sit back and watch them play.
The other kids find ways to occupy themselves. Sawyer and Norah build with Magnatiles while peeking over Lily’s shoulder occasionally. Jude moves around me like a lazy Susan—bringing me various blocks and toys with each new circle. I stay put although my mind wanders backwards. A little less than a year ago, we celebrated the end of the long road of medical education. Four years of med school. Four years of residency. Countless weeks and hours apart. “Just think”—Jake had said to me when it was all over—“No more crazy hours. We made it.”
The joke was on us though because a certain global pandemic hit the scene just a few months later. Because Jake works in the emergency room and his exposure to the virus was certain, he decided to quarantine away from us until we were sure our hospitals wouldn’t be overwhelmed. It has been 23 days since we last touched. 23 days since he last wrestled with our kids on the living room floor. Over 23 days since we had any contact with anyone else outside our family.
It feels like the worst it can possibly get, but I know better than to try to weigh the scales of difficulty by now. After all, if the last nine years have taught me anything, it’s that hardship is certain. There is no easier future—only a different one with new challenges to face and overcome. But we are not ill-prepared. We are equipped with the lessons of the past. We’ve been here before—separated by hospital hours and distance—and I see now how each of those past seasons has readied us for this moment. We endured then. We will endure now.
“Hit and sunk,” I hear Jake say, and Lily turns to look at me with a smile that’s missing a few teeth.
Someday soon, Jake will join us on this side of the glass, and I know that the work we are doing right now and the things we are learning in the depths are not in vain. We will carry this newfound strength with us into whatever new darkness we face next and then into whatever continues to come after that.
I watch Lily place a white peg on her Battleship board and breathe deeply. It may get worse, but this is not without purpose.
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 Ashlee Gadd.