Avengers Assemble
By Sonya Spillmann
@sonyaspillmann
The email came on a Thursday. I was working outside on our deck, enjoying the fresh air and golden afternoon sun. Birds, it seemed like every last one of them, sang in the least self-conscious way, making sure the entire neighborhood understood how they felt about the newly warm weather. I opened the message immediately. I skimmed. Then slowly re-read the short, kind request from one of my kids’ teachers for time to discuss some concerns.
A second passed, then two, then an amalgamation of embarrassment, guilt, shame, and fear rose from my toes to my neck, as if I were a mason jar filling with chest-burning moonshine. My arms became light, like buoys on water, then my stomach and throat switched places. My head felt as if it were a gyroscope, spinning precariously, one wrong move and the world falls off axis.
Get up, I told myself. Walk around, I thought.
I’ve been paying attention lately to how my emotions affect my body, noticing how often they rush my system, and how much space and activity I need to allow them to work their way through.
I needed a minute to respond. I also needed to find my planner.
I walked inside the house, took a lap around the living room and kitchen. Twice. I grabbed my calendar from the end table and took a long deep breath. I sat back down with my computer like a cloth wrung out—still damp, limp, but closer to normal.
I can meet tomorrow, I write back.
***
Around the time my second child was six months old, our one-bedroom condo began to feel a bit like a cage. I could get out, of course—to the park, into the city, or spend a morning at the coffee shop feeding my kids overpriced blueberry muffins. But with each passing week, I had a harder and harder time taking a deep breath. Or getting my shoulders to drop. Or feeling like I was an actual person, separate from my kids.
“I need help,” I said to my husband Chris one evening, emptiness and desperation bouncing around in my chest. I didn’t mean help from him—he came home from work each day and jumped right into the mix of dinner and bath time, cuddling, books, and bedtime. He folded laundry and washed bottles and loaded the dishwasher.
What I needed, though even saying it made me feel like hiding under a blanket, was more.
More what? I can’t really say. More time? More space? More me? I didn’t feel this way after our first child, but I could no longer deny something now felt off.
We didn’t live near family. We had no child care. I worked on weekends. So to get a haircut, go to the doctor, the dentist, let alone have an hour to sit by myself and not have to fill a sippy cup meant Chris would need to take time off work.
“Okay,” he said. “What are some options?”
In the next few weeks, I interviewed babysitters. I reached out to family. A friend and I decided to try watching each other’s kids on alternate Friday morning. Whatever resources I had, I gathered, like a bird collecting sticks for her nest.
***
Weeks before the Thursday email, I introduced myself over Zoom. The woman on my screen asked, “Where would you like to start?” I told her I didn’t know, that I couldn’t really put my finger on it. I was quick, though, to admit feeling overwhelmed. Then quick, too, to add I felt bad about even saying that.
“I’m here because I need some help,” I finally said.
I realize not everyone has had the same experience as us in the last two years. I’ve told a number of friends, “if it was just cancer,” which is a ridiculous enough statement to make, or “if it were just Covid”—an event we all went through in unique ways—I might be feeling differently right now. But I was diagnosed just as the world shut down. I have had almost two handfuls of surgeries in the last two years. And after so long, our life is largely back to what everyone else says is normal.
Except I am not.
I’m the gyroscope. The weightless arms. The caged heart.
The woman on the screen said she’s here for me. That she can help. And I decided to let her.
***
The Friday after the email, I sat in front of my computer again, this time with a pen and a notepad. Thank you for being willing to meet with me so quickly, the teacher said.
“My schedule is flexible,” I responded, “I’m grateful you reached out.”
The teacher spoke and I nodded. Then I spoke and she nodded. Whatever shame and fear that raced through my body the day before was a mist evaporated. My head stayed in place. I could feel my arms.
In thirty minutes time, we identified resources. Came up with a plan. Assembled a team.
***
I did not call to cancel or say “I’ll reschedule later.” And when my primary care physician walked into the exam room and asked how I was doing, I didn’t hedge. Plain and simple, I listed my concerns. He listened, examined, and counseled. Then he gave me a referral. Later, I made the appointment and kept it.
In the coming weeks, I called about marriage counseling, spoke with a woman trained in spiritual formation, and made a religion out of messaging friends. I continued therapy. Walked on the wooded trail by my house, listening to all the birds have to say. I sat in stillness and silence, doing nothing more than breathing, welcoming the presence of God.
***
Was the email a result of the year and a half of virtual school? A limited social calendar? A mom whose life required her family’s world to compress and contract? Did I say We’ll Deal With That Later, and I Wonder if This Will Be a Problem, or I Just Can’t Right Now far too often?
Yes? No?
I don’t know.
Many of us did our best, or what we thought was best at the time, to make sure our kids were okay, or as okay as they could be. And we also pulled hard for our spouses, friends, family, and the work we cared about. We wanted everyone to be as good as they could be—even if we were not.
And now, here we are—here I am. Broken. Changed.
Resolved. Ready.
To gather what’s needed.
For my kids. For our family. For me.
Photo by Jennifer Floyd.