Day 244

I am proud of my son. The boy who hates all things Zoom, wanted to compete in a virtual taekwondo tournament yesterday. He did well, considering for months he refused to take virtual classes and he was more nervous than ever. He wasn’t nearly as crisp as he had been back in February — at the last tournament in which he competed — and his technique was not as sharp. However, he did well enough to place third in his ring in forms. He also competed in weapons. Since his sword form was rusty — it’s been months since he practiced it —  he opted to do the staff form, a form he only recently learned. He finished in the middle of the pack, well enough not to get completely discouraged, but not good enough for a medal.

After the tournament, we got in the car and I wanted to cry. Usually when something good happened, when my son had exciting news to share, the first thing we did was call Dad. I wanted to call him yesterday, but obviously I couldn’t. So we called Mom instead. Somehow talking to her made us miss Dad all the more. “It was his booming voice,” my spouse observed. “It’s not the same without hearing it.” Yes, that and the fact that his pride and enthusiasm were always evident in his tone. Mom was happy, but there was an element of sorrow in her voice, as if she too noted Dad’s absence. It was my son’s first achievement without his grandfather, and we were reminded again how cruel the whole situation is. How awful it is that Dad will never be able to share anything with us. That he will never again pick up the phone and say, “Very nice,” or “Great job.”

On Friday night, my son and I went to the family taekwondo class. We were the only ones there so it was pretty spectacular to get our own private lesson. Due to Covid, we are all required to wear masks. I am total support of the rule, but my body hates it. Half way through my form I started to hyperventilate. Despite months of practice, I froze up towards the end because I couldn’t breathe. Without finishing, I ran outside to remove my mask and gulp in the fresh air. My lungs have been compromised from Covid. Though I haven’t been to a doctor, I feel certain my lungs have suffered damage. Otherwise, I wouldn’t start huffing and puffing as quickly as I do. I’ve read the science. I know that wearing a mask is not supposed to impeded my ability to breathe, but just because I’ve read the evidence doesn’t make breathing any easier. But I think it’s more than lung damage. For months after Dad died — knowing that it was his lungs that gave out, that he died because he couldn’t breath — I would have dreams in which I was drowning or suffocating. I’d wake up gasping and it would take me several minutes before I could regulate my breathing. I think wearing the mask triggers an anxiety attack. After everything, the thought of not being able to breathe causes me to panic. Friday night, I couldn’t quite breathe normally again until I got home took anxiety medicine. 

Not being able to breath normally is challenging enough during class, but next week I have to take my mid-term test. Only if I pass can I test for my black belt in February. I’m concerned that my breathing will mess me up. That my breathing will cripple me before the test is over. I am angry because the one thing I alway had going for me was my health, and the fact that I remained physically fit. It’s bad enough Dad died. But not being able to breathe properly compounds the nightmare.

We spent much of the weekend packing. Yet, it looks and feels as if we barely made a dent. There are boxes everywhere but so much still needs to be packed. I threw away more than I wanted to, but less than I should have. Anything even remotely associated with Dad I had to keep. I couldn’t bring myself to get rid of sentimental things. I have no idea where we are going to move. But we finally put the condo on the market. I’ve been wanting to get out for years and finally it looks as if we will break free. I desperately want to leave New Jersey. I never intended to stay here for more than a few years, but with the economy in shambles and school districts not liking to pay well educated and experienced teachers, I’m not sure I’ll ever find another full time job. And at my age, what else can I do? As you know, writing never panned out to be more than a hobby. Even my spouse might not be able to find a new teaching position. She also would cost too much. I fear we will be stuck in New Jersey. I fear I may never work again. I fear we will end up somewhere that makes me sadder and more discontent than being in this condo.