Music to my Ears, Medicine for my Soul

 While shelter-in-place orders were being issued locally and throughout the world in an effort to slow the spread of the coronavirus back in March of 2020, I was concerned about the first graders of Southern Boone County Primary School. As their long-term substitute music teacher for the 2019-2020 academic year, I knew how much my students were looking forward to performing their spring musical “How to be a Pirate”. I also knew how disappointed they would be if the concert were to be cancelled due to the pandemic.

Thankfully, the show went on as scheduled and was well received by parents, grandparents, and the other members of the audience. And the kids had a blast. A couple of days later, the school district shut down and switched to alternate methods of instruction (AMI), effectively and abruptly ending the most rewarding professional experience of my life.

In the following weeks, I became deeply depressed. While the virus was spreading like wildfire and causing death and misery everywhere it went, I faithfully obeyed county stay-at-home orders and hunkered down in our little house in the woods. The isolation was unbearable. I missed my students. I missed my coworkers. I missed my friends. As I became more depressed, I also felt extremely anxious. The angry, irrational outbursts I was having worried my wife, and after talking it over with her, I decided to reach out for professional help.

To my surprise, I was diagnosed with bipolar disorder. Two years later, I am still trying to manage my illness and find some semblance of happiness.

At the same time the world shut down, my 97-year-old grandmother was taking her final breaths in her assisted living facility where visitors were restricted due to the virus. I said goodbye to her through the window of her apartment, and after nearly a century of life, only ten mourners were allowed at her socially distanced funeral.

I also found out I was going to be a grandparent during this same time period, which was both scary and exciting. With the baby due in early October, my son and his girlfriend decided to live at our house to minimize expenses and minimize their exposure to the virus. I went back to subbing in the fall, and after Freya was born, I became petrified of bringing the virus home from school. I washed my hands and face, changed clothes, and wore a mask every time I held my grandbaby for the first seven months of her life. Every, Single. Time. 

In March 2021, one year into the pandemic, I quit subbing so I could be a stay-at-home grandparent when Alex and Sarah re-entered the workforce. Shortly thereafter, I got my first dose of the Covid vaccine, and by April I was finally able to hold Baby Freya without wearing a facemask. Those first maskless baby snuggles were miraculous, as every snuggle since has been.

In December, Freya and her parents moved into their own place in Columbia, and my mood sank to an all-time low. After spending almost every day together for the first fifteen months of her life, suddenly I found myself alone in my house everyday while the rest of my family was at school or work. While I still get to babysit or visit Freya fairly regularly, life hasn’t been the same since my baby moved away.

Not long after that heartbreak, a close friend died much too young in a car accident. The one thing I could do to help Caleb’s parents navigate their nightmare was to conduct their son’s funeral service. As difficult as it was for me to make it through it, I can only imagine how hard it was for Roy and Buffy and the rest of their family.

Now as the pandemic enters its third year, around six million people have died of Covid-related causes, including close to one million Americans. And if that wasn’t enough death and misery already, Russia started a full-scale war against Ukraine, leading the world closer to annihilation than it has been since the Cuban Missile Crisis.

For someone battling bipolar disorder, the weight of the last two years has been almost too much to bear. It’s enough to drive any man to drink, but in my case, I can’t drink. As an alcoholic in recovery for over five years, I know that picking up a bottle again would be the death of me. So, I am left to cope with the weight of the world and the strain on my soul completely sober.

I call the highs and lows of my mental illness “The Bipolar Express.” It’s like riding the world’s most unpredictable roller coaster. You’re riding high one minute, and the next thing you know you’re dropping into a dark, bottomless pit of despair. 

Often there’s no obvious reason for the change in mood, but sometimes there is a trigger. Recently, another member of my family experienced a frightening mental health crisis, which affected me deeply. Dark thoughts entered my mind and would not go away. Once again, alcohol called out to me, but I managed to hold the demons at bay with the help of a very supportive group of people. Talking about my issues with people who have dealt with some of the same problems has proven very helpful so far, and I am already starting to feel a little better.

And 18-month-old Freya calls me “Pop” consistently now, which is like music to my ears and medicine for my soul.

 

The same could be said about the photo sent to me by a parent of one of my former students. It’s a picture of a proud and smiling pirate taken after her performance as the ship’s first mate in the school musical exactly two years ago last week, right before the entire world went insane. Thank you, Stacey and Ellyse for the reminder that life can be sublimely beautiful if you take the time to appreciate the simple pleasures it has to offer.