Saturday, May 2, 2020

Lockdown, Part Six - The Boy with the Bread Sandwich

Government curfew, Day 42

Norman Garmezy, a developmental psychologist researching resilience, met thousands of children in his four decades of research. But one boy in particular stuck with him. He was nine years old, with an alcoholic mother and an absent father. Each day, he would arrive at school with the exact same sandwich: two slices of bread with nothing in between. At home, there was no other food available, and no one to make any. Even so, Garmezy would later recall, the boy wanted to make sure that “no one would feel pity for him and no one would know the ineptitude of his mother.” Each day, without fail, he would walk in with a smile on his face and a “bread sandwich” tucked into his bag.

We're not yet making bread sandwiches nor wanting for anything to put between two slices of bread, but I am curious to know more about the boy with the bread sandwich. What did his classmates say? And how did he respond ? Though his mother may have been inept, he obviously saw something in her worth protecting. What was it? Was it something as simple as love?

I heard about the boy with the bread sandwich from a wellness coach. I know there is more to the story. My imagination tries to fill in the blanks.

I met the wellness coach while putting together a workshop on resilience for my office. Ironically, setting up two workshops on resilience for my office, one for the American employees and one for the Sri Lankan employees, tested my own personal resilience. Having to learn three different computer programs capable of hosting virtual meetings (two on my phone), is not easy for someone who many days can't figure out how to turn on the computer.

Though short (today is a holiday in Sri Lanka), this week seemed long.

Sam spent the night at a friend's house and stayed up until 1:00 in the morning playing Nerf guns. Two nights later, he woke in the middle of the night, unable to go back to sleep. One theory is he was too tired to get up and make it to the bathroom. Another is stress. He finally moved to the couch in the TV room under a Seahawks blanket his grandparents had given him.

Peter had to write an essay on the pros and cons of the government curfew. Heavy stuff for a fourth grader. Though I helped him navigate his Google search for evidence supporting his arguments, it was hard to completely sail clear of the figurative rocks along the shore. Terrifying headlines rear their heads unexpectedly like snakes lying in wait in the brush along a fall trail covered in fallen leaves, ready to pounce and drain their fangs into your calf.

Later that night he complained of an intense itching in his bottom. It was right before bedtime, and he was exhausted. But it's hard not to draw a line from the morning's heavy themes, through the six week lockdown, to freaking out because you feel itching in your butt.

Clementine was due for her typhoid vaccine so I took her to work for a shot. The last time she got a shot, she fainted. I'd never seen anyone faint before. As soon as they had administered the shot, she sort of convulsed. She wasn't out long, and it was the convulsion that scared me more than anything else.

I put Clementine in my lap. She didn't cry. She didn't even squeak. And ten seconds later she popped up and was rapidly licking at a Mystery flavored dum-dum. We thought it was vanilla. Or maybe root beer.

We stayed in the oversized leather examination chair, the color of a robin's egg, a medicinal, sterile blue, for another five minutes. I read the information sheet on the vaccine and potential side effects to pass the time, then we made our way to the front counter and the exit.

Then I heard a thump. Clementine fainted. Her head bumped the side of the counter. I slid to my knees on the carpet and caught her before she hit the ground. I had her in my arms, but I couldn't get up because my hamstring cramped.

A Sri Lankan doctor and nurse (and the receptionist) scooped Clementine from my arms. The three women took her back to the throne-like examination chair. She was crying, feeling, somehow, she was at fault for fainting the last two times she had a shot. Dr. Ruvini comforted her. I gave the doctor and nurse space as they checked Clem's vital signs.

She would be fine. Again. We sat in the examination room for another 20 minutes to make sure she was okay.

There are times I forget how completely not normal this all is. I remind myself and our family these unprecedented times call for unprecedented patience. We have to be gentle with one another, kind, patient. And yet the longer we are under a government curfew, unable to leave our house save for a brief, daily respite at the pool, the easier it is to lose patience, to show unkindness, to forget to be gentle and instead turn into a raging beast like Dr. Bruce Banner doused in gamma rays.

Yesterday, I was heating up leftover pasta for the kids for lunch. I asked Peter to grab his plate out of the microwave for me. He did, then the plate crashed to the kitchen floor, shattering. He screamed and ruptured into tears. I brought him to the sink and ran his hands under cold water, but he was not burnt, only scared. I picked him up and held him tight. I walked to the couch, put him in my lap, and held him like that for a long time.

Our children are resilient but even these unprecedented times try them. Like the boy with the bread sandwich.

It hasn't all been difficult. We now have a guy who will bring us king coconuts. We buy an entire stalk and cut them off as we have room in the refrigerator. Once cold, Elise hacks the end off with our good kitchen knife and...voila!...fresh, cold coconut water.


I recently read an article that compared surviving quarantine amidst the global pandemic to surviving a 16-hour flight with a crying baby.

The only goal is to arrive.




No comments: