PUZZLES & CAMO

SHELLY HUHTANEN

Waiting for Normal

One thing that has hurt the most is loss of human connection and not knowing when this is all going to end. I will never take for granted a full shelf of Clorox wipes, fully stocked strawberry Siggis yogurt, or schools and ABA clinics being open for business.

Who could have thought our lives would be changed this drastically in such a short period of time? COVID-19 has spread across the world, jumping from continent to continent faster than anyone could imagine, halting day-to-day living as we all know it. It's scary to realize that we do not even know when our lives can start returning back to how it was before COVID-19 invaded our communities. When an introvert, such as myself, starts to feel like the walls are closing in, I think about my family members and friends who are extroverts. I'm sure each passing hour seems like an eternity.

I reminisce about the days when I could go the grocery store and there was a 95% chance I could find and purchase everything on my grocery list. Those days are a distant memory. Some things are easier to part with than others. I was shopping at Publix about two weeks ago, looking down the aisle at everyone as they slowly walked with their cart looking at the empty shelves. Their faces were looking around in disbelief as they were trying to find substitutes to the items on their list that were not on the shelves. My heart sank when I looked over to realize that my strawberry Siggi's yogurt was gone. How could I find a substitute for my yogurt?

I took a deep breath and looked forward to see a man standing in the middle of the aisle in disbelief, "There's no sour cream. What do I do if there's no sour cream?" He kept repeating that to himself over and over again. I actually started to empathize with him as he started to make eye contact with other shoppers, hoping they would acknowledge his sour cream crisis. A world without sour cream. The selfish side of me was glad that I already had two containers of it in my fridge. Fajitas without sour cream is a reality I couldn't fathom. As I left the dairy aisle prepared to be disappointed in the chip selection up ahead, a woman walked by and said all that needed to be said, "Right now, I'm living in an alternate reality, but I'll be fine."

Those words stayed with me. Once I got back into my car and sanitized my raw cracked hands with Purell, I reminded myself that I needed to be grateful. My oldest, Hayden, is still receiving school online and able to see his friends' faces on Zoom – and my son, Broden, is still receiving ABA services at home. Thankfully, his RBT is coming to our house and working with him each day. The college course I am instructing is now online. Since Hayden is in his room with his class on Zoom, Broden is downstairs doing ABA therapy.

I have converted my bed into my office and classroom. I would be lying if I said that the transition has been smooth. The first day of class, I was discussing our modified syllabus on video chat only to have my home phone start to ring. I was in a dilemma. Do I leave the computer midsentence and grab the phone, or do I let it ring through my class? After assuming the caller would hang up, I heard my husband on the answering machine loud and clear, "Hey honey! I just wanted to call to say I'm thinking about you! You're going to do great! So excited you're back to teaching!" The students could hear his voice message and were holding back their giggles.

Since I'm an introvert, the joke has been, "I've been preparing for this my whole life!" Honestly, I thought this would be easier than it has been. After three weeks, I do miss the short stints of human interaction I typically get throughout the day, and it showed this week. After getting out of my car to head into the commissary, I saw my neighbor, Cordelia. I yelled out across the parking lot, "Cordelia! Cordelia!" She turned around and saw me running to her. I kept my distance, but I could tell she was happy to see a fellow human as well.

We grabbed our carts and spoke for a short time while keeping our distance. She said, "I notice a red car pulls up to your house every morning and then leaves in the afternoon." I explained to her that Broden is still receiving therapy even though the ABA clinic is closed.

Since the clinic is closed they are bringing the services to him. She said, "I figured that's what she was there for. I now look forward to seeing her red car pull up each morning to give him care. It's the one thing I can count on that makes sense these days. It makes me happy." After agreeing with her that it made me happy too, we started to part ways to shop for our groceries. As she walked away, she smiled, "Thank you Shelly." I turned around and asked, "For what?" Cordelia said, "For being." These are trying times to say the least. We, not just as a nation, but as a planet, are being forced to live life like we've never had to live it. So many people have lost loved ones, lost jobs, medical, and educational services. One thing that has hurt the most is loss of human connection and not knowing when this is all going to end. I will never take for granted a full shelf of Clorox wipes, fully stocked strawberry Siggi's yogurt, or schools and ABA clinics being open for business. This morning, Broden walked to the front door, waiting to see the red car pull up to our house. It was the one thing he could count on today. I think this is what we are all looking for these days – something to look forward to. • 

PUZZLES & CAMO

Shelly Huhtanen is an Army wife stationed at Fort Benning, GA who has a child with autism. She enjoys sharing her experiences of day-to-day life caring for her son with autism while serving as an Army spouse. She authored "Giving a Voice to the Silent Many" that encompasses many stories of raising a child with autism in the military. Shelly is passionate about autism advocacy for our military and works to bring awareness to our local legislators and command about providing better support for our military autism community, such as better health care and education.