Indefinitely Isn’t Forever

Handling uncertainty in the era of global pandemics

By Ellie Roth

To be honest, the shutdown didn’t fully hit me until about a week ago. It was a few days after my dad and I drove back up to college to move me out of my dorm. I had just finished my homework for the day and checked my phone. It was 2 PM (in my opinion, the most horrible time of day is that utterly dull period between 2 and 5 PM). And suddenly, it hit me—I had nothing else to do. And tomorrow, it would be exactly the same. And the day after that, and after that…

I remember my mind going blank, like white static. The realization that there was an immeasurable number of days until life would go back to normal had finally resonated with me. That maybe it was no longer a question of when life would go back to normal, but if life could go back to normal. My hands clenched and hot tears sprang to my eyes and I knew I needed to go somewhere. Anywhere. I just needed to get out of my house.

I sprang for my car keys and in minutes I was off, driving with no destination in mind. My hands were on autopilot while my mind was millions of miles away, remembering moments that now felt like lifetimes ago.

I ended up pulling into the parking lot of a park off the river near my house. It was a park I had visited countless times, but rarely alone. I had always been surrounded by my friends, holding our hammocks, rollerblades, kites, or each other’s hands. I got out and began to walk, soon finding myself sitting alone on a park bench, overlooking the river. The sun was setting.

The world had once felt so big. As a college freshman, it felt as if it was mine to explore. Now the world is small—the size of a 1500 square foot home. The size of my bedroom. Each time I open my eyes, the world has been transformed into an unfamiliar landscape, wrought with fear and anxiety. All conversations are a 24-hour newsreel that can’t be turned off.

I sometimes wonder if the severity and the duration of our current predicament would be easier to handle if there was an end date. I used to be able to remind myself that this would only last until April 1 and everything would be okay—only three weeks and I would be back at college, sleeping in that lofted Twin XL that I loved to hate. Then school was canceled for the rest of the year. Then everything else was canceled too. Indefinitely.

I think about that word a lot—we hear it so often now. I remember when this all started, I got into a debate with my sister over what “indefinitely” means. One of us had said that it means “forever,” while the other argued that it means “for an unspecified amount of time.”  It means the latter, but in these cases, it often feels like the former. Would having an end date make all of this easier? To simply set our internal countdowns and cross off the days? Could we handle this better if we could only erase the uncertainty of “indefinitely?” 

I think to handle the “indefinitely” (because right now, we have no other choice), to cope with our anxiety, to grapple with uncertainty, and to grieve, we have to try to focus on the “definite” things in our lives. It’s hard, of course, because so many things have changed. But many of those things that we hold close are still there—just in different forms. It used to be definite that I would wake up, go to class, and see my friends each day. I still get up, go to class, and see my friends, but instead, my class is a 30-second roll-out-of-my-bed maneuver to my desk instead of a 20-minute walk to Peik in subzero temperatures. My friends and I still laugh and joke with each other, but instead of sitting in the Pioneer Dining Hall eating bowls of soft-serve ice cream, we Zoom and we FaceTime, laughing just like before. We still celebrate our birthdays, even if a birthday party now consists of a line of cars parading past our house blaring music. We still love our friends, our families, and our neighbors, but now from a little bit farther away.

It’s definite that the sun will continue to rise and continue to set. It’s definite that the snow will melt, and spring will come. It’s definite that we will be able to hug and kiss and link arms and shake hands again. It is definite that someday, this will all be over. But for now, wrap yourself in a blanket of memories and stories and the things that continue to be good. This will be your shield against the world.

It will all be okay. That, I know, is definite.