Marchitis

I can tell you exactly when I began to hate the month of March. I was seven years old. After my best friend Rachel’s 8th birthday party, we ducked through the rain and slush into the parking lot where a mountain of old snow was covered in the nasty black grime of late winter. Listen, I can handle seeing bones protruding from a leg. I can handle cleaning up bodily fluids in all their varieties. But black snow makes my gut churn. I got sludgy black water into my shoes and everything smelled like… dirty parking lot. You know the smell. Just remembering how gross it all seemed makes my nose scrunch into a sneer.

For decades, I’ve anticipated March with dread. In fact, it reaches its slimy tentacles into February and April. But I won’t taint those months with my hatred. They’re simply victims of March. When I was single and working, I always tried to schedule work trips and vacations back to back during March. Anything to get away from Northern Utah when it looks like a mangy dog. Everything is drab and matted down and soggy and grimy and just plain nasty. After months without sun we have depleted our vitamin D stores. Then March comes with its weather volatility that makes teenage mood swings look as calm as Buddhist monks. Daylight Savings doesn’t help; feeling jet lagged for a week without going anywhere. Add pre-emergent pollens and endless viruses… everyone feels so run down, burnt out, and low. How is it that I exercise everyday and somehow I suddenly feel out of shape? March. Where did this surge of self-loathing come from? March. Why am I bored with everything? March. Why is everyone going through some crisis? MARCH!

You think I’m exaggerating. But let me remind you when covid first shut down the world. Mmmhhmm.

Now, there are many people who don’t contract the infection of Marchitis like I do. If you are among those numbers, GOOD FOR YOU. (My apologies if your snark-meter started beeping.) Sarah and Ginny, both from Annapolis, keep sending cheery images of things blooming and talking with refreshed voices as though the start of spring has shaken up some joy. GOOD FOR THEM. RJ loves March because “it’s the beginning of the end” and it’s when livestock activity picks up. GOOD FOR HIM. Must be nice.

At the end of February, when “The Marchies” had already gotten to me, I sat in Stake Council where they listed off all of the competing calendar items, some overlapping each other, and I thought “How can such a dumb month be so busy? I just want to hibernate!” Then I looked at my own calendar and thought “WHO IS IN CHARGE OF THIS?! No. Absolutely not. Everything is canceled.”

Listen, you think I just have a bad attitude. Well, you’re 100% right. Anais Nin was correct when she said “We do not see this world as it is. We see it how we are.”

Hating something so passionately is a twisted but fun departure from my general Pollyanna attitude. It’s nice to have a scapegoat for a whole month. It’s not that *I* am the problem. It’s *MARCH*.

So many people we know and love are going through absolute garbage this month. Four people in seemingly stable jobs were laid off this month (so far). Miscarriages, home disasters, pet losses, suicides… It feels like everyone is in the absolute thick of it right now. My problems seem minute in comparison. But it doesn’t diminish my March-rage.

We thought Flora had outgrown her trachea closing off situation because she only had one mild episode this winter. But Tuesday night she had another emergency episode, completely out of the blue. Thankfully we had epinephrine on hand and she is an absolute HERO for getting herself calm when she’s chocking. It’s terrifying when this happens, but she’s fine now. I blame March.

Jodi stopped by Wednesday while Lisa and I were doing yoga. She listed off her symptoms and we, with our, ahem, qualifications, diagnosed her with a classic case of The Marchies. She left relieved that she didn’t need to get bloodwork done. Although she may have been mildly disappointed that the cure is simply to wait it out. Typical doctor answer.

Wednesday, within 3 minutes, I managed to jam fingers on either hand. I jammed one while switching laundry over and the other while walking in the hallway. I woke up Thursday confused why my hands both hurt until I remembered that I injured myself doing two safe activities.

Thursday I tore my MCL. The story I told the doctor is that I slipped in the snow and heard/felt a pop when my leg went sideways. The real story is that I was in the snow on the deck… barefoot… twirling… with a child on my back. I slipped, heard/felt a pop, and we both rolled in the snow. I then crawled through the snow while yelping in pain. My sweet six year old, who was recovering from her own traumatic event, who I’m supposed to be caring for, took care of ME, helping me get to a chair and bringing me a blanket and an ice pack and comforting me.

It could have been so much worse. But it’s not lost on me that they think I should only have to wear the brace and limit exercise through the end of March. Am I a hopeless klutz who belongs in a padded room? DON’T ANSWER THAT. I say it’s just the month where dumb things happen. (See? Isn’t it nice to have a scapegoat?)

None of this is to say that March can’t have wonderful moments. The Marchies had already hit in February, but we had a day of warm sunshine and I thought “Maybe the world isn’t going to hell in a hand basket?! Maybe food does have flavor?! Maybe my children won’t grow up to be serial killers!? Maybe life is beautiful!?” But then the sun disappeared behind smog or fog or hate or something, and The Marchies returned.

In fairness, it should be noted that the best date of the year lands in March. There is only one date on the calendar that is an encouraging proclamation. March 4th! But it could also be a rally cry to all of the evil in the world. So… yeah.

I enjoy hating March. It’s a needed break from trying to look for the best all of the time. No toxic positivity here. In March I just call a spade a spade. I can lean into my darkness, my grumpiness, and my malaise, knowing they will soon be covered in the fresh green growth and blooms of spring. The saying “In like a lion out like a lamb” doesn’t seem accurate, though. It’s more like “One minute a lion, the next a lamb, and then the lion eats the lamb, but then the lamb kicks the lion’s butt from the inside and eventually the lion and the lamb both give up.”

Lately I’ve been telling Flora how important opposites are. We must taste the bitter to know the sweet. We must tolerate sadness to experience joy. Contrast builds gratitude. Often we appreciate the good because of the bad. So I guess, if I have to, I’ll admit that The Marchies help me see the good through contrast. I find myself in awe of moments of magic, and overcome with gratitude for small beauties and especially the kindnesses of others.

My friend Jill Skousen, after hearing about Marchitis, was inspired to gift me something so personally tender. Each day, she is selecting a poem which she leaves in my Marco Polo. I’ve found myself listening to each one multiple times a day. In less than a minute, she is offering me grace and inspiration and beauty and humor that I’m drawing on again and again. Like this one:

Hope, by Rosemary Wahtola Trommer
Hope has holes in its pockets.
It leaves little crumb trails so that we, when anxious, can follow it.
Hope’s secret: it doesn’t know the destination –
It knows only that all roads begin with one foot in front of the other.

And miracles don’t cease because it’s March. My favorite water bottle lid recently broke. Something of no importance. But still, we all have our favorite water bottle. You feel me. And today at a neighbor’s garage sale I found an exact replacement for the lid. Magic! In Flora’s emergency, we were sure we had no more epinephrine and would need to go to the ER. But somehow one was hiding under sauce packets in the fridge. Magic! And the biggest miracle of all. Thursday night the girls chose their outfits for Friday’s “Dress like your favorite book character day”. Of course, Friday morning, with 30 minutes before the bus came, Flora and Millie decided they absolutely could not use the adorable and clever outfits they’d chosen the night before. But with a stroke of inspiration and some hardcore mothering, I managed to get them into replacement costumes they were excited about – With enough time to still get them to school – AND NO TEARS – Not even me! MAGIC.

Fern from charlotte’s web, Flo Maflingo and Hermione Granger

So anyway, we are only 9 days into this crap-show month. So things could go absolutely bonkers from here. Maybe don’t make any major life decisions right now. But take heart, friends. No matter how endless it feels, time marches on. (Oooh. See what I did there?) In the scriptures there are a billion places that say “And it came to pass”. Remember, it didn’t come to STAY. This too shall pass. Like a tornado, maybe. But still. We can do this.

We can do this?

WE CAN DO THIS!