Waiting For A Photograph

This past summer, I graduated from my doctoral program. It didn’t turn out as I had envisioned it would.

Five years ago when I began, I pictured myself walking across a stage at graduation as my name was called, wearing a gown with velvet stripes on the sleeves, indicating the level of my degree. I imagined myself high-fiving my friends, waving to my family, taking photos around campus.

When I started taking graduate classes, my daughter had recently graduated from the same university. She gave me two photo frames with the university name emblazoned across the bottom. In one frame, she put a picture of the two of us on her graduation day. She was wearing her cap and gown and I was beaming proudly. The other frame was empty, waiting for a photo of the two of us at my graduation. That frame remains empty.



I didn’t even buy that cap and gown

It’s nobody’s fault. It’s the result of the pandemic. My graduation was virtual. A quick half hour with the National Anthem, a few speeches, some students sharing their thoughts, the Alma Mater. They tried their best, but it was a little disappointing. I didn’t even buy that cap and gown that had been in the back of my mind through all those classes and conferences and study sessions and papers.

There’s been a lot of disappointment during the pandemic. Lots of milestones missing celebrations, lots of postponements, lots of connecting on a computer screen rather than with hugs. When I finished my dissertation at the start of the pandemic, I wrote about what people can learn from individuals with disabilities. They are often great problem solvers because they have to overcome the obstacles placed in their paths by an ableist society. They know how to cope and stay resilient, not succumbing to despair that they don’t have the life they envisioned, because they have to live the life they have. I’m trying to live the life I have right now, but it’s not easy.

So how do we now answer the question, what is a good life when we are isolated in our homes, struggling with sadness and longing. It’s easy to say be thankful for being alive when so many have died, be grateful that you have the economic means to handle any setbacks, cherish the online and on the phone support from friends and family that keep you going. But I think it’s also ok to say this is really hard even if I am so much better off than others. It’s ok to say I wish it was over, and I could meander up and down the aisles of a store and buy something frivolous. I want to dine at a restaurant with a beautiful view and enjoy a scrumptious repast prepared by someone else. I long to sip a glass of wine with friends, hugging when we say hello and goodbye. I think I’m going to start writing down these little things I miss the most, a kind of to-do list for the first post-vaccination week. Maybe that will help me be resilient, help me avoid despondency. Maybe that will make the waiting easier to swallow, like a spoonful of sugar that helps the medicine go down. But I think what might help even more is to embrace the moments others celebrate and share their delight.

This fall I taught an online class of doctoral students in their first semester of the program We had our final class last night, and we celebrated their completing a successful semester despite the challenges they faced. I told them I was planning to see them in person on their graduation day, wave to them from the audience, high-five them after the ceremony, take photos of the day. It’s on my to-do list, something to look forward to when that sadness and longing seems to overwhelm. I know I can enjoy their accomplishments. It’s important to focus right now on the celebrations of others when our celebrations don’t quite go the way we thought they would. Shared joy can make up for a lot of disappointments.

And someday, I’ll buy that cap and gown and meet my daughter back on campus and take that picture so the frame won’t be empty anymore.