Milena Moser about the time after the crisis: After the storm

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The first thing I see when I leave the house for the first time in a week is our neighbors’ wrecked car, half buried under a fallen tree. Was the storm really that strong? I noticed almost nothing about it. The disease enveloped us in its networks, the outside world penetrated us only in a muted form.

But now the worst is behind us, in terms of the weather and also in our microcosm, and I have faced what I have been repressing. Among other things, a holiday home on the coast that I rented for us a few months ago. And whose reservation is non-refundable. Why would I do something like that, given the unpredictability of our lives? Maybe out of anger. It’s a long time to turn your nose up at illness. Traveling together is one of the many things we can’t do. But we console ourselves with short trips. After all, we live in one of the most beautiful landscapes in the world. There are countless wonderful places within, say, a two-hour drive from a university hospital. Every now and then we have to cancel a trip or leave early, and once even turn around in the middle of the journey. But we always manage to escape from everyday life.

“You can also relax on the coast,” says my pragmatic friend. And so, as soon as Victor gets better, we actually get into the car and drive south, where the storm was even stronger than here.

When I go to the corner store to buy everything I forgot at home, a talkative gentleman does not leave my side. He wears a raincoat over his pajamas and says he no longer has electricity at home. Now that eggs can be bought again for the first time in a few days. They were hoarded before a hurricane, like toilet paper during a pandemic. – You know, because of the death of chickens. Chicken death? This also passed me by. “We’re so lucky,” I tell Victor as I return to our holiday home. Because we have electricity. And fresh eggs. And croissants the size of a plate. “What a luck!”

This is perhaps the most important thing I learned from Victor: when it’s over, it’s over. “The disease takes up too much space anyway,” he says. Every time he overcomes another health crisis, he shakes it off like a dog shakes off drops of water after a forced bath. It’s gotten to the point where he doesn’t even remember details when asked. And he says quite seriously that he is doing “very well.” But I always need a little more time. Often I only truly feel the impact of a threat after it has passed. Then my knees buckle. But I hide it and a little later, while Victor is resting, I go for a walk to the sea. The light shimmers with silver on the mirror-smooth water. It was as if nothing had happened. Suddenly I understand what Victor means. It’s about that moment between two waves, between two storms, two breaths. About this moment that is peaceful, clear and quiet.

Source: Blick