But with instability and fear comes the possibility of change.

COVID makes us vulnerable—whether we are the sick, carers for the sick, or those who might become sick. It makes us vulnerable in emotional ways too, whether through loneliness or lack of time and space alone, stagnation or rumination, avoidance or confrontation. Our experiences differ in both specifics and intensity, but right now, vulnerability of some type is a state most of us share.

But with instability and fear comes the possibility of change: When we meet each other in these moments, we arrive at new understandings. Relationships evolve. We do too, often in ways we don’t even register until later. These transformations may take any form. Epiphany. Trauma. Friendships. Schisms. Subtle changes in how we move through the world.

– Lindsay Ryan

Prompt:

Write about a time when you interacted with someone in a moment when both of you were vulnerable. How did you react to your own vulnerability and that of the other? What went acknowledged and what remained silent? Would you have handled the situation differently in retrospect? How did it change you?

Flynn

Location: Stuart, Florida
About: My father, at that time, was the only person in my life who had ever stood up for me. When he died in 1999, I had never felt more vulnerable.
Age: 58

To live--to be alive-- is to be vulnerable. We're all vulnerable, in some way, if not the same way, all the time. Tomorrow is not a promise.

It seems that oftentimes our most intimate moments in life are when we are sharing our vulnerabilities with someone; exposing our own weaknesses, our secrets, fears, or even fantasies, with others.

Love is certainly not without its own specter of vulnerability, am I right?

And death.

The fear of the unknown. The sudden upheaval related to a life ceased. As the living, it's something--another thing--that we all share and share alike, yet differently.

I was 37-years old when my father died from the effects a stroke. He was 61-years old. Young.

I missed him greatly--I still do--his death, his absence, left me feeling very vulnerable. Life would never be the same again. Though usually not bad, still, never again quite as good.

I was with him when he died. Then, he was vulnerable to time. There wasn't a thing that I or anyone else could do for him. I was vulnerable to feeling helpless, as well as a fear of the unknown which would soon be "life without my father," the person I had shared my own vulnerabilities with longer than anyone else, beside my mother.

I saw him exhale for the very last time.

His vulnerability ended instantly, as my own became more clear in view.

Michele McRobert

Location: Delaware
About: I work as a school-based occupational therapy practitioner and a mom of four. During this time of uncertainty and isolation, I'm reminded of other times in my life when it's been hard to remain patient and hopeful.
Age: 50

Expectation

It was sometime in the fall, but I was not wearing a jacket, and I was noticeably pregnant. None of my other pregnancies had lasted long enough to be noticeable to other people. I was happy and tentatively hopeful, not like that pure, excited hope from the first time I was pregnant, when, although I knew miscarriages were common in the first few weeks, I didn’t really believe it could happen to me. Or even the second time, when I figured I couldn’t be unlucky twice in a row. But after so many appointments and money and poking and prodding and tears and blood and cramping and heartbreaking disappointment, my body was finally doing what it was supposed to do. I was pregnant. And far enough along that I could let myself feel hopeful expectation that this time I might really be lucky. I pushed through the door, exiting the mall as a young, dark-haired women about to enter stopped me.

“Oh, you’re pregnant!” she said with a slight accent I couldn’t place.

“Yes,” I smiled, surprised. It was only the second time a stranger had commented.

“When are you due?”

“January 23rd.” Then--and I’m not sure why--Maybe to explain why I was so big or maybe just to brag, I added “It’s twins.”

“Oh! Um—” and now she lowered her voice, “Can I ask, did you do IVF?”

I paused. I wasn’t ashamed, exactly. But I was a member of a club I’d never wanted or expected to join. My failed pregnancies—these losses, the sting of an infertility diagnosis, of having my body let me down in the most basic and natural and normal of all processes. It had left me raw, and I did not anticipate this personal question. Was she judging me?

She looked expectantly and what was it? Nervously? She really wanted to know. And I decided I would be honest. I told her yes. And she told me that she was going through IVF right now. She was in the 2-week wait to find out the results. And she asked me more questions and I shared more answers and we had a moment.

“I hope I have twins, too!” she said, and her face radiated joy at the thought.

“I hope so, too! Good luck!”

“And to you!”

It was the first of many times I’ve been asked if I did IVF (or variations like “Do twins run in the family?” or “Are they natural?”). These exchanges don’t always end up in a pleasant moment of shared vulnerability. I later learned the best and safest way to respond is “Why do you ask?” It gives you a chance to decide if the asker is just being nosy, or making conversation or, like this woman at the mall, might be looking for hope. I’m glad I gave it to her that day, and I hope she did have twins.

78. The Laid Bare Self – Lindsay Ryan