SEEKING OWNER

SEEKING OWNER: Black journal found in airport in Denver, CO, about 10 years ago, around the time the Biden administration took office. It was put away in an office for several years, just recently uncovered during a move. Best I can tell, it looks like it belonged to a nurse around the start of the pandemic. We've included some entries to maybe help narrow the search, so if you, or someone you know, was a nurse in Colorado, (maybe also Georgia) around the 2020 pandemic, that had a hard break up, went through a spiritual awakening, and maybe a witch now, please let us know. I have your journal.

April 2020

As it turns out, coronavirus is real. How real? I have no idea. I didn't even realize it was here.

I sit adjacent to the nurses' station that I am not invited to join due to the hostile mentality towards travel nurses like me. From here I can hear all the conspiracy theories about patients, false-positive reports, and so much more.

"I heard 2 nurses sent 2 clean swabs to be tested and they came back positive. How is that even possible?"

"I've never even seen a positive case. Much less a swab. Have any of you?!"

Truth is, none of us know what is happening, and no one is trying to explain it. We could be panicking for no reason at all.

May 2020

I was incorrect, the panic was justified and this is getting a bit excessive. Today, I spent 13 hours locked on a unit, that has no air conditioning because the air ducts connect to the whole building. They have to have air-tight seals, so they've blocked all airflow. We could only exit/enter via the back door that emptied into the back of the parking lot, where I'm not allowed to park. Imagine incubating in your own hot breath, inside a full-body suit, with 3 masks of varying thickness, goggles that blur your vision, and a face shield that has fused its itchy sponge to your skull. It's either that or risk contracting a virus that no one understands yet, that might also kill you. After my shifts, I get to dig myself out of the sheets of sickness and crawl across a blazing parking lot. I sit in the thick heat of my car, lean over, and puke. My body is just absolutely exhausted. Today, a resident's family sees, leaps from their car to bring me a can of water, and reminds me to drink.

Because it's hot here now, in Colorado, and dry. Did you know there's a fine for thumping cigarette butts onto the ground during certain weather warnings? South Georgia summers are muggy and feel like you're always taking a breathing treatment because the air is so damp. "Guess it's a good thing we're going back," said no one ever. I'll never forgive him for this. He could have made it work here. There were so many options, but he's my husband. What am I supposed to say when it's clear it won't affect anything? At least I'll be back at my old job, and they even offered me my first Covid test.

June 2020

I feel you, you little demon.

Flooding my lungs, keeping me from working.

You've paralyzed an entire planet, in fear, and I got lucky enough to see you in person.

I feel your fingers crawling, warming the bottom of my lungs, and I'll force air inside against your ever-growing reach.

A walk to the bathroom in my own home makes me collapse onto the nearest surface as if I had run for my life.

I hadn't.

I walked for my life if that's what you want to call it.

This is my life when you're here.

Not to mention the pure, outright shame I feel, knowing I had even just seen you.

Knowing we were in the same room.

People look at me like I'm a leper because I know you.

That I care for you.

That I treat you like anyone else.

Now that you live with me, I am afraid of every doorknob, every sweat droplet, every step onto a surface that can't be wiped down upon my evacuation.

Every person that smiled at me in the past month, has danced across my mind as I cry, Wondering if I hurt them.

Who hurt me?

I don't get to ask that.

I don't get to blame anyone but me because I volunteered to love you and the people you damned.

I walked right into you, and no protection protected me.

Now I am dirty. Now I am damned. Now I am scared. Now I am free?

Free of waiting for you to knock on my door.

Free of the prejudice I held against you, no matter how hard I tried to say I had no prejudice.

I feel you, you little demon.

You little virus.

Now, feel me.

You won't take my breath.

July 2020

I'm finally back to work. I was the first person to test positive for Covid-19 in my facility. No patients were harmed in the 1.5 shifts it took to get my test back. The infection control precautions are working. That's good.

I can't smell or taste anything. As a big girl, with an emotional attachment to food, this is pure hell. I don't know how to comfort myself without fulfilling a food craving. I just feel really empty.

September 2020

My autopilot has stopped working. I didn't realize how dependent I was on it. My smell and taste came back, but now everything is wrong. Cooking meat smells like a gut shot deer, left on south Georgia asphalt in 110-degree weather, brought back to lukewarm, set on fire, and then doused in 1998 perm solution. Fruit tastes like you made a smoothie but instead of almond milk, you subbed bleach.

I'm throwing up 5-6 times a week. Sometimes 3 times a day. The covid brain fog and mood swings are wearing me down. I'm so emotional. My residents are failing to thrive. They cry and stare out their windows- people who have lived hard, full lives, are crying.

"I'm just so sad. There's nothing to watch. I can't leave my room. I can't have any outside food or activities, I haven't seen my family in months, they haven't come to my window in so long. The calls have stopped, too. Do you think they know I'm still here?"

"I was supposed to go live with my son. They brought me here from 3 states away. I didn't know I was coming to another nursing home until I pulled in the driveway. I don't want to live anymore. What's the point?"

I want you to know your son loved you, ma'am, and my CNA mocked me for crying while I broke your ribs, doing CPR.

"Nurses are supposed to have better control over themselves, you can't do that during a code."

I was in complete control. I wasn't even your nurse, but I ran your code. I wasn't crying out of fear. I was crying because I knew the last thing in this life you wanted, was to be brought back. I am not, and have never, been so heartless that the crunch of body cavity won't shake me to my core.

But your son loved you. He was trying to prepare his house. He wept for you. I wept for you. I think of you often.

January 1, 2021

It's honestly a miracle we're all still alive. That is all.

February 2021

By the time you started drinking again, I think I was about 3 months into a pretty hefty Tiktok addiction.

What those 3 months actually did was give me enough time to find some super interesting subgroups on that app. Like many people with idle time on their hands during 2020, I think I've reached a turning point in my life. Call it an existential crisis, quarter-life crisis, mental health crisis, or just an overall mental break, but I think I've changed.

Because I was working through most of the pandemic, as I was fortunate to be employed, my spare time didn't really come into play until our marriage began to dissolve.

I found women who spread this contagious body positivity. The girls, gays, and theys, have taken over the most incredible creative content movement and have made moves the likes of which, I've never heard. Chucks and pearls made my heart sing. I've learned about so many cultures and so many people, but the most important thing I've learned is the power of belief and manifestation.

So I manifested myself a house. You always said we couldn't afford to move out of your mom's house, even with both of us working.

Now that may have been true when it was just me working for both of us, but come hell or high water, I bet I could do it for myself, by myself. I told you I would start looking, and I looked for months. Papers, online, driving around looking for signs, nothing was available.

Two days after our last big fight, a house appeared. My mom found it, it's one street over from my family, and it's so cute. I wish I could show you, and you be happy.

They told me the credit score minimum was a solid 100 points more than I had, but I applied anyway.

Not only did I get the house, but they also gave me a discount on the minimum low credit fee. So I signed a lease, by myself, within a week of deciding what I wanted.

Now, because my job messed up the bonus check that I followed up on, diligently, for a full month, I have no idea how I'm going to pay my deposits and first month's rent. I also own zero furniture, I've never lived alone, and I am petrified of having to keep up with my bills, but it's mine.

Or it will be. As soon as I pay for it. Like I said, I don't know how the money will be there, but I know it will.

I know it will because the house was there, my mom was there, and I just believe that the universe will take care of me, as long as my intentions are pure.

The money will be there. That's my house. This is my life. I belong. I am allowed to take up space. This little black book will no longer be the outlet of my frustrations, but the outline of my manifestations.

March 2021

It was there. The money was there. $20,000 doesn't seem like a lot, but it paid my entire year's rent. Not only did it pay my rent, but it also bought me my first bed. A real nice one, with all the science behind it, that helps me wake up feeling refreshed.

It paid for the pallets I purchased from a local business, that I turned into planters for the herbs that I can use around my house for various protections, perfumes, and soups.

It paid for the crockpot that makes my soups.

It paid for the eggs I buy from my elderly neighbor, which she would never charge me for, but it gives me an excuse to check on her.

Most importantly, it paid for some therapy. Only a little, as only a little money was left, but because I paid my rent for a full year, my checks can now be budgeted to include things such as therapy, plants, good food to help keep me healthy, and I've started saving up for a trip. I'd love to see Colorado, again.

I truly believed the money would be there, and I truly didn't know how it would be, but as it turns out, I entered a writing contest. They asked me to tell a story about a little black book, and some money. I guess they liked it.