It’s 10 p.m. Monday and I can finally exhale and unclench my teeth.

Kirsti is in her attic bedroom.

Sarah is in her bed a floor below.

For six days, I wondered when – or if – that was going to happen again.

And I’ve never felt so hopeless, as the fate of my kids in this new Covid-19 world twice in a week rested upon a spinning wheel on travel websites.

I dealt with two sets of tear-filled, terrified, Facetime eyes.

I felt my stomach collapse on itself more than once and felt nervous, anxious, insane energy I never want to feel again.

Off to New York

The stress started early last week, with me planning to take nine Castleton University students to an annual journalism conference in New York City. I worried about students getting sick, or worse yet, bringing it back to campus.

But I also didn’t want to crush them.

They were so excited and they earned it. On Sunday mornings, when everyone else is asleep, they’re designing the student newspaper in the basement of Leavenworth Hall. This trip is their perk.

But I couldn’t have been more relieved late Wednesday afternoon that the school was halting all travel because of Covid-19.

It’s the first time in 13 years that students didn’t get to accompany me to NYC for three days and two nights of journalism sessions, basketball at Madison Square Garden and a bonding group dinner to cap it off.

But as sad as I was for them, I agreed with it and I think the students, deep down, did too.

I did not want to be the face of Covid-19 at Castleton University.

 

Exhale, then ramp it back up

So, later Wednesday evening, with that stress having evaporated, I agreed to head out for a couple beers with friends – a hump day ritual – started with an open mic night a decade ago.

We talked a lot about Covid -19. But we also talked sports, politics and family, the usual stuff – with lots of pandemic chat too.

Pretty normal night, all things considered.

Then, President Trump announced a 30-day ban on travel from Europe starting Friday at midnight.

My youngest daughter, Sarah, was supposed to be in France until Sunday – two days after the ban goes into effect.

I immediately texted Sarah and said she needs to get out.

It was 3 a.m. in France. I was so psyched she was up. She and her friends started searching for flights out. My friends and I, from a table at the pub, were searching too.

But so were thousands of others in France.

Phone lines to Air France to try to change her flight were busy.

Credit card numbers were being rattled off as tears flowed on the other end, including from Sarah’s friend from the University of Vermont who was studying there, but was now scurrying to get out too.

“If you find one, book it,” I anxiously told her and my friends next to me.

We’re clicking, she’s clicking, wheels are spinning on the screen because so many are seeking flights.

Stress. Stress. Stress.

“I got one,” Sarah said excitedly.

She got two, actually, because when a confirmation didn’t show up fast, she kept clicking.

I didn’t care.

There was relief.

I could breathe. She was getting out before the deadline, which I realize now was less meaningful to Americans trying to return, but the president’s first comments didn’t make that clear at all, surprisingly, and news outlets reported a ban.

People over there were scared.

My other daughter, Kirsti, is under contract to teach in Almeria, Spain until June, and seemed content to stick it out in Spain. She said it wasn’t that bad there where she was. Only one case, I think.

Thursday came, and instead of me driving nine students to the city, I was driving myself to the city to get Sarah and her friend, Nora, at JFK.

I parked at the park-and-text and waited. Anxious but not too bad. In an hour, they texted, I swooped in and started carrying the precious cargo safely home, plying them with sandwiches, chips, sweets, drinks – and an ear to let out their three-hours-worth of adrenaline- and anxiety-fueled stories from their last 48 hours of being awake.

One home safe.

 

Change of heart

On Friday, Kirsti’s tune had changed.

She said Spain was locking down Monday. She was scared. She didn’t want to ride it out with her roommate unable to leave the tiny apartment except for groceries.

She wanted to be home.

We wanted her home.

But thousands of others were trying to get out of Spain too with the lockdown looming.

More anguish in front of a screen. She was searching on her phone, Sarah was on her laptop, I’m on mine.

We’re all entering names, card numbers, expiration dates.

Enter.

Wait.

Spinning circle.

“I got one,” Kirsti said, a mix of sadness and relief in her voice. She would be leaving the next day at 10:30 a.m. from Almeria, to Madrid and Madrid to JFK by 10:30 Sunday night. She later changed to a later flight to spend only four hours in Madrid.

Still anxious, but breathing. She was getting out.

Saturday comes.

First plane is delayed almost two hours. She arrives and has to get her 50-lb suitcase, 25-pound carry-on and guitar to a 10-minute shuttle to a new gate.

Sweat soaking her shirt, the man at the counter tells her she missed her connection – by 3 minutes – and that she needs to go to the office that helps travelers like her.

She sobbed. Pleaded. But he walked away.

She went to the office he directed her to.

It was closed.

That’s when she Facetimed me as I was walking the dog with Sarah.

“Dad?” she said sobbing.

Facetime connection cuts out.

Oh no. What happened?

She Facetimed back. Still crying.

“I don’t know what to do.”

I didn’t know what to do or say either. “Find somebody, ask somebody? Three minutes? My god!”

So helpless.

As a dad, I’ve often been able to fix things, find missing things, make them laugh when they’re crying.

But she’s stuck and I’m 3,500 miles away. Helpless.

We hurried home and started to look for another flight.

Re-enter the spinning wheel.

I hate that wheel.

Back to hurriedly inputting names, numbers, dates and addresses. I was trying to go so fast it was slowing me down.

Enter.

“The offer is no longer available.”

“F#*k!!!!” I screamed in a guttural way few have seen from me.

I lost it.

But just for a second.

Back to searching.

It’s almost 8 p.m. Sunday. Monday is the lockdown. What will that mean for her?

More typing, more spinning wheels.

“I got one into Amsterdam,” Kirsti said from the other end of the phone.

Amsterdam by 11 p.m., “sleep” in the airport and fly to JFK the next morning, she said.

Coming home is again a reality.

We chatted again when she got to Amsterdam and I told her text me when she got on the plane to come home, at 9:30 a.m. – 4:30 a.m. here.

 

Why no text?

I woke up at 5 a.m. and checked my phone.

No text.

Noooooooooo!

Did she fall asleep? Worse? Why didn’t I get a text? I tried, stupidly, to go back to sleep. An hour later, I’m making coffee and wondering what could have gone wrong. She has to be in the air, right? I called Delta, knowing full-well they wouldn’t tell me even if she was on the plane, but I felt like I was trying.

They wouldn’t.

My wife got up at 7 and told me everything was fine. She had texted during the night.

I could breathe again.

The drive Monday to Long Island was uneventful, quieter than most trips.

We went to the same park-and-text lot and sat. The new stress was wondering if she’d get through virus screeners. We waited what seemed to be too long since her plane landed.

What now?

Nothing.

She landed, made it through screening, made it through customs and when I saw her lugging her load toward us, relief washed over me. I had teared up several times over the past couple days, but now I just wanted to stuff her and her stuff in the car and get moving north. We chatted, she had snacks and hot tea we brought. She had her pillow. She seemed vacant, but happy and relieved. I was both too.

As I finish this, it’s Tuesday and the girls and I just returned from walking the dog. Things aren’t normal at all, but we’re all under one roof. Kirsti opened her guitar case today to reveal the neck broken from the body. She’s sad about leaving her little students in Spain, her friends, her way of life. To see her guitar, a true piece of her, snapped like that was another punch.

But unlike when they were a world away, I can help here. I can make them laugh when they don’t want to. I can make tea, fix their TVs when WiFi glitches, go for walks to talk or throw a Frisbee. Dad stuff.

They are self-quarantining in their rooms, masks on when around us. We don’t think they’re sick, but we’re being very careful.

It’s weird and going to get weirder. Sounds like we’re in it for a long haul, but we’ll do it as a family.

As I was closing the laptop last night, I was brutally reminded of the stress from the previous day by the row of still-open flight sites like Priceline and Expedia left up from when I closed it after hearing Kirsti say she had a final flight.

So glad it’s over and I hope to never have to rely on a spinning circle on a screen like that again.