Lucy Reflects

Do you know what the word “furlough” means? Until about a week ago it was not a word in my vocabulary.

Furlough is a fancy-pants way of saying “laid off.”

I'll start a little further back. I work as a caregiver for my handicapped mother, an arrangement my father and I came to after my mother took one too many “tumbles.” 

I agreed to leave my childcare job and take about $5 an hour to be with my mother while my father was at work. To supplement that income, I went back to working evenings at the restaurant that employed me in my early 20s. 

My father is a “network supervisor” at a very large company. His job takes him to Germany, Brazil, North Carolina. He does well for himself and for my mother. He’s a beacon of certainty, steadfast in his accomplishments. 

But then comes the great equalizer. I, like many others in the service industry, was out of work. All the restaurants in Pennsylvania were closed for dining due to COVID-19, this eliminating a need for a hostess/server. I still had my caregiver job. Despite my father having to create a home office in the dining room, he was still the all-knowing all-powerful light within the darkness. Everything is fine. 

Last Friday, amidst the longest week of my entire life, my father used the fancy word. If he was furloughed, he would no longer be able to pay me. And then, all of a sudden, we were the same. We were in the same boat, in the same vast stretch of ocean. And that, in its own strange way, brought comfort. 

I did what anyone with a pulse and empathy would do, I started asking questions. 

“Are you going to be able to pay the mortgage? Do you want my husband and I to move in to help pay the bills? Do you have a backup plan for your backup plan?” I asked these questions knowing I, myself, had no plan to backup, because he was my backup. My father answered every question with substance. He told me that he did, in fact, have a plan, as well as some savings. Mom’s health insurance was safe. But then, right before returning to what would be his last week of work, he hit me with these words: “I'm worried about the people who don't have a savings, or a plan.” There was no tone of arrogance or condescension, just genuine human concern. 

“Me too” I said. And I too, meant it. I wasn’t just thinking about myself and my husband, and our pencil box full of $1 coins labeled “savings.” I began to worry about everyone. Those more fortunate. Those less fortunate. Those with an account to back up on, those with a jar of pennies for emergencies, those who are barely living paycheck to paycheck. Those full of hope and those full of doubt. Maybe I can offer this simple comfort: we’re all here together. It may seem lonely, and scary, and too big. But we're all here, together.



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