Last week I tried to visit my mom for Mother’s Day. These are some of the topics I needed to research before this trip could happen:
- Canadian quarantine requirements for land travelers
- The costs of “quarantine hotels” and how likely they are to be required of those who drive into Canada
- Border entry restrictions in Michigan and the U.S. as a whole
- The price of one-day COVID tests.
- Scenarios in which Canada will allow non-citizens to (re-)enter the country.
- Locations in Michigan to get the single-shot vaccine, along with the vaccine’s possible side effects and whether they might prevent a recipient from being allowed back into their country of residence
Despite all the reading my husband and I did on dozens of .gov websites, we still didn’t get it right. We were still refused entry.
Josh and I drove about four hours to the Windsor/Detroit border. I couldn’t wait to see my mom for the first time in eight months. I couldn’t wait to catch up with my sister and talk to my nephew, who’s now speaking in full sentences. The isolation and aimlessness I’ve been feeling in Canada would be put on hold as I finally reconnected with my people.
As it turns out, a U.S. citizen re-entering the United States is considered an essential traveler, but her Canadian husband is not. The Detroit border agent in the booth told us this, then asked us to go into the processing building. We were told the same thing inside: unless we separated—which was out of the question—we couldn’t stay in the U.S.
We got back in the car, and I blinked away tears as I drove us around to be processed by a Canadian border agent before returning to Toronto.
The Canadian agent asked us what happened in Detroit. He asked if we had gotten out of our car. Then he handed us at-home COVID test kits and informed us that our fifteen minutes on U.S. soil meant a mandatory two-week quarantine once we returned home. “I know it sounds dumb,” he said, “but rules are rules. Officials will be checking in to make sure you comply.”
When we were released into Windsor, I drove a few blocks to a little park. We’d been told we could not leave our car until we reached our place of quarantine, so I sobbed behind the steering wheel. Josh held my hand. Then we made the four hour drive back home.
I’m not even sure how to express my frustration with all that’s happened. Everything pandemic-related is political, so lamenting a missed visit or an illogical quarantine requirement seems akin to being an anti-masker. I’m glad there are safety measures in place. I’m glad our governments are trying to slow the spread. But I’m tired, too.
I’m tired of lockdown. I’m tired of closed borders. I feel so trapped here. Like many others, I am languishing under this new way of living. And I miss my mom.
When I look back on these years, I’ll probably think of them as “pre-COVID” and “post-COVID,” but the distinction between the two isn’t going to be so strong. More people are getting vaccinated. Some stores don’t require masks anymore. A few artists are scheduling concerts. Certain countries are bouncing back long before others. The line delineating old life and new life is blurry, and many aspects will never be the same.
Josh and I have one week left of quarantine at home. We’re spending a lot of time under the magnolia tree in the backyard, watching our dog chase squirrels. We are trying to make the best of it.
Things will get better. That’s what I keep telling myself. But right now, I’m tired.
Laura graduated from Calvin in 2015 with a degree in art and writing. She lives in Toronto, Ontario, with her husband Josh and dog Rainy. She works as an IT support analyst and enjoys painting, rock climbing, and exploring the city.
God, this stinks. I’m sorry you and Josh (and everyone you miss in the U.S.) are going through this. I was visiting Monica in Madison when she got your note about being turned around at the border. Here’s hoping the end is in sight…
I am so sorry to hear this. I hope your magnolia is blooming.
Tears were shed on this side of the border too. This was just one more sad sign of the past fourteen months, in my house and millions of others like it. Unused beauty products lined up in the guest bathrooms. Towels folded on a bed with clean sheets ready, waiting. Christmas and birthday presents mailed or delivered to the porch, hugless, smiles visible only in the eyes above masks. We are all tired, but perhaps none as much as those of you behind closed borders. We miss you so much and can’t wait to hug you in person.
It is hard to speak to grief. And I don’t want to sound dismissive or try to mitigate your feeling in any way because it is a real experience for you and grief has its place. But there are people where you are at too, people who care about you and who could come to care about you, if given the chance.
The simple truth is it comes down to us, our choice. Will we choose to stay in our grief, in our feelings of isolation, or will we choose a way to get out? And it is by no means an easy choice, but it is always present.
Find your way. Find happiness where you can. There is always a way.