Maintenance Required: Notes on a Crash

In a Disney princess bag behind the passenger seat lives the crash kit. Here is what you’ll find inside:

• One basic medium pillow
• One fuzzy neck pillow
• One blackout eye mask
• One pair of Loop earplugs
• One packet of electrolyte powder

The crash kit gets a fair bit of use. When my son is at the river for rowing practice, the kit comes along. I recently carried it with me to the office for a two-day on-site retreat, claiming an unused office to set up a nest for lunch breaks. It also accompanied me on a vacation to Maine this summer. It saved me more than once during the long stretches on I-95 and made day trips to art galleries or lobster pounds possible. 

I’ve been feeling pretty proud of myself for all this preparation. It’s nice to have the tools on hand for basic emergencies. But most days what gets me through is not the crash kit’s contents but the simple fact of its existence. It’s like carrying jumper cables. It provides reassurance that the world remains navigable even with a low battery. 

It’s worth noting that what I’m calling “the world” has gotten so circumscribed by Long COVID that I rarely veer off a weekly errand loop: supermarket, kid’s school, church. The loop should be second nature by now but these things can tilt off course in a blink. If one of these errands does me in, the trusty Disney princess bag is behind the passenger seat. Any corner of the parking lot becomes a possible charging location. 

The weekly errand loop does not include an oil change.

As someone driving only a couple days a week, it’s easy to forget that the car needs tending. But there was that trip to Maine. In any event, the Maintenance Required alert started intermittently flashing at least 6 weeks ago. Then it went solid about 2 weeks later. For a month straight, every time the car starts, there it is. It’s not the screaming Check Engine red exhorting you to pull over right now. It’s more of a polite but insistent nudge in the same white tone as the radio display. Hello? If it’s not too inconvenient, perhaps a little help here?

Even if the Maintenance Required light is more reminder than alarm, it can’t be ignored forever. We all know the basic calculus. Attend to it sooner and save a headache later. This is a 2012 Prius: your basic suburban workhorse, not an F1 racer. But even workhorses need regular upkeep.

I finally schedule the oil change for 2pm on a Friday at the service station closest to me. The station happens to sit next to a supermarket and across from a local library. This means places to get sustenance or rest (or both). And afterward, a free evening and weekend mean time to recover from whatever this takes out of me. No problem, right?

Except when I arrive at 2pm, the nice but frazzled man in the coveralls looks perplexed when I say my name. He disappears around the corner and returns. “You’re the Shannon with the 3pm appointment?” Well yes indeed, that very Shannon. The one whose dodgy brain flip-flopped the numbers and showed up an hour early even after putting the correct time in the calendar. 

Still no problem, right? Except it’s the end of the month and there is a line 5 cars deep for inspections that they are slotting in between appointments. “We’ll try to have it done about 3:30,” the nice man says, taking my keys.

Okay, 90 minutes. This is fine, I’ve endured much longer stretches. Still no problem. I take a gentle walk around the neighborhood. Make my way to the library. Take a long swig of cold water. 

And the crash comes.

Total engine stall. Sudden and staggering. The Shannon Control Panel check engine light is glaring red and every other indicator is flashing. I barely make it to an armchair behind the fiction stacks before I sputter out. It’s as if someone’s shot a tranquilizer dart at me and stuffed full of fiberglass insulation.

Ok, now we have a problem.

I am carrying a backpack. In it is crammed a raincoat even though the sun is now blazing through the clouds. Also, hand sanitizer but no snacks, a water bottle but no electrolyte powder, a sketchbook, a journal, and several pens and pencils (bless my optimistic little heart). 

But my crash kit? Nope. It’s across the street. Might as well be at the top of Mt. Rainier.

I jackknife myself down into the seat and try to rest my head on the stiff chair back. My eyes simply will not stay open. It is too bright, too loud. All it takes is a couple of preschoolers in the children’s section and one librarian wheeling a cart around to turn the library into a Monster Truck rally. My head is swimming and I desperately need to just lay down.

Is it allowed? To lay down? Not in here, surely. Maybe outside? Even though the sun is out, the ground and every bench within walking distance is soggy. Also, what even is “walking distance?” I cannot get up.

I think through everyone I could call. My parents don’t live far, but then what? They drive me to their house then someone has to bring me back in 45 minutes to get my car, but I’m splayed out in the guest room? Maybe someone could come and just, I don’t know, let me sleep in their backseat in the parking lot? Or I could call my partner, but he’s 25 minutes away and my car will be ready in –

Oh god, the clock has barely moved. I still have an hour to get through.

Maybe I could ask the nice librarians if anyone has a snack in the back. Or if one of the toddler moms has an extra handful of Cheerios? But all of that would require getting up and –

Am I whimpering? Are they looking at me? What time is it? 

I stay wedged into the chair. It is the wrong position for so many reasons, not the least of which it requires some degree of orthostatic exertion that only being horizontal would relieve. But head lolling on an upholstered chair back is better than me buckling under the weight of it, and eventually I stop looking for outs and just let myself rest. Stillness comes. Not sleep exactly but something that puts a dribble of juice back into the battery. 

Eventually 3:30 rolls around. I haul my pack full of utterly useless accouterments back over to the gas station. Inside is a giant refrigerated cooler full of sodas and Gatorade (praise be!) and I add that to my tab. A shot of synthetic energy helps get me and my car safely home. 

The Maintenance Required light in my car is off for the time being. But what about in my own body? How do I learn how to decipher the Long COVID indicators that some kind of corrective action is needed soon-ish? And what kind of bespoke preventative maintenance will help keep this late model Gen Xer with some worn out parts on the road? 

Even 14 months into this, I’m still unsure how to read the signals so that the engine doesn’t seize up and strand me on the side of the highway. 

One thing is for sure: No matter how questionable the fashion choice, next time I venture out, that Disney princess bag is coming with me. 

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