“When this is over” is an oft-heard phrase these days. During the COVID-19 outbreak, we’ve all put aside our “normal” lives to some degree. For me at the very beginning of the pandemic, normal had already gone away for a while when on March 2, my father died.
In the first week after his passing, we were just seeing initial concerns about the virus and restrictions were few. I probably hugged or held the hands of 100 people during the course of that week. In the week that followed, I began the task of emptying an apartment—throwing stuff out, giving stuff away, packing stuff in boxes. All the while, things were unraveling at a rapidly accelerating pace. Schools closed, and the recommended upper limit for social gatherings kept shrinking. As I thought about the memorial service, I experienced the same sort of shrinking feeling. First, I thought it probably wouldn’t be a good idea to serve ice cream and a big sheet cake, as I had originally planned. I had the bright idea to serve cupcakes instead, so there would be less food handling. Then it started to seem like a bad idea to have the service at all. I was torn, but in retrospect, it was the only choice.
The following week, the inevitable shrinking pattern continued. Workplaces did their best to stay open, then as it became apparent that they couldn’t do this safely, they shut down. I am still seeing this pattern. Tightening, then tightening more.
Four days ago, I turned the key in the lock of my father’s apartment after a team of three had carried out the rest of the furniture. I mopped the floors, straightening up after each pass to tamp down the stiffness in my lower back. I’d experienced a few sleepless nights during the week prior, worrying about the move and its possible repercussions to myself, my family and the residents in the facility.
Three days before that, I had ventured out to donate my 107th pint of blood – again, second-guessing myself six ways to Sunday. Should I do this? Will my immune system be depleted if I do? Does the risk outweigh the need?
Each day that I wake up feeling good, I feel less vulnerable to the risk I incurred by doing things that I felt needed to be done.
Today, my worry clock seems to be resetting itself. I just watched a video about disinfecting groceries, and I am now stressing out about going to the store tomorrow. The thought of washing each strawberry I buy for 20 seconds, scrubbing it with soap and water…that is daunting to say the least. And there is a certain feeling of futility, living as I do with a person whose perception of risk is not the same as mine.
That’s where we all live right now. In the germ soup, but perceiving it differently each minute and in a different skin every day.
That takes me back to the title of this reflection. As my tasks related to managing a death slowly diminish, thoughts and memories wash in. I imagine most people are contemplating what they will do when all of this misery is over.
I have a memory of a July evening on an island in Algonquin Park around 50 years ago. My father and I were on the last night of a five-day canoe trip, and had just finished a weird dinner consisting of leftover freeze-dried stew and some other not-too-choice goodies. As we sat watching the sunset, we talked about what we would eat when we got home. Fresh things, crunchy things, frozen delights. So accessible, so delicious – when this is over.
My father loved food all his life, and some of his best stories involved food. His advancing Parkinson’s led to some intermittent sleep problems, and instead of counting sheep, he would go through an alphabet of food. Artichokes, brownies, cream cheese…
In his later years, my father’s food tastes were different than mine—meat, cheese and the oddest of condiments, some of which needed to be ordered specially from the UK. But his last meal was spot on: Lobster Newburg and key lime pie. He ordered it on the day he started hospice treatment. On one of the last occasions that I saw him alive, he recommended the downtown Denver restaurant that had delivered this meal. It might be a while before I go there, but I will, when this is over.
Richard & Marty……the two stalwarts of a group that was made better so much better by their presence. How sad it was when Marty passed leaving Richard to hold that position on his own. They helped me to see that I was a shining star too and not as bad as I’d believed myself to be.
I too lost my husband May 16th, suddenly and without notice or any way to prepare for the grief that settled in like a thick fog. Waiting and wondering when we would be able to hold a service that would include military honors. Loss in the time of the coronavirus is a lonely business making the space he left that much bigger.