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I watch my old dog from the kitchen window, lying flat out on her side in the heat: dreaming, I reckon, of the birth of her puppies that day when our two youngest crammed inside her kennel, with her and all six of her pups—while she licked and cuddled and groaned and shone with canine pride. I step outside and she's awake in an instant, watching me walk across the yard—like a hawk, she watches—not trying to make it too obvious: unlike the way she would have ten years ago. I make some eye contact but not too much or both of us will get uncomfortable. Don't want her thinking I'm thinking what she is: time to go wander the universe, to check the traps: the earth, the sky and the stars. To see that there's more life than death out there. For we, the two of us, can't really believe the rumour of our demise, the falling down, the unravelling they call entropy. No way! We will get up and walk, we will! We, the two of us, will see the lights, taste the wind, hear the birds; feel the leaves, smell the air, know that all is well. She knows, I know, we both know, the dying is closer now; so close we have to stand up, stretch and make some kind of noise to the universe: telling her that we stand with her. That we are also not happy about these rumours of her coming collapse. That we feel the quiet indignation of the old stock horse, the old mate trimming his lawn, the sparrow; the friend on chemo and the giant mountain ash—the disgrace of this steady, rolling thunder of decay, of loss. Even of that most lovely of secrets we call memory. Huh! What a pathetic word for such a glory. As if this is simply a matter of electrical signals in some freaking brain cells! This memory of the birth of the first daughter, the first grandson; the first puppies: just a memory? Whatever! My thesaurus says: yes, we have recall, retention and recollection. But then it adds, as if it almost forgot to mention: commemoration, tribute, honour, observance and recognition. It doesn't look like it and we don't want it to look like it either; but me and the old dog are crossing this highway to adore the sun, the earth under our feet: the stars and the trees late at night when you can't even see them—just feel them, hear them—know they are there: behind those clouds, through that inky darkness. And you're tempted to bow down and worship their shy glory, like the glory of that grandchild, yesterday; bringing a flower from my wife's garden, telling me that she also knows what I'm thinking: what we are all thinking and feeling and honouring and commemorating.
Joanne considered her options for supper: chicken soup with garlic bread, beef vegetable casserole with fluffy white rice, or some crumbed chicken fillet filled with pepper sauce? The thirty-two-year old college lecturer rolled her eyes heavenward, struggling to decide what to eat. “Nick!” she called to her nine-year-old son watching Jurassic World: Dominion on Netflix in the bedroom they shared. “What would you like for dinner tonight, buddy?” “What are the choices, Mom?” Nick asked as he walked into their tiny but neat kitchen. Joanne and Nick were living in a one-bedroom separate entrance since her divorce three years ago. Kevin, her ex-husband, had run up such huge debts that they couldn't continue staying in the house they had been renting. Once Kevin had lost his job, his behavior had changed. He became frustrated, started drinking too much, and developed a truly tempestuous temper. It was crystal clear to Joanne that their marriage was doomed. Divorce seemed the best route for her and Nick. Kevin had disappeared out of their lives after the divorce had been finalized as if he had only been a figment of their imagination. Nick had long ago stopped to ask after his father. “Well,” Joanne said, “we've got three leftover choices,” she said, listing the three dishes. During the Christmas season, Joanne tended to cook a number of dishes which she could warm up, saving her from having to cook every night. They often had a surplus of food though, forcing Joanne to either give away whatever they hadn't eaten to street beggars, or discarding the food. “Hmm, those are really hard choices, Mom,” Nick complained. “I know, honey, but choose one, please.” “Actually, I'm not all that hungry tonight. Can't I just have some milk and cookies, please?” Nick asked pleadingly. Before Joanne could answer him though, her cell phone rang. She was surprised to see that the caller was Simon, one of the senior students she was mentoring. He was a polite nineteen-year-old of whom Joanne was quite fond. “Simon, what a nice surprise to hear from you,” Joanne said, simultaneously nodding at Nick to let him know he could have his milk and cookies. “I'm really sorry to bother you this late, Miss Harper, but I wanted to ask you for something,” Simon apologized. “Nonsense. It hasn't even gone eight yet. What can I do for you?” Joanne asked. She intuited that Simon was embarrassed about whatever it was he needed, so she waited patiently for him to formulate his request. Clearing his throat a few times, Simon finally said, “I'm in a bit of a fix tonight, Miss. I feel truly bad to turn to you for help, but I didn't know who else to ask.” Joanne remembered that Simon lived on his own in a rented room in a house shared by other students. She was also keenly aware of his financial difficulties, thus she expected him to ask her for some money or a loan. What he asked for brought her nearly to tears. “Miss, do you have some food for me, please? I'm really hungry tonight. The only thing I've had all day was a bowl of cereal and a cup of tea this morning. If you don't have anything, it's fine. I'm very sorry to bother you, Miss.” Unbidden, an image of her stocked fridge and the dinner options she and Nick were deciding on swam into her consciousness. A well of deep shame opened up in the kind woman's heart; her motherly instinct to nurture set her soul ablaze with contrition for having taken for granted that others had three meals a day as she did. “Say no more, Simon. Please, come over right now. I have more than enough food. Have supper with me and my son and I'll pack some leftovers for you to take home as well,” she immediately said. There was a long silence on the other end of the line, making Joanne wonder if Simon had ended the call. “Simon, are you still there?” she asked just as she heard soft sobs coming over the line. Her heart broke anew; she realized that Simon was weeping. “Miss, you have no idea how much this means to me. I can't thank you enough, Mom,” Simon said, not realizing he had referred to Joanne as ‘Mom'. Simon's slip of the tongue stunned Joanne. Heroically, she collected her scattered thoughts, stilling her heaving heart. “I should be the one thanking you, Simon,” she said, her soul drenched in pure gratitude. Image: Marcos Paulo Prado (www.unsplash.com)
Wealth provided by the mineral rich soil of the land doesn't cross Jimmy's mind as he works in his mother's garden. It was her health that furrowed his brow. She had fallen ill months ago, becoming bed ridden shortly thereafter. She was a very closed off person, an introvert one might say; Jimmy had only known her to be stern and reclusive, even in his own upbringing. Jimmy had not seen his mother past his 18th birthday, shortly after his father's passing. Jimmy went on to become an entrepreneur, trying his hand at one business venture after another. He failed at every avenue, stocks yielding low and Covid laying him lower. However, he lived his life his way, without the yoke laid upon him by the hands of others. Life was hard, but he was still breathing. He had not heard from his mother since reaching adulthood, and his immediate exodus from her domicile; although he had not sought her out either. It came as a surprise to him when a man claiming to be her physician called him and said Jimmy's mother had fallen ill, that she wanted him to come tend to her garden until she got better. Jimmy's mother was very protective of "HER" garden. It was the one thing she truly cared for… "more than me even," he mused. She did not deserve respect, but Jimmy's father instilled a very strong ethical will within Jimmy. He did as he was asked. Jimmy went to his mother's home every day to tend to her garden. He would garden for over an hour then leave. He never went into her home. She never called on him or asked to see him, nor did he to her. This carried on for months, Jimmy a man of his word and a good son… for his "father's sake" Jimmy would tell himself. One afternoon, Jimmy pulled into the driveway of his mother's home to see an ambulance outside along the street. It was beginning to pull away… no flashing lights… no sirens. An old man in a black suit with greying black hair approached Jimmy with a solemn expression. "Jimmy, I take it?" The voice of his mother's physician. "I regret to inform you, but your mother has passed away." Jimmy stared at the man for a moment then turned coldly to walk to the garden. As he went to where he usually begins his tending, he noticed a mound of freshly turned soil. Jimmy kneeled down and shifted the soil to find a metal box. He looked at the physician who smiled and walked away. Jimmy opened the box to find an envelope inside. Within the envelope were two sheets of paper. Lettering upon the first read: "I'm sorry, I love you." A Deed to the home was signed over to Jimmy. Pictures were in there too, pictures of Jimmy throughout his life…past to present. His mother was always there, loving him the only way she knew how… from afar. (Image courtesy of Chris Yang unsplash.com)
April second 2020, Bryan, my beautiful boy, lost his fight with addiction by an accidental overdose. I lived through those five days of him in CCU, sitting every day at his bedside, but I still have a hard time grasping that it is real. Somewhere in the back of my head I know it happened, but I won't accept all of it. If I do, I will surely fall off the face of the earth. The autopsy would determine the actual cause of death was fentanyl intoxication. I wasn't there when Bryan overdosed. I was on vacation, and I am learning to forgive myself for going and that somehow if I was home, this wouldn't have happened. On that Friday, Bryan had gone to the park with his sister, brother, sister-in-law, and his nephew. They would recall that Bryan was in a great mood, playing with Nolan and running around. They said he was happy. But that's what's hard about anxiety and depression. People can't see what's in the inside and addicts are good at hiding their addiction. They were all to go bowling that night, but at the last minute, Bryan decided to stay back at the house. He told them all to have a good time. He was going to watch TV and go to bed early. They returned three hours later. The lights were all on. They comment to each other that it was weird that Bryan had left all the lights on. Even stranger was the fact that the front door was locked. Bre went downstairs to turn off the lights and when she turned to go upstairs, she heard Justin screaming. “Call 911! Call 911!” Bryan was slumped over on his bed, face down, with one foot on the floor. He was pale and had blood coming from his nose. There was vomit on the bed where he laid. “I knew he was gone when I was pounding on his chest,” Justin would later tell me when recounting how he gave him CPR until EMS showed up. When EMS arrived, they administered two doses of Narcan. They were able to restart his heart and get a faint pulse. He was rushed to the hospital where he was put on life support. The day that Bryan was brought in, the doctor told us that in his opinion, Bryan was brain dead, but he needed to run a series of tests to confirm his prognosis. For twenty-four hours, Bryan was put into cold therapy. This would allow his brain and body to heal at a faster rate. After forty-eight hours, they began to warm him and run tests. Bryan failed the response test. This meant even though he wasn't on any pain medications, he didn't respond to pain, light, or breathing stimuli. He also failed the apnea test, which was, when taken off the ventilator, he could not breathe on his own or keep his blood pressure up. Then they performed an EGG and CAT scan. He had slight brain activity and blood flow to the brain. Unfortunately, the part of the brain that regulates breathing, swallowing, blinking, basically anything that would allow Bryan to function, was completely dead from being without oxygen too long. The part that was receiving blood flow was memory, and was nothing that would matter for Bryan to come back to us. The doctors could not legally declare him brain dead and call a time of death. Wednesday morning, Bryan's kidneys shut down, he developed pneumonia in his right lung, and he could no longer maintain oxygen saturation above eighty percent. Gift of Life deemed him unable to donate. So at 2:45 p.m., I made a phone call and as a family we decided to end Bryan's suffering. I couldn't see through the tears, and I felt suffocated with my mask on. I rip off my mask and take his limp, swollen hand and rub it all over my face. I fold down the blanket and pull his gown over to the side and place my cheek against his chest and breath him in. Under all the antiseptic hospital smells, I can recognize my child's scent. It's a strong, warm, sweet musky smell, and I inhale it as if it is a life source to me. It actually is. At three p.m., the doctor came in and explained what was going to happen. I listened to every word, nodding as she spoke, but inside I am screaming, Don't let this be happening! She turned off all medications. His vitals started slowing down within seconds. Oh God he's really dying! I laid my head on his chest to hear his heartbeat for the very last time. The respiratory doctor announced that she was turning off his ventilator. No, don't leave me! But Bryan did leave me at 3:45pm that day. Every sound, every smell, every second of that afternoon is forever etched into my memory. Goodbye, my Beautiful Boy. I love you and I'll see you when I see you.
Nisrine is confined to the balcony — not because of a pandemic. Madame has simply ordered her to not leave the house. Though Balcony Nisrine (the nickname I've given her) is a character in a book and this lockdown is my reality, I struggle to decide which scenario is worse. I always judge a book by two things: the cover and the first line. I subconsciously chose the book while skimming aisles of a Dollar Tree over a year ago. It reminds me of me: a hardcopy with an unfussy cover. A simple appearance to contrast complex inner contents. (It being a one dollar is a plus.) To my expectation, the first line of the story piques my interest. But the book doesn't get opened until my brain is cornered, two weeks into the lockdown when I finally decide to do something more productive than: Watering my succulents (all nine of them died a month into the lockdown from overwatering); color-coding my already–color-coordinated closet; video calling people who I never had a substantial relationship with prior to 2020; and watching DIY videos on YouTube. (I've learned how to give a mediocre self-pedicure, make banana-oatmeal cookies, and use toilet paper to remove stains from white sneakers.) I read the first page of the book in full. Then the second section. I read the opening line of that second section again. The rains came to the foreign city with red skies. I like that the sentences are short, gentle, and poetic. I continue reading and make substantial progress the first two months during lockdown. But I abandon the book because I begin an unexpected romantic relationship with a friend. Developing a romantic relationship during a pandemic is trending. Everyone I know is suddenly in a relationship. But I believe this is mainly because solitude inclines hearts to grope for love, or anything related to it, even if only on the surface and from a distance. I am not the exception. But the policeman in the book is. He has access to family and colleagues. He has the entire city in the palms of his hands. Yet his heart gropes for unreachable Nisrine — her balcony existence. Much like the pandemic, my relationship is precarious and transient. I fall in love with someone who will eventually be a fiancé until he decides that he isn't ready to be with me; the pandemic made him do it. And, just like that, the number is deleted; the ring is gone; the pandemic is dwindling; I return to the office and remove the “Congratulations” balloons, toss the engagement ring streamers, insistently thank my boss for the expensive gift he bought us when “us” was a thing — but I keep the “Newlyweds Forever” mug for heating up ramen. But I digress. Reading about someone falling in love who is confined to a balcony is hopeful during a pandemic. I stop reading the book right after the policeman risks his life to show love to Balcony Nisrine. Before the vaccination and the proposal. Before the in-laws meet. After we share a non-Facetime first kiss. (The phone is inert; his lips, dynamic.) Why that relationship at that time? Because Balcony Nisrine motivates me. Because the lockdown circumstances have ironically become the ideal ( — remote love is better than no love, right?). Because I haven't gotten to the part where war breaks out and Balcony Nisrine returns to her home country and takes her heart with her. The part where virtual conversations triumph in-person dialogue because we've forgotten how to socialize independent of technology. The part where the policeman cries himself to sleep at night. The part where proposals become entertainment and relationships are a result of loneliness, not love. The part where you only remember how to love from afar. Actually, I don't know what happens after the policeman risks his life to visit Nisrine on the balcony because I haven't finished the book. Does Nisrine return home? Does the policeman cry himself to sleep? Who knows, but I do know that the lockdown made people hopeful. And that hope could either create or break a person's heart. And that I was part of the group who experienced the latter. The policeman has a heart that has ached for a woman he could only love from a distant. So, his solution is to risk. Go to her, even if prohibited. Even if loving her puts him at a disadvantage. Even if they both understand that the “right” time will never exist between them. He lets his heart grope for her though he knows the furthest she will go is the balcony. I used to pity Nisrine — stuck in the center of the city with nowhere to go but within. Now I envy her. Favor her fictional scenario over my reality. To have a slow, unexpected love that surpasses distance — deep and risky and unambiguous. Well, it could've been a result of loneliness, not love. But since I don't plan to finish the book, I technically don't know if Nisrine and Policeman's love ever ends. And that is reason enough to envy Nisrine.
“Today there are 60 more death cases and more than 1000 infected by Covid-19. There is also a shocking report of 10 people also fleeing from a hospital isolation ward, putting everyone at even greater risk. The number of infected numbers is rising every day, people's lack of awareness is considered to be the main culprit. The opposite party is questioning the government's measures to prevent the spreading of this global pandemic…..” The ear-blasting sound from TV broke Sofia's concentration who was trying very hard to complete her school project which is due tomorrow. “Do you want me to break the TV or what? Lower the volume, will you?” Sofia bellowed, irritation drowning her words. “I was just watching the updates, no need to lose voice with all that screaming, also making me deaf.” sassed her little brother from the living room. “Yeah, then watch it without fucking up with others” "This Corona is really messing with people's lives" Sofia muttered under her breath, concentrating back on her project. Corona is trying very hard to lock everyone up in their own personal jail. Trying to stop life in its tracks. But one can ever change a river's course just by throwing a rock on it, no matter how big. Like that it is impossible to put life on hold just because of some pandemic, especially in third world countries. Fortunately, the situation is not that severe in Sofia's locality. Sofia gave up on her project when the phone started ringing, the sound again breaking her focus just after the TV incident; she really has a short attention span. Looks like the universe doesn't want her to do it, so who is she to defy the universe. Giving up on her work she came to the kitchen to look for some snacks, she found her mother was on the phone with a gloomy look on her face there. “What is it, Mom?” asked Sofia worried when her mother put down the phone. “It was your uncle Hanif, Your aunt Nasima has been admitted into ICU, she is infected by Covid-19” Sofia is shell-shocked. Nasima is her paternal aunt; she has always been close with her, always looking up to her. She really can't believe her aunt is infected! It may sound weird but it's really hard for her to accept. Her aunt is a fitness freak and has always been as healthy as a horse. She is also very young, only in her late 20s. In fact, a few days ago she paid a visit to them. She seemed absolutely fine then how come she contracted this virus and her condition worsened so suddenly! Sofia couldn't wrap her head around this. There has to be some mistake! Dark clouds swamped Sofia's house, stealing every bit of rays of sunshine for the last few days. Tension is ever-present in the house like they are all put in a purgatory waiting for judgment. Her aunt's condition has worsened further, the doctors have given up hope and asked to be prepared for anything. Her dad is in constant a state of grief, even more so because he couldn't even see his sister for the last time as the lockdown was announced. Her mom is trying her best to console him. But honestly, how can you even console such a person! In all this Sofia is in a daze, everything is surreal to her. Only a few days ago everything was fine, how fast time changes no one can say! “Seeing is believing, but the feeling is the truth,” Tomas Fuller said. Only now Sofia understood its full meaning. Just seeing and experiencing, there is a whole level of difference. She saw people die on TV, even sympathized with them but never truly did she experience the devastation of a dying cause. Death, such a mystery! A person's past, present, future all lost in its claw. Death, the only sure thing in life yet we don't pay it much heed, too busy thinking about tomorrow, a tomorrow that we don't know if that will ever come! We plan our future but one touch from death smashes it in such a way that nothing is left. One would give up everything to escape death. Sofia really wants to understand this mystery, this Death.
I didn't cry when she got sick, or at the funeral, or at the graveyard. I didn't even cry when my mother brushed the hair out of my still dry eyes and held me as the undertakers wheeled away her coffin. Mom never said it, but she hadn't approved of our relationship from the first moment I brought Elise home. It wasn't that she didn't like Elise. What was there not to like in smart sweet Elise? Mom had tried to understand us, I knew that. I guess it doesn't matter anymore. The next morning, I awoke alone. The sun moved shadows across our bedroom while I just stared off the edge of my side of the bed. I was waiting for something, the smell of her coffee I think, but nothing came to snap me out of this fog. Was I supposed to be doing something? Breakfast, I guessed, though I didn't feel hungry; I didn't feel much of anything to be honest. I went into our pantry anyways and saw row upon row of canned sauces, fruits, and preserves she had prepared for the long winter ahead. The shelves were filled with Elise's preserves and her light curled handwriting. I picked up a Mason jar and stared through it without seeing the diamond shapes etched into the glass or feeling the paper label as my fingertips absently traced the word ‘strawberries' over and over. I didn't see the bags of flour and sugar or the boxes of her favorite cereal crowded together on the mint green shelves in the cramped little pantry. I was back in July, sweating as I hauled in another tray of fresh picked strawberries. She would have picked them herself like every other year if she had still had the strength. I smiled and laughed when I thought she was looking and stole glances at the scarf wrapped around her head when I thought she didn't see. I opened my mouth to ask her again why she was doing all of this and wouldn't she rather fly away somewhere to lounge on a beach? I closed my mouth without a word, we'd fought about it enough and her answer was always the same. “I don't want some crazy trip. That's not me. I just want every day I can have with you,” she would say. I knew she just wanted her life- a normal long life- and it was the only thing I couldn't give her. I hefted the jar turning it over and over in my hand, puzzled by the weight and feel of it like some alien artifact. The jar ate away the cold numbness wrapped around me and I couldn't push away the itching burning feeling rising from the pit of my stomach. I clenched my fist around the jar as if it and it alone had taken my wife from me. I couldn't stand the sight of the wretched thing, it brought anger to a boil suddenly spilling over onto my carefully sealed up resignation. I flung the jar with all my might at the pantry wall, red exploding over a bag of chocolate chips, syrup and glass and strawberries falling to the floor. A low guttural animal yell erupted as red as the strawberries and I hardly noticed it was me spewing anguish and rage at the rows of silent glass jars until my throat grew sore. I slid to the floor completely boneless without anger to hold me up, rocking back and forth holding my head with both hands as if it might come loose without a firm grip. My whole being shook, tears making cold splotches on my pajamas as I sobbed there on the floor of our pantry. I felt like my insides had all been scooped out leaving me hollow and empty, blankly staring at a bag of dried beans as if they could anchor me to the world again. The smell of strawberries touched me tugging me gently back, not to the world around me but further back to a moment with her. The bright sweet fruit conjured up that birthday cake she had made filled with our first strawberry harvest, and how we sang and kissed that night joyfully celebrating life. I looked up at all her jars: the tomato sauce recipe we'd spent years perfecting, the peaches from her mother's tree, the BlackBerry jam she hated but still labored over knowing it was my favorite. I saw her there, all her work and planning and love, every moment of our lives together laid aside here giving me a million tiny roads back to my life with her, if only for a moment- a taste. My vision blurred again as tears flowed, gently now, onto my cheeks. I nodded my head imagining her beside me, gazing at me with that secretive smile. I whispered to her, and to myself, “I see what you did, my clever wife. Thank you.”
“Aunt Bridgette has been diagnosed with cancer,” Dad said. Silence. Images of her face flash through minds, and all attention is lost to memories of those already lost to cancer. There have been too many. “Aunt Bridgette died last night,” Dad said. More silence. Slight pricking of tears at the eyes. Memories play in minds, big jewelry and kind hugs, a familiar presence. Gone. Walking up the path. The location is the cemetery in Hamilton, there are people gathered on the side of the road next to their cars, trying not to weep. An “I'm so sorry Christina,” is murmured to Aunt Bridgette's daughter. She smiles weakly, her eyes glassy. We walk, a silent parade of sombre, well dressed people, the bright day dampened by the reason for the gathering. Some of these people have not seen each other in years, and half of the thoughts are wishes that they were not seeing each other for this reason. Walking up the path, wind tossed hair and ran it's fingers through clothing. The priest opens the book, and says a few words. Then, Christina and her kids stepped up to speak. They spoke words of love, of happiness, of thanks, of warmth, of memories. Of love. Of sacrifice. And there was one thing said, by Christina. Christina told us that Aunt Bridgette knew she was going to die. She said, “Let me go,”. However, it wasn't that part that made the group of family get so teary. It was seeing little Ryan talk about Grandma. Talk about how much fun they had, and me looking over to see Nonno standing right there. Standing tall and proud, yet so weak at the same time. This is a man who has had two heart attacks, and survived them both. This is a man who has nine grandchildren, and loves every single one of them. This is a man. A man. A man who is in his mid eighties. A man. A man who will die. He will die. He will die. He will die. He can't die. Tears flood down cheeks, hot and heavy and full of emotion. Head turns into Mom's shoulder, and the weeping begins. Nonno. This man who has done so much for so many people. This man who cares so much for his family, cares so much about his friends, and even cares for strangers. This man who played such a big part in my life, and whom I love so much I cannot express it. Head turns to look at him, the wind blows, and a cloud passes in front of the sun. Hair ruffles, tears dry, nose runs. He will die. I don't want him to die. And then I lose my marbles.
Stop!!! Don't go!!!! Please!! I can't!!!! I won't!!! Please!! They're no easy way to say my angel got wings almost a year ago on Dec 5th. Dear lovely mother, You were my best friend, you were my mom... All I can say is come back... But if only that was that easy, I don't know how this works but I hope you know I miss and think about you more than I got say out loud. In many ways I blame you... But in a lot of other ways I blame myself for you being gone or even the life I made and changed for myself. If only, if only I could change I would I would beg on my knees if I could see or even hug you again. There is no easy way around you being gone. Besides saying my angle got wings. I imagine you just flying in the sky watching over me as I sleep keeping the nightmare always. I remember the nights that you cry in pain from being so sick and me wanting so bad for you just to feel better and now you do but it hurts more now with you being gone. Call me selfish but I want you here. I still hear you some night when I can't sleep. I wake up and I feel a hole in my heart where you used to be. I remember when we used to play board games at 3 am. I remember us eating ice cream. I remember holding your hand. I remember going to the hospital to visit you l, I remember when they told me you got your angel wings. I miss you... Love your daughter R.I.P J.R 7/7/77-12/5/2019
At the beginning, people stood on street corners and shouted about the end of the world. Jane remembered watching the man next door fill up his garage with stacks of canned food and bottled water, as if preparing, it now seems, for a disaster much more minor. The grocery stores were soon empty, the shelves sucked clean like chicken bones. The freeways clogged immediately. People heard the news, stay indoors, they said, but they wanted to move. Families piled into minivans and crossed state lines. They scurried in every direction like small animals caught suddenly under a light. But, of course, there was nowhere on earth to go. Twelve hours into the quarantine, a more pressing danger is floating through these fluorescent halls. A fifth nurse goes under. And an old man, admitted for pneumonia, now sleeps with the others in the isolation wing. There are not enough beds for the families trapped in the hospital, so they sleep on the floor in the halls. At this late hour, no one can tell by looking who among them might be sick and who well. Certain small problems are already threatening to grow larger: two toilets have stopped flushing, and the usual shipment of cafeteria food has not arrived—the truck driver too spooked by the news to approach the building. Inside, Jane keeps her mask tight, her hands in double gloves, her psychiatric training leaving her only slightly more prepared than the others. One thought keeps beating in her mind: if this sickness takes her away, her daughter will not remember even one wisp of her days with her mother. It seems suddenly selfish to have brought her into this world alone. She tries to write a note to her, in case— to read when she's older. But she is unable to put down on that page anything more than the biggest, most obvious thing: You were loved.
It's easy to mistake a wish for a fact, a hope for a lie, a better world for the one that is. For example, our children: we don't expect we'll ever lose them. And so, when Ben finds his baby girl in her crib, sleeping late into the morning, it is hard for him to believe that anything might be wrong. She looks so much like she always does when she's asleep. Nothing seems amiss, except for this: no matter what Ben does, she will not open her eyes. No tickling of her feet, no brushing of her cheek, no splashing of water on her face will rouse his daughter. No matter how much he has imagined this exact scenario constantly for weeks, all those visions turn out to be useless now, his worst fears proved flimsy by the real experience. This, this is ghastly: a sudden draining of meaning from the world. Later, he will think of all the ways he might have saved her from this: maybe they should have stayed inside all this time, or left town earlier, broken the barricades, anything. But for now, he just kneels down on the floor as if to pray or to beg. “Please,” he says, his hands on her chest like he might still find some magic there. “Please, wake up” There is a reason that time seems to slow down in moments like these, why our chest suddenly feels empty. This heart is breaking. He will cry there alone, till Alice arrives and they reminisce on the moment hope was lost. Some will say that the official response was too slow. But certain procedures are being followed. Lists are being made. Calculations. There is, after all, a mathematics of disease: how one case grows to three or four, and each of those four to four more. A quiet arithmetic, a naming of names, this is how it comes to be that thirteen days after the first girl fell sick a nurse's gloved finger is pressing the doorbell at the house where Alice, Ben and their baby live. Have they heard, the nurse wanted to know, about the sickness going around? A burst of adrenaline came into Ben's blood. She seemed nervous, standing there, the young nurse in green scrubs and fresh gloves. She's holding a clipboard under one arm. She's asking about his baby. “Is she here?” she says. “Your daughter?” “Why?” he says, but the details are rushing into his mind, all those reports he has only half heard. “We're taking every precaution,” the nurse says. “We're monitoring everyone who's had contact with the sick.” She speaks as if reciting the words of a script, newly learned. “But who's sick?” asks Ben. There's a sudden tightness in his throat. The nurse looks away, as if the truth embarrasses her. “No one called you?” she says. She is tugging at the chain of her necklace; a tiny silver cross catches the light. He's been having nightmares about losing the baby. He wakes with a physical sensation, a terrible emptiness in his arms. "It's the milk", says the nurse. "It's the donated milk from the hospital." “My God,” says Ben. They have a freezer full of it, rows and rows of bottles, pumped from the bodies of other women. And a bag full of old bottles that Grace has already drunk. One of the donors, says the nurse. One of them might have been exposed. He will remember, later, the look on Alice's face as she walks down the stairs, that last moment before she knows to be worried. She is holding Grace in her arms, hand under her head. Fear feels different, so much sharper, with a baby. “Has she been feeling all right?” asks the nurse. “Oh my God,” says Annie, bringing her hand to her mouth. “Oh my God” “I need to take her temperature,” says the nurse. Soon the nurse is holding a wand a few inches from Grace's forehead, no contact. It's the same kind of thermometer they used in the hospital in those first few hours of her life when her body was still learning to regulate its own temperature, and her limbs, so accustomed to life underwater, were squirming slowly, like a jellyfish moving in a current. “They said it was sterilized,” says Ben. “I thought the milk was supposed to be sterilized” The nurse's hands are shaking as she holds the thermometer over Grace's head. She is standing as far away as she can. She keeps having to start over. “There was some kind of mistake,” she says. “I'm sorry” Finally the beeping: no fever. A tiny ping of relief. "But someone will be back to do it again in the morning", says the nurse. "They'll have to do it twice a day". In the meantime, they should stop using the milk. They should throw out whatever they have left, and switch to formula. And there is one more thing: “We have to ask that you keep her at home for now,” she says. She is peeling off her gloves. She is already backing away. “And also,” she says, “please don't leave town". He thought, that maybe, the nurse was wrong. But then here he is, surrounded by the sound of his breathing alone, estranged by their loss.
Dear Grandpa, It's been 2 weeks since you departed from this earth. They say only time can heal grieving, but I find matters may grow even more sad with the passing of months. The more time goes on, the longer it's been since I heard your voice on the phone or experienced your laughter. I never want to forget the sound of your voice. The last time I talked to you, there was a problem with your phone. The last words of yours I heard were "I can't hear you dear" as I repeated, "Hello? Hello??? HELLO?". I didn't know at the time that would be the last chat I had with you. I didn't know that would be one of your last days. I didn't even get a chance to say goodbye. I remember when I was a little girl and would hug your legs really firmly from behind. That feels like a separate life, long in the past. Yet, it feels like a vivid, not so distant memory all at once. Oh, how time flies. You lived your life and you lived it well for 89 years. What more could anyone ask for? Now, I'm relived to know you're free from isolation, boredom, and pain at the nursing home, even though it aches my heart to accept you're not here. Writing may seem untrendy in this modern day, but as far as I know it's the only thing that helps me cope, a medicine. We must never forget our dear loved ones. I continue to write about our memories together. Grampy, watch over me and please stay in my heart. Love, Your Granddaughter