My father is dying. His death is a natural part of life, and I accept it. But already, I miss him, and that’s just weird. For nearly two weeks, we’ve been trying to remember to speak of him in the present tense. The last thing I did was press a tissue into his hand as the paramedics prepared to wheel him out of his bedroom, the room in which he’d hoped to die before insisting we call the hospital after a particularly rough morning. He clutched it gratefully. “I want a refund,” he managed to whisper, always the joker. “No refunds, no regrets,” I replied, the tears rising. I knew, because we can’t visit the hospital, that I would never see him again.
For most people, the idea of a loved one dying during the Covid pandemic will remain just that – an abstract notion, something that sadly is happening to others. Up until two weeks ago, I was one of them. Now, for us, it’s a hard-hitting reality.
I’ve thought a lot about Covid as I sit in my parents’ condo in Scarborough, supporting my Mom who can’t be beside her partner of 67 years, a person she’s touched every day of her life since high school, knowing he’s there alone, maybe scared, certainly uncomfortable. We made sure to tuck a cell phone and charger into the baggie with his meds, his instructions to staff, his DNR order. He calls us from the palliative care wing of the hospital. We talk, and laugh, and cry. Not for too long. He gets tired. Sometimes he’s annoyed or upset about something, often he’s worried about something we don’t want him to worry about, like whether anyone remembered to arrange for the snow tires to come off the car Mom will never drive. We tell him not to worry, but he laughs and says, “I don’t have anything else to do.” Mostly he just wants to hear her voice, my Mom’s that is. It’s not the same as being there, not even close.
From bizarre theories to rational analyses, everyone has a Covid opinion to share. I braved an excursion to get some groceries. The masked and gloved woman in line ahead of me pointed to a couple walking by outside the store windows. “Look at them!!” she exclaimed. I looked, not sure what I was supposed to find remarkable. “No masks! Are they crazy?!”
“Well,” I ventured, through my own stuffy face mask, “I don’t wear mine when I’m just walking outside either. Only in stores and such.”
She glared at me. “But it’s in the air!” she said.
I demurred. “I don’t think so.”
“Where do you think it comes from?!” she demanded.
“From other people,” I said.
She snorted and turned away. Clearly I was just one more fool in her books.
She can believe whatever makes her comfortable, but I think if Covid were just flying around in the air, we’d all be sick by now, especially we idiots without face masks outdoors.
We won’t all die from this. Most of us won’t even get sick. And not just because we’ve taken precautions and put restrictions in place. That’s simply how viruses work in a herd. They sicken a lot, kill some, but spare enough to let the herd survive and produce another generation. It’s in the virus’s best interest to let some of us survive. Science. It’s not warm and fuzzy.
This is what Coronavirus has shown me: We are not entitled to special status by virtue of our species designation. We are subject to the same rules as every other species on this planet. As an acquaintance is fond of saying, “We are all a part of the convention of prey.”
Viruses live here, too. We don’t like them any more than we like mosquitoes or poison ivy, but they are a part of the web of life on Earth. The planet doesn’t seem to have been designed with our exclusive comfort in mind.
My father isn’t dying from Covid-19. He has lung cancer. But he’s dying without his family there to help him and hold him because of the Covid restrictions, restrictions that are in place because we fear death, and we particularly fear it on a large scale. If not death itself, we fear the horrific conditions that exist when a plague runs rampant – the overwhelmed hospitals, the inability to keep up with the disposal of dead bodies, the colossal scale of the bereavement in the population that is spared, the cessation of services and the unavailability of goods as so many dead, dying, sick, and traumatized cannot sustain the economy. Pandemics suck. Not being able to sit with my Dad, hold his hand, share these final days – it’s breaking my heart. This protocol goes against the grain. It runs counter to every emotional instinct, every familial and societal convention around dying. It should not be this way. But I understand why it has to be.
I’ve spent several days going through cartons of old photographs and memorabilia. It’s been something to do, a way to pass the hours. He never threw anything away. Our old school report cards, a letter I wrote to him on my new typewriter when I was seven, a postcard from Paris, the instruction manual for a slide rule (seriously, Dad?), photos from the 50’s of my Mom, looking young and wild and gorgeous. Mom’s been reading old letters she wrote to him when they were separated shortly before their wedding because he had to go for work training in Montreal. He kept every one of them. I found a photo of him, lying propped up on one arm in the grass, a cigarette dangling from his lips, imitating James Dean it looks like, or maybe James Dean was art imitating life at the time. I never knew this man, the one who existed before I was born, and now I want to know him more than ever.
I’ve sat in hospitals, sat vigil with the dying. It’s no fun, but I’d give anything to be able to do it now. When this is all over, both my father’s death and the pandemic, I want something better. I hope we’re learning from this. Let’s not just go back to business as usual. Can we take the time to consider what would really help us to live more sanely, to spend more time with our children, to be healthier and more empowered in our communities? Let’s build stronger and more beautiful neighbourhoods. Let’s build a better world. I think Dad could get behind that. If we end up feeling like life wasn’t worth it, there are no refunds.