Tag: covid

In Lieu of Hugs

It was hard to say goodbye to loved ones without tight embraces enveloping whispered assurances

Memories cannot make up for absent hugs.

It’s Tuesday evening, time to write, but the page stares at me. We are in Chicago, arriving a few days ago to spend the weekend with family celebrating our granddaughter LLJ’s first birthday. Her extended maternal family flew in from Canada. Our son and his wife, sharing an Airbnb with family, offered us their condo. The family lines blur as we greet each other and get reacquainted. The girls who were children at the last visit are now graceful teens. This is the first time meeting the three-year-old girl, having watched her grow on Facebook. She invites us to stay in the Airbnb. Another baby, a boy in this field of estrogen. just weeks younger than LLJ offers another perspective on infancy.

With so many people around there was little chance for 1:1 time with LLJ. We held back, allowing those from greater distances and fewer chances for interaction to take their share. We would celebrate on her actual birth date after the “Canadians” returned home.  

Then Covid bit one more time, a sore throat suggesting SD take a home test and revealing the presence of the virus. The plans for a light supper and cake at C-boy and P-DiL’s home were scrapped in favor of sandwiches at the park on this beautiful early spring day. However, caution against the virus was high preempting hugs and demanding a modicum of social distancing.

We leave tomorrow. My eyes drank in the beauty of my family. Usually my son’s hugs recall his devotion to his mother as an eight-year-old. My daughter-in-law’s beautiful hair warms my face. Without the embraces, I imagined the baby’s fresh smell of soft skin and the strong arms of my little boy, sensed the warm silkiness of P-diL’s hair.

It was hard to say goodbye to loved ones without tight embraces enveloping whispered assurances. There are plans for us to return in four weeks for another family celebration. But Life is not guaranteed. For now, memories must serve.

Death surrounds me

I now buy sympathy cards in a value pack, knowing that I will use the dozen within a few months. I also know that someday, someone may use a card for me.

Larry was the tallest and served as our beacon

Thank you, Zoom

We Zoomed as we had done weekly for several months, bolstering our strong bonds during the pandemic. One couple in Michigan, one in the Chicago suburbs, and we in Arizona. After Christmas, the Michigan couple retreated to Florida to escape the harsh winter. Our weekly banter covered the obligatory health updates (we allowed no talk of bowels), family updates, then lots of laughter.

Three weeks ago today we Zoomed as we had done weekly for several months. Last night, one of us died.

So close

We were so close to safety, the COVID vaccine the carrot on the stick. Afflicted by an autoimmune disorder, Larry did not qualify to receive the magic potion, but would be safe as people around him became immune. When the virus attacked, his body, unable to form antibodies, succumbed quickly to the deadly enemy. No one was prepared. He was on vacation. Who dies on vacation?

His widow Pat (No! She is crabby old Aunt Pat, not Widow Pat), faces a new life. She must return home alone, to a beautiful house designed and tended by Larry, with no Larry. How does she return to the community in which Larry was a driving force?

Of the three couples, Pat and Larry were the most “couple”, their interests and temperaments aligned. The rest of us were goslings.

Death surrounds me

Earlier this week, brain cancer took our good friend Frank whose smile and gentle manner will be remembered as long as we live. He and his wife Sharon were also a couple, perfect for each other.  

Word came of the death of a friend’s ex. Although not a part of our recent history, he was a part of our story. He had been in our home. His DNA was deposited in our midst.

Another friend lost her husband today to a long fight against Crohn’s disease. I had never met him, but love his wife dearly. I grieve for his struggle and her lonely journey.

That’s four this week. Death surrounds me. I look forward to freedom from COVID but feel as if I am plodding through dead bodies. The sorrow is heavy.

Facing mortality

When my mother lived independently at a retirement center, she commented that friendships were difficult because people disappeared so often. Some died. Some moved out to live with their children. Others departed with no explanation. Attendance in the dining room served as a daily tally.

Pandemic or not, we are at an age at which we face mortality, the greatest surprise and mystery of our lifetime. Weeks pass without loss, then, as this past week, we are reminded that death is lurking nearby.

I now buy sympathy cards in a value pack, knowing that I will use the dozen within a few months. I also know that someday, someone may use a card for me.

Brain fuzz

Today my body is feeling better. A little movement and a lot of rest. But most needed is kindness.

Two confirmed cases of COVID in the house sent all of us scurrying to isolation in our corners. The frustrations of seeking to get tested quickly so that Mike could continue caring for his sister exacerbated our own symptoms of cold and/or sinus infections.

Word of another case of COVID in the neighborhood, a good friend’s trip to the ER with COVID pneumonia, plus the death of a mother at the end of the street heightened our anxiety and anger at the mismanagement of this pandemic.

Non-COVID, a friend took the brave step to call in hospice for her husband. Then word reached me of the death of a onetime close friend. To cancer, almost two years ago. Ironically, I had been thinking of her often in the past two weeks.

Waiting

The long hoped-for vaccine is unavailable for our age group with no projected date announced. Again, rumors of mismanagement dominate.

I am concerned about my daughter and grandson’s health, listening throughout the day for signs of distress.

Managing stress

How does this affect fitness? My friend Mary paints when overwhelmed. Painting furniture, that is. Nothing in her house escapes her Fusion Mineral Paint brush. When she runs out of projects, she picks up another man’s trash from the street. I am waiting for pictures of her painting her husband because there is nothing left.

Me. I want to curl up in bed. I finally walked from the mailbox the other day, and it felt good. It also made me realize how poorly I had been feeling and reminded me to be kinder to myself. As my sister shares tales of her pickle ball, tennis, and hiking adventures, I long for the energy to trim the roses and feel blessed when I can complete a mini morning salutation.

My bed calls me.

Brain fuzz

My brain feels fuzzy and distracted. Completing some quick projects yesterday felt remarkable. Taking part in a writing group last night highlighted my distraction.

Kindness

Today my body is feeling better. A little movement and a lot of rest.

But most needed is kindness.

Waiting

Although sharing a house means that everyone is relegated to separate rooms during isolation, there is joy in knowing my family is close.

She appears so quiet and calm at first glance—the wife of a Parisian wine vendor, focused on her knitting, self-contained and self-sufficient. But looks can be deceiving. Inside the quiet woman is a seething cauldron of suppressed rage, hatred, and vengefulness, just waiting for the right moment to boil over and scald everything in its path.

GINA DALFONZO

The crown

Blue Boys visit with the school nurse resulted in his exile to home and quarantine with possible COVID-19, coronavirus. The crown, I call it.

Although the initial saliva tests came back negative for both Blue Boy and ED, swab tests two days later confirmed a positive diagnosis. Which means that we are all trying to isolate in what is essentially a group home.

Now we wait.

Mike and I have both had sinus congestion, mine somewhat worse with a cough. Overall, though, I have been less uncomfortable than with my annual cold/bronchitis. Thanks to the great American way, we weren’t able to schedule a rapid results test for three days. Evidently there is a shortage of kits.

So we wait.

What does it mean that an image of Madame Defarge from A Tale of Two Cities haunts me? Knitting, knitting. But I am waiting, waiting. It has been a long time since reading that epic, but I imagine her possessing a restlessness that fuels endless and convicting knitting. Gee, wish I could knit. Whom would I convict?

And wait some more.

We are all feeling restless. We are done with 2020. And we are done with endless waiting, much of it unnecessary, the result of power struggles benefiting few and harming many.  

The good news.

Although sharing a house means that everyone is relegated to separate rooms during isolation, there is joy in knowing my family is close. As Mowgli, who is symptom free, passed through the kitchen, a spark of love popped up in my heart. That spark that makes waiting tolerable.