How I get to say goodbye: how every second counts during the coronavirus crisis.
Dear Bill,
we did not get to say goodbye, so this diary/memorial is for you.
CDC indicates that individuals should wash their hands for at least 20 seconds.
“To make a number last for a second, say Mississippi after it” (Physical Science Study Committee, Physics (1960), p. 20).
1 Mississippi, 2 Mississippi, 3 Mississippi …
We wash our hands thoroughly in this bizarre ritual that helps us fight the virus. These days are full of strange precautions repeated multiple times: disinfect everything you bring in the house! Do not put a product you’ve touched back on the shelves! Keep distance from people! Stay away from public places! etc. The repetitions make them rituals, and the days become surreal.
… 4 Mississippi, 5 Mississippi …
Since I started a job in a new location, my husband and I live away from both our families. This isolates us in our own microcosm of existence, increasing the sense of alienation.
My family lives in Italy. The news we received from there got worse day after day. Skype is our best friend now. We began to end conversations with trite recommendations, more and more urgent as the death toll rose: do not visit your elderly friends, do not go grocery-shopping unless strictly necessary, have food delivered, wash your hands often, wear a mask. They started to sound like the words of a new, creepy lullaby.
… 6 Mississippi, 7 Mississippi …
Modern technologies help: I can work remotely and can keep in touch with lifelong friends near and far. I videocall former colleagues and sisters of my heart in Milan (Lombardy, Italy), Vancouver (B.C., Canada), and Padua (Veneto, Italy). Our outstretched hands in front of the camera create a germ-free, contact-less hug that, although virtual, feels real.
… 8 Mississippi, 9 Mississippi …
The days begin to feel countless. It seems March 95th, or the 16th month of a year that just keeps going and does not want to end. We tried looking at the silver lining: more free time for us, more time in a comfy hoodie at home, more time to practice hobbies, to exercise, more time … just MORE TIME. I cooked vegetables, pasta, soups, prepared lessons, graded essays and tests, watched TV, practiced yoga and meditation. It does not feel like a vacation. Every activity is designed to provide a false sense of tranquility, of “everyday life”, of routine, a distraction from the nagging worry that something truly tragic and with far-reaching consequences is happening and is affecting us all. It is the calm before the storm, or waiting for the other shoe to drop. It is a waiting game, but nobody wins.
… 10 Mississippi, 11 Mississippi …
The situation starts worsening in the U.S. too. Not just my friends and family in Italy live in a hot spot now, my husband’s family does as well. When someone falls ill, positivity to the virus is the first question asked. News about friends showing compatible symptoms spread. We thought we had to worry about our loved ones in Italy; it turns out that we need to worry about our dear ones here in the U.S. too. We add more names to our daily prayers. We both have elderly parents and elderly family members. I begin having nightmares of ransacked supermarkets and empty pantries, of food and money getting stolen.
… 12 Mississippi, 13 Mississippi …
We try to adapt to (and accept) the new normal. To carve out spaces of serenity and calm in the general crippling anxiety. You never know if or when we would get a phone call that will irreparably change our lives, although it seems more a matter of WHEN than if. We contact our families in Italy and in a different U.S. State daily, and it sounds like a war bulletin.
We sunbathe in our little balcony, taking advantage of the incoming warm weather. The virus robbed us of human physical contact and of our planned trip to Italy this summer; now it is stealing our chance to enjoy the good weather, the nice season.
… 14 Mississippi, 15 Mississippi …
In the afternoon my husband receives a call from his father, Bill. I remember my husband almost not reaching his phone in time, as he left it in another room. The phone just kept ringing. Bill had fallen at home and needed to go to the hospital. In the middle of a pandemic. He, an elderly person, in one of the most likely places where to catch the virus.
… 16 Mississippi, 17 Mississippi …
Meaningless days slowly pass by, unhurried and thick with anxiety as molasses. The doctors run tests, results are “inconclusive”, Bill gets worse, no, wait, today he is doing better, he responds to physical therapy, no, this morning he was too tired, wait, he may have a fracture somewhere on the spine, he may need surgery, no he won’t need surgery… One thing for sure: his coronavirus test came back negative.
The hospital placed restrictions for visiting. Even if we lived in the same city, we would not be allowed to visit him. The university city where we lived had just issued a “stay at home” on March 21st, around 10 days before the entire State adopted that measure. The phone becomes our only contact with him and our lifeline. In the meanwhile, I see my students on zoom and it is both heartwarming and bittersweet to see their familiar faces but within a completely foreign setting. We cannot do normal group activities since my students are scattered all over the U.S., not in the classroom a few seats away. Oral exams take place through zoom, presentations are uploaded online. We make it work.
Later news about my father-in-law are encouraging. The doctors talk about discharging Bill to a structure that offers physical therapy. A facility nearby becomes available to host him.
We draw a breath of relief and start planning his convalescence and our visit to him. We reassure my family in Italy about Bill’s conditions. I cook zucchini with white wine, plan next week’s lessons, and work on setting up a test online, battling with the darn software that is the least user-friendly program ever conceived in human history.
… 18 Mississippi, 19 Mississippi …
And then the nurses call the family to Bill’s bedside. His conditions degenerated suddenly on the day he was supposed to leave the hospital. We live too far away to reach him in time. We hope against all odds that it is a false alarm. I desperately try to focus on work: keeping up with the scheduled program, advertising Minors and extra-curricular activities, moving forward after the Coronapocalypse …
And then, just like that, Bill passed away, around 8pm, from a fall at home, in the middle of a pandemic.
In a moment, all our worst fears coagulated to form a giant rock that crashed our reality, dissipated the fog of vague anxiety, and left in its wake roaring waves of loss, shock, and pain, pain, thundering and blistering pain.
… 20 Mississippi.
The pandemic robbed us of our chance to say I love you and goodbye to Bill and see him one last time.
So here it is to you Bill:
To the talented and skillful musician who performed with country music stars the caliber of Conway Twitty, Dolly Parton, Waylon Jennings, Kenny Rogers, Buck Owens (Hee Haw TV show) and many others.
To the brave veteran who drove tanks and served overseas in the army.
To the formidable school bus driver who safely delivered to school multiple generations of students in his 38 year-long career. To the devout deacon who set a true example of Christian faith and moral conduct. To a beloved member of a close-knit community.
To the lover who eloped with his sweetheart. To the funny friend whose quick wit and sense of humor always brightened everyone’s day. To the kind man who raised a pet squirrel, fed the birds, saved a family of bunny rabbits from the lawnmower, raised several generations of kittens in his backyard, and lovingly took care of our parrot Sonny when we were away.
To the countryman who loved the outdoors and was the happiest perched on top of his lawnmower, tending to his beloved lawn.
To the sweet man who called his fluffy kittens “woolly buggers”, our parrot “my buddy”, used the Southern expression “reckon”, and typically exclaimed “oh boy” when something good was about to happen. Who always made sure to tell us to drive safely and be careful when we were coming home and that he loved us.
To the father, father-in-law, grandparent and great-grandparent who loved his family fiercely, first and foremost. To the man who welcomed me in his family making me feel like his own daughter. To the man whose mannerism reminded me of my own father, so much so that I often joked that he was the American counterpart of my dad. To the man who raised my husband by being a clear example of moral integrity, hard work, and love.
Bill, you will be sorely missed by everyone who knew you. The world without you is less bright.
With Lots of Love, Elisa
Leave A Comment