Waiting for “Do You Believe In Madness?” to begin, just a couple days before the state of Illinois went into lockdown.
A year ago today, I went to Target to find empty shelves but somehow managed to grab one of the last packages of toilet paper. I felt like I’d won the lottery.
A year ago today, my mother-in-law was in town for a rare visit, and my three-year-old daughter eagerly escorted her to a beloved store: a rock shop with dinosaur fossils in the basement. My daughter, now four, hasn’t been inside of a store since.
A year ago today, I was coming down from the high of a rare post-child outing: my husband and I caught a show at The Second City. It was their last revue before they, like other theaters, shut down.
A year ago today, we were realizing that adventure would be our last for awhile. That even though we had so many plans for places to take my mother-in-law — and places to go at night while she babysat our daughter — our options quickly narrowed to nil.
In fact: she had flown in on my birthday a couple days prior, a time now forever marred in my head as “the beginning of the end.” We were worried about her flight, the airport, all of it. The virus seemed to be airborne but much was still unknown, and masks weren’t yet the norm.
She quarantined in our home for two weeks before going to stay with my mother, who was chronically ill but refusing to move in with us no matter how much I pleaded. She welcomed a visit from my mother-in-law, however, and saw it as an opportunity to get to know someone previously separated by a continent. At the time, we saw it as a light in the dark. My mom, still grieving from the recent death of my father, would have company for a few weeks. But not just any company: a talented chef who knew how to cook a liver-healthy diet so we could hopefully slow my mother’s decline while we battled to get her on a transplant list.
My mother, like us, had so many things she wanted to share with my mother-in-law. People to get to know, waterfalls to observe, antique stores to shop. We had planned on spending weekends and holidays with them, but everything shut down, social distancing was a mandate, and all of those options drifted away. They were alone in a house. We were alone in an apartment 160 miles away. Everyone was alone, and though we video chatted every day just as we had done before, we longed desperately for it all to end.
We thought that if we wore our masks and kept our distance, the virus would have nowhere to go. That after three months of hardship the world would re-open and normal life would resume. But we hadn’t accounted for widespread resistance to safety measures, and this thing just dragged on and on and on and...
It was discouraging, but my mom never gave up. I continued to coordinate her transplant evaluation appointments, though many were postponed indefinitely and others were switched to telehealth visits (a true obstacle for my technologically challenged mother, but she was determined). When in-person appointments resumed, I drove her to several but kept my distance (and my mask on). And then she made the transplant list and the world felt so much brighter again. We were on the right path, and we made plans to move our bubble and stay with her post-transplant. But the light was a mirage, and the closer we got to reality, the more it dimmed. My mother never got to hug my daughter again. The last time she saw me, I was wearing a KN95 mask under a cloth cover. It was red with white birds, their wings spread mid-flight.
Her last conscious moments were with strangers in an ambulance. Their objective: to take her home to die. I asked to ride with her, but it violated COVID protocol. They told me she asked for water but they couldn’t give her any. She fell asleep soon thereafter and never woke up.
I see her face every time I wear that mask. I think of how thirsty she must have been every time I take a sip of water. I think of her, and how desperately she fought to outlive the pandemic (“So I can hug my grandkids again”), every time I look at the box that holds her ashes.
Some day, we will have a funeral for her and a proper burial for both of my parents. Some day, we will gather again with the people who remain, but we will do so knowing that a return to “normal” is a luxury well beyond our reach. That while the world slowly re-opens and the universe breaths a collective sigh of relief, those of us who suffered loss during the pandemic will be tasked with rebuilding our lives like a contractor building a house without nails.
It is essential that we continue on – and we will – but our world will be new and unfamiliar. We will be charting foreign land in our own backyard, every step forward weighted by memory and lifted by hope.
