This year is the first year I've not spent Easter morning in church, in Windsor with my family - my parents, my siblings, my own children. Covid19 has certainly changed the world, our ways of living, our ways of relating to others, our ways of celebrating both life and death. Every day, a new statistic of the number of positive cases and number of deaths bombards us. News media sites hail grim stories of countries losing more lives, articles critical of certain political leaders, first hand accounts from the front line medical staff of how dangerously quick this virus can attack a human. Small businesses are likely unable to survive the emergency measures shuttering non-essential operations, certain races are more likely to suffer greater losses due to poverty, lack of medical insurance or simply because they are considered to be "essential" workers, often in the service industry paying low wages. Nothing is more heartbreaking than the knowledge that many are dying alone, unable to feel the ungloved touch of a loved one, or hear the whisper of a final goodbye.
For the past month, I've been filled with gratitude at having the ability to carry out my job at home, and not worry about whether or not I need to defer a mortgage payment or wonder if I could feed my children, or how to get to a food bank. I am extremely fortunate that my spouse is also able to work from home. Although many days I've nearly torn my hair out at the chaos of having all the children at home, and setting up "my office" at the dinner table between the two younger ones and their Chromebooks is simply a recipe for insanity, I remind myself that other children in my own neighbourhood have to share a laptop to access their daily on-line class work. Having to answer or read yet another math question again and work through it, or counting out the beat for piano practice, I am reminded again why I never pursued a career in education. We've lost track of the days of the week, and it's looking like I'll have to add "barber" to my list of talents soon. Like many, the first few days of the social distancing and stay at home was filled with family board games and lots of baking, but now, it's a daily battle to get the kids out the door for fresh air and pry them from the video games.
At this point, it doesn't appear we're close to "flattening the curve" or even the "peak" of this pandemic. The bureaucrats are stating many more weeks of social distancing, and I'm betting school is not happening on May 4. Standing in line at the grocery store is becoming routine, and now there's another email informing summer hockey is cancelled. Who knows when life will return to "normal" or if it ever will.
As for many, it's been difficult to be far away from family. Never more so than now. I am fortunate that my mother has both my brother and sister nearby.
This past year has been difficult for all of to navigate - trying to understand this grief process, to be supportive of each other whilst struggling with our own sadness and missing our Dad so much. Each birthday or holiday is bittersweet. Sometimes the memories of past celebrations is almost too much to bear. At the birth of Wellesley, Dad's 10th grandchild - all I could think of was how happy he would have been to meet him. Yet I know he's been watching from heaven, smiling and beaming with pride. He's also likely shaking his head with a grin, calling Devlin's arm flexing "mosquito bites".
But with this covid19 pandemic gripping our world this year, I am thankful, in an odd way, that we lost our Dad last year. (I hate that term "lost", but I know where he is, and it's not like we misplaced him.) With every story I read about the limited number of ICU beds and ventilators in our country, and decisions being made as to which patient should receive possibly life-saving treatment, I have to stop myself from going down the road of what-ifs. What if Dad had gone into cardiac arrest this year? Would the doctors have listened to my family saying don't stop trying to save him? What if there wasn't a bed available in the ICU? What if the doctors decided my dad - a man of God, a loving husband, a survivor, an idealist, a dreamer, a father and grandfather - didn't get a ventilator? What if only one or two family members were allowed to be with him? What if hospice wasn't an option? What if? What if? I have to stop because I don't want to even consider the scenarios.
Rather, I want to reflect on the generous time we were given to hope and pray for my Dad, to hold his hand, to hug him, to love him, to sing to him, to gather as a family, to encircle him with love. To be given the precious opportunity to express our gratitude to him for being a strong role model, our cheerleader always, father and grandfather, to pray with him, to love him and hold onto him. To touch him without gloves. It seems like a luxury today that we were all given those weeks to prepare, somewhat, for that final moment. And for that gift, I am thankful.
