Day 353

I have reached my breaking point. I am completely falling apart. The last time it was March and I was writing, Dad was dying. Since last year, COVID had taken:

• My Dad

• My Health

• My Job

• My Mother’s Happiness

I think losing any one of the top three would have put my over the edge, but combined, it’s too much. And no matter where I look, no matter where I go, there are constant reminders. There is no escape. Memories of Dad’s death are everywhere, and the virus is still very much in news, still very much a part of everyday life. And I can’t escape. I can’t go anywhere because no job means no money. I can’t even get in the car with my son and just drive for a week or two to escape the world, and the crush of my emotions. I can’t afford hotels, or gas, not to mention entrance fees to places that G3 would love to see. As for my health, every time I go for a walk I’m reminded that my lungs have taken a major hit. I used to be able to hike for hours, now I walk up one hill and I’m huffing and puffing.

Earlier in the week, my son had his first virtual Boy Scout meeting. He found this acceptable because he is able to keep himself on mute and the camera off. It’s like he isn’t even there, except he can hear everything. New parents were asked to dial in as well so that we could attend the orientation. The man running it said he hopes some of us would consider being leaders or helping out when possible. The catch is volunteers are asked to pay an extra fee. Yeah, the parents who what to be involved, the parents who are willing to give their time for their child are asked to pay more money than the parents who rather maintain a hands off approach. My anger surged. I was infuriated. COVID stole my job. I am unemployed. I have no money — none, zero, zip. But I have time. Yet, in order to participate there is a fee. Why isn’t this fee passed onto the boys whose parents refuse to volunteer? Maybe since they don’t want to be bothered giving their time, and they expect others to do for their kids, they should pay a little more money. Yes, my anger was a bit extreme. The first sign this week that I have reached my breaking point. 

When I got off the phone, after I put my son to bed, I wanted so badly to talk to my father. He had gone on Boy Scout trips for years with my brother. And it would have been really cool to talk to him about it. But he’s dead and so I cried. I cried so much I couldn’t even write. And that night I barely slept. Every time I started to drift off to sleep, I found myself trying to get to my dad. I’d call and the line would disconnect. Or I’d get in the car and traffic would completely stop. I couldn’t get over the bridge. All night, I continuously woke myself up frantic that I couldn’t get to Dad. The next day, I was cranky and miserable because I was so tired.

What infuriates me most are the people who are whining that they can’t go to the movies, or have a wedding reception, or hang out in their favorite bar. How dare they complain about missing things for a year, when what I’ve lost I’ll never regain? I’m also infuriated by the the push to open schools. Parents are pissed off that schools are closed, they are bitching about the fact that they have to watch their own kids. Seriously, how goddamn selfish can you get. You don’t want to be bothered with your kids so you are pushing teachers to work in unhealthy conditions. Maybe parents should be forced to spend a few hours in a COVID ward in the hospital. Perhaps that would give them an indication of how awful the virus can be. Instead of complaining, they should be happy that the pandemic hasn’t killed anyone in their families, grateful that they get to spend more time with their children. Why do parents act like they are getting punished when they have to babysit their own kids. If they hate caring for their own kids so much, why did they have them in the first place? And it’s only a year. Soon things will bounce back to they way there were. Soon, peoples’ lives will resume, return to what they once were. At least people who were lucky, those who aren’t grieving or living with the debilitating effects of COVID.

When the pandemic ends, my lungs won’t automatically start working properly again. My father won’t resurrect so that he can keep his promise and take my son to Disney. Maybe I’ll find another job, but it may take awhile before colleges start hiring adjuncts. If all you really want is to go see the next Marvel movie in the theater and then grab a beer with friends, I think you can wait. Waiting won’t kill you. Eventually, it will happen.

But some states are saying, “Fuck you world,” and lifting their mask mandates while doing away with all restrictions. People are going to die. I can’t tell you how much this irresponsible and selfish behavior pisses me off. Thanks to Trump’s lies, my father never had a chance to protect himself. And now, we know how deadly the virus is but Texas and Mississippi are say, “We don’t care if you die. We only want to make sure you have the freedom to go out and get that cold beer while teachers provide the free daycare you are literally willing to kill for.” Yep, parents, you are literally willing to kill in order not to have to care for your own kids. What a messed up world we live in.

And if I haven’t lost enough already, yesterday, I started packing up my room in the Mattituck house. That’s been my room, my space, my happy place for thirty years. I found tee shirts from high school, letters from college friends, a card from my ex-boyfriend. From the wall, I took the parchment painting my parents bought me in Egypt less than a year before Dad died. There are so many memories tucked into the crevices of that place. So let me revise. COVID has taken:

• My Dad

• My Health

• My Job

• My Mother’s Happiness

• My Summer Home/ My Sanctuary

I won’t ask if things can get worse. That question only welcomes disaster.

This afternoon, my son and I drove to Queens to spend a couple days with Mom. When we got here, she asked me to please upload the pictures from Dad’s camera. Pictures from the trip that killed him. I had to rummage in his desk drawer for a cable to connect the phone to the computer. Part of me hoped I wouldn’t find one. But I did. And as the pictures uploaded and I saw my dad smiling and happy in Patagonia I cried again, tears forming puddles on the kitchen counter. 

And of course my son and my mother still can’t seem to get along. They get on each other’s nerves leaving me — constantly — to have to mediate between them, and I’m tired it. I don’t have the energy because as I’ve already said, I’m done. I’ve hit my breaking point and I can’t take any more. I am completely crushed.