Day 378

Friday, I woke up so dizzy and nauseous I couldn’t even stand up. I almost never miss my morning workout, but I simply could not get out of bed. When I finally forced myself up to go to the bathroom, I threw up. My head felt like it had been used in a soccer match. The pounding was unbearable. I hadn’t been that sick since I had COVID, and since I was experiencing some of the same symptoms, I was worried. The last thing I wanted was another bout with the virus, especially after we have been so damn careful. However, despite my concerns, I also figured it was more likely that my emotional state was manifesting itself in a physical manner. March 26 — the day I couldn’t get out of bed — was the one year anniversary of the day I knew for certain Dad was really ill. The day his voice wasn’t his and I feared something awful. The day I begged him to let me take him to the hospital and he refused. Emotionally, the last several weeks have been difficult. If I weren’t homeschooling my son, I probably wouldn’t have gotten out of bed at all. And the added stress of obnoxious and rude neighbors and other selfish unkind people I’ve had to deal with didn’t help.

My spouse offered to stay home. But our son is old enough that he can operate at least semi-independently. He can boil water and use the toaster oven unsupervised — but only when we are somewhere in the house. As for school, since we have finished the standard curriculum and are operating now mostly on an independent study model, he didn’t need me hovering. He is revising two writing pieces — one for social studies and one for English class. Since I had commented extensively on both drafts, he was able to work on the revisions by himself. When he had questions, he knew where to find me — in bed, trying to ignore the sun coming through my windows. For reading, he sat next to me and we discussed the latest chapter in Hunger Games. As for math, he only needed to complete a chapter review which was easy enough for him and didn’t require me to teach a lesson. The day ended early since I didn’t have the strength or mental capacity to do anything, but he didn’t complain about that. When the work was done, I managed to move into the living room where I exchanged a bed for the couch. The newest episode of The Falcon and the Wither Soldier was out so of course we had to watch it. It was fantastic. I can’t believe I’ve become so enthralled with Marvel. When it was over, we watched Pirates of the Caribbean: Dead Man’s Chest. It’s homework. My son has to watch the Pirates of the Caribbean movies in preparation for an upcoming essay.

For dinner, my spouse made chicken soup. I know, I don’t eat meat or much meat, but it was chicken soup, my mother’s recipe, and everyone knows chicken soup is the best medicine when you are sick. My only fear was that I might not be able to keep it down since I had hardly eaten anything all day. But not only did I keep it down, I woke up on Saturday feeling almost completely better. Which proved it wasn’t COVID, only a physical manifestation of my internal turmoil.

Saturday — March 27 — was the anniversary of the second worst day of my life. The last time I ever saw my father. The day Mom called and woke me up at 4:30 in the morning, asking me to please take Dad to the hospital. We expected him to die that night. He didn’t. In the morning, he rallied, but he only held on for 19 days. This year, was better day — minus the agonizing memories. The regret that still hangs over me, the regret that I never hugged Dad goodbye.

My son competed in another virtual tournament. Just before the tournament started, the wifi in his taekwondo school cut out. His instructor got it back up but it pooped out again. Anxiety tore my son apart. It’s the last thing he needed before competing. Since the wifi in the school wasn’t cooperating we couldn’t rely on the school’s computer and camera. Therefore, we logged into Zoom using my phone. It wasn’t ideal. I didn’t actually get to see my son perform his traditional form or his weapons form. Nor could I take pictures as I usually do. Instead, I was trying to hold the phone at an angle that enabled the judges to see him best. I also had to make sure I kept him in frame. But the screen was so small, that to me, he didn’t look like much more than a white dot with a black stripe bouncing up and down. Obviously though, I did my job well enough. My son placed first in both events. The first time he’s ever done so. As a result, he continues to be ranked number one in the virtual world in weapons. Walking out to the car, my son smiled and said, “I really think Grandpa was with me in spirit today. He seems to be with me more and more.” To celebrate his victory, he and I biked to Rita’s and I bought him a cherry ice — his choice.

Today, my son and I drove into Queens to pick up Mom. We then had to run some Easter errands — we had to pick up chocolate and bunny breads — errands Dad should have been running. Errands that depressed me because Dad wasn’t here to do them. Errands that I wouldn’t have run at all except Mom and I can’t cancel Easter because my son is looking forward to it. Once the errands were complete, we drove to Mattituck. All day the weather was a mirror to my mood. The rain matched my depression. It’s going to be a long week. And for once, being in Long Island might make me feel worse instead of better. But my son asked if we could please have one last Easter at the beach house. I couldn’t say no. But being out here for Easter there are so many reminders of Dad’s absence. This will be the hardest holiday. Not only is it the time of year Dad died, it also used to be my favorite holiday. Besides, Thanksgiving and Christmas were only one day each. Easter always stretched out over a long weekend. Dad took us to the beach. He took us out to dinner on Holy Saturday. He took my son to the town Easter Egg Hunt. We played dominoes. So instead of it being one intense day of missing, it will be many.

(I hit 200,000 words tonight in the Pandemic Diaries. Not bad for a year in which I feel I haven’t written much or been productive.)