Day 443

Over the long weekend, New Jersey slashed its capacity rules and tossed its mask mandate. It’s as if the virus has suddenly vanished, as if it is no longer a threat anywhere to anyone. Have people stopped dying? Listening to the news, one might think that is the case, but a simple Google search revealed that it is not. Not many people are dying anymore, but isn’t even one life lost too much? I guess not. To hear everyone cheering the relaxing of the rules confirms how selfish we are. Yes, we are relying heavily on vaccinations at this point, but not everyone can get vaccinated. Children are still vulnerable, but since they don’t die the way adults do, I guess it doesn’t matter if we infect our children. Seriously though, what is the big deal about wearing a mask? Why is it such an issue that you’d rather let people die than simply put a piece of cloth over your face for a little while?

Today, alone, I lost count of how many times I read or heard comments referring to a return to normalcy. But while you are cheering and celebrating this alleged return to the way things were, please be mindful of the the fact that for some of us there will be no such thing. Some of us have had our lives altered so severely, that despite a relaxing of the rules, we will continued to live in an altered reality. Our lives will never be what they were. Our grief will follow us forever, ensuring that our COVID nightmares never go away. You think it was miserable wearing a mask. Well, I think it’s miserable living without Dad. Your mask has gone away. Dad’s absence is here to stay.

Now, if my life, like yours, were returning to normal here is what it would look like. My son and I would have Facetimed Mom and Dad this morning to tell them all about our camping trip. My son would have enthusiastically filled them in on the details of the rain. It’s June, so my son and I would be preparing to head out to Mattituck for a long stretch at the beach this summer with my parents. My son would be looking forward to going to a Mets’ game with Dad. The two of them would be counting down the days until Black Widow opens. I would be calling Dad to seek his advice about where I should go from here. Where should I even begin looking for job? Mom would not be lonely. She and Dad would be eagerly anticipating their 50th wedding anniversary and the cruise they intended to take to celebrate it. But this is not my life. Nor will this ever be my life again. Normal no longer exists.

Instead, my mother wants my help this summer to clean out the Mattituck house so that she can sell it. She is going to get rid of one of the few places I have been truly happy. With no safe place to retreat, I will be further trapped in a state that makes me miserable. Every day Mom’s life feels more and more empty. Her best friend died, and she will never again feel the comfort of his presence. In the last year, she has turned in a ball of anxiety and she now resides in world that contains little happiness. My son lost more than just a grandfather. When Dad died, my son lost the man he loved most, the man who in many ways filled the role of father and provided my son with a positive male role model. There will never again be a special boys outing. And me, well, you know the void Dad’s death left in my life. So please, when you speak of this return to normalcy, remember that I am not the only one living in hell and your words about how wonderful things are now might be hurtful, not only to me, but to the families of the nearly 600,000 Americans who have died.

Just this morning, my son was reading his The Week Junior magazine. In it, he came across a quote from a nine year old girl, “This is me at the beach. We were on vacation visiting my grandparents for the first time since the pandemic. This is me jumping for joy.” My son threw the magazine at the wall and declared, “I hate that kid.” I couldn’t blame him. I hated that kid too, and everyone else who is jumping for joy, completely oblivious to fact that some of us will never again go to the beach with someone we love. When my son calmed down a bit he said, “She didn’t see her grandparents for a  year. What’s the big deal? I’ll never see Grandpa again.” 

And then we went to taekwondo where my son’s instructor made several comments about how good it feels to be back to some level of normalcy. I could see my son shirking into himself because the mention of normalcy was followed by comments about tournaments starting up again. And yes, he is looking forward to competing in-person, but for him normalcy would mean his grandfather being able to fulfill his promise to watch him compete in Districts. It would mean his grandfather watching him, come this fall, test for his second degree black belt. Taekwondo, which usually makes my son happy, left him feeling sad and depressed. I wasn’t surprised he walked off the field several times wanting water or to use the bathroom. Walking away is sometimes the best you can do.

Yep, you may shout you excitement from the rooftops, but please beware that your words, your enthusiasm may trigger a negative response in someone else. Yes, I understand you are happy to be returning to a life you missed. I understand you are happy to see people and participate in actives and go out to lunch. But have you taken a moment to consider the emotions others may be be feeling? Do you understand me?

My life, my son’s life, my mother’s life — and countless other people with losses as great as ours, or greater — will never return to normal. Yes, we will pick up the pieces the best we can. We will attempt to move forward. We will resume actives we enjoy. But COVID will never leave us. The gaping holes we now live with will forever be with us. So next time you can’t control yourself and you exclaim how wonder it is to be back to normal, if some one punches a wall, know that your words probably triggered them and reminded them that they have no place in your celebration. That while you think everything is now okay, not everyone shares your sentiment.