Day 731

Two years ago today, I took some time after my son went to bed to vent about how trying and difficult our first day of remote learning had been. I had no idea when I sat down to complain about our cramped quarters and my hatred of technology that the blog I started would end up telling the story of Dad’s death. My Pandemic Diaries was supposed to last two weeks, maybe a month. It was supposed to be fun. Instead, I probably shed more tears writing it than I ever had before. To say I had no idea of what was to come might not be entirely accurate. I clearly remember, two days earlier going to Taekwondo and talking about my parents who were on a cruise in South America. I said I was worried about them getting back safely and when I spoke, the anxiety in my chest was unlike anything I’d ever felt previously. If my life were a novel, that morning clearly would have foreshadowed the pain that would follow.

Dad’s demise occurred during Lent. It has been years since I’ve gone to church or really followed the church’s calendar. I don’t get ashes or fast. I know the history of Christ’s crucifixion—thirteen years of Catholic school taught me something—but now when we enter the month of March, I walk my own path of pain and remembrance. Perhaps it’s sacrilegious that I think of this time as my own personal Lent or maybe it’s understandable that my mind would process things in a framework that is familiar and makes sense. While the Catholic Church has a series of important days stretching between Ash Wednesday and Easter, I have my own dates that will forever standout and make March and April (once upon a time my favorite month) the most difficult time of year.

March 14: Pi Day. I see posts on Facebook about Pi and that triggers a gut wrenching fear. I’m back in the Taekwondo studio, my son is disappointed that the pie part of Picture and Pie Day has been canceled, and I can’t concentrate on drills because I’m wondering if I’ll ever see my parents again. Who ever would have thought that Pi, which is supposed to be silly and fun, a celebration of math, would be a day that I struggled to get out of bed in the morning.

March 16: My son had gone to bed, and because he had been home all day, I wanted to steal some time for myself to write. Instead of working on the novel I had started, I blogged about our day. For the next three months, I would write every day, charting my story from fear, to hope, to devastation, to healing. 

March 23: Dad falls ill with a fever and I drive into Queens to bring him Tylenol. In all my life, I had never seen him look so bad. But I hoped that the Tylenol would break his fever and that he would begin to recover. Every time I drive over the Verrazano Bridge I relive that night. For me, that bridge will forever represent loss.

March 27: Mom calls me at 4:30 in the morning. A phone call that early never bring good news. Dad was so sick he needed to go to the hospital, and since the ambulance wouldn’t take him into Manhattan, Mom called me. I quickly showered and was in my car, racing back to New York by 5:00. After all this time, I still regret not getting out of the car to give him a hug. But at the time, I didn’t want to believe that it would be my final goodbye.

March 28: The date had been on our calendar for months. My son was supposed to compete in a tournament in New Hampshire, an event that was going to culminate in family reunion that we were all eagerly anticipating. Instead, Dad lay dying in the hospital. Now, every time I write something fun on the calendar I wonder if it will come to pass, or if it will be replaced by something tragic.

April 12: I spent Easter praying my father would get better. I didn’t see my own son because I was sick. We hoped we could delay Easter dinner until Dad came home to share it with us. Easter used to be my favorite holiday, now I would rather forget it exists. This year, Easter will be more painful. My son is dreading it. Every year since he was born—minus the year Dad was dying—we spent Easter out in Mattituck. But Mom sold the house. How will we celebrate Easter without Dad and without being in Long Island? I’d rather skip the day completely, but I can’t because it wouldn’t be fair to leave Mom home alone. Hunting Easter Eggs here won’t be the same. I’m going to miss hiding the plastic eggs outside along with the presents the Easter Bunny brought my son. I’m going to miss a trip to the beach and playing dominoes with Dad. I hate the thought of Easter and the promise of a rebirth that never occurred. 

April 14: Dad died. That was the end. The Bible was obviously written in a Hollywood Studio because Jesus didn’t really die. His followers had a happy ending. We did not. Yeah, I know what you’re going to say, that the resurrection is for everyone and that Dad’s probably sipping a cocktail with Jesus on a beach somewhere, but fairytales are for children, not me.

Two years ago Dad was coming home from his vacation. My son couldn’t wait to see him. Two years later, he’s still waiting, a wait that will now last an eternity. The New York Public Library System is hosting a memorial for the Queens COVID victims at the library in Elmhurt. Elmhurst is fitting, because it was the Elmhurst hospital that first became overrun with COVID patients. They didn’t have enough beds or ventilators and patients were dying in the hallways. That’s the hospital the ambulance would have taken my father to. My mother wanted something better, which is why I took him to Columbia Presbyterian. In the end, it didn’t really matter. He still died. I wish I could go to the Memorial. A friend told me Dad’s picture hangs in room that is peaceful. But I can’t because the hours don’t work for me. But there is comfort in knowing Dad is being memorialized in a library. He loved read. He enjoyed books. The library is a perfect place for him.

Two years ago today, my son had his first day of remote learning. It did not go well for many reasons. Dad’s death made it impossible. My son had no interest in learning. I had no desire to do much of anything, and found it too difficult to make sure he was doing his lessons. He did the bare minimum because the school had already decided no one would fail for the year. The following September, we pulled him out of school and I homeschooled him. I loosely followed the district curriculum except in English where I did my own thing. I’m glad I did because my son’s writing developed to the point where he could write higher level papers and he even produced a short story that he was able to publish. He now reads well about grade level and his vocabulary is beyond that of his peers. But last month, I made the mistake of consenting to send him back to school. He missed having friends and he wanted to spend his days with kids his own age. His reasons for wanting to go back were perfectly legitimate. But he has now been back for an entire month and he’s hardly learned anything.

Seeing how little my son is doing in school, I’m not surprised that so many students fail the state tests. We asked that he be placed in 7th grade ELA (English/Reading). His reading scores and his writing ability justified this request, but the principal refused. Instead, she promised that his teacher would differentiate his instruction so that he would continue to grow as both a reader and a writer. We have not seen this materialize. Yes, his teacher is differentiating some of his work, but what she is asking him to do neither he nor I can figure it out. I have asked her to provide me with an example, a model of the type of essay, she expects him to produce weekly, but she is yet to give me one. I am an avid reader and a writer, and I don’t understand the framework of what she wants him to do. But that is not my only complaint. She wants him to write essays weekly, but there is no revision process, no editing or fixing mistakes. How is that helpful to a student? Practice does not make perfect. Practice makes permanent. There are other things she wants the students to do, formulas she expects them to follow. I don’t understand the need for a formula, especially for a student who is already capable of writing independently. I’ve sent several emails, asking the purpose of certain activities, but my questions are rarely answered directly. I don’t object to a teacher making my son work, what I object to is busy work or work that is given to check a certain box. Writing successfully in the real world is not about formulas or conformity. But at least the ELA teacher is teaching. She’s at least making the students do something which is more than I can say for the other teachers.

I spent the last eighteen months defending teachers because I saw how hard my spouse was working. But now, I totally understand why parents are pissed off and why people think teachers are over paid. After a month of being in school, my son has not learned anything in math. Every day, he comes home and says he spent math class doing Kahoot, some kind of online program. He’s in honors math, and he hasn’t moved on to a new chapter since he started school. The classes are 80 minutes. How is it that the teacher isn’t teaching? And he hasn’t had any homework. Why? I guess because homework is supposed to be a way to practice new material. But if he isn’t getting anything new, there is nothing to practice. And yes, my spouse is beyond angry. She is burning out but she still shows up and teaches every day. Isn’t her son entitled to teacher who does the same?

As for history, I don’t understand how his teacher still has a job. All she does every day is play youtube videos about Egypt and occasionally, she’ll show them a CNN 10 video. Why is my son going to school to watch television? And yes, I can complain because I absolutely without a doubt could do that woman’s job far more effectively. I can’t get a job because I cost too much, but this woman is getting paid to do absolutely nothing. Anyone could do her job. They don’t need a degree to press play. On the assignment, my son lost ten points for one question, not because the answer was wrong—I sure couldn’t find anything wrong with it and neither could the teacher—but because he didn’t use the standard formula which would have made the answer redundant. And when I researched the formula, this new program they are using, it turns out it was meant for elementary students. My son is in MIDDLE SCHOOL. If students are unable to work at a middle school level they should have been held back. Middle school teachers should be operating on a middle school level. The lack of education occurring in the public school is inexcusable. 

Two years! It’s hard to believe. But decades could pass, and March will still bring darkness.