Mama – Day 80

Forty times two. That’s where I am.  My period of being tested has doubled, but it doesn’t matter if I pass, because survival won’t bring back my dad. According to the Biblical stories, after forty days you either pass or fail, but the testing ends. Not for me. Daddy’s dead. The pandemic rages on. I continue to drift aimlessly on an indifferent current uncertain if the rain will stop, if a rainbow will appear, and if I’ll ever reach a destination I desire.

This morning, I was out walking and reading Unsheltered by Barbara Kingsolver. I’ve enjoyed her work ever since reading The Poisonwood Bible. The book is well written and engaging, and after months of being in a brain fog, I find I can read more than a few pages at a time. In fact, this morning I was so engrossed in the story, I hadn’t picked my head up for a few blocks, when suddenly the sound of heavy machinery yanked my head to the side and pulled my eyes away from the page. The gravediggers were back digging a new hole, with two other fresh graves not too far in the distance. Yes, the wave is receding, but apparently, people are still dying. Families still grieving. 

My son is in rare form today. His anger is multiplying. A grief counselor would be wonderful, but it won’t work for a kid opposed to all things virtual. Not until the world opens up. Not until he can actually talk to someone face to face. He is giving my spouse an insanely difficult time. But he needs to finish his project for Spanish class. His project about Pablo Neruda. The poet my son chose after a FaceTime conversation with my parents while they were still down in Chile. On the vacation that ultimately killed my dad. 

I decided to compile my blog entries (only up through Day 60) into a manuscript. Friends helped me with a query letter. I’m used to agent rejections. I’m also used to being ignored by agents. Usually though, if they do respond, they tell me memoirs are hard to sell unless the person writing them is well known in their field. Obviously I’m not. They also tell me that for an agent to be interested, the material must be current. Today, I got my first rejection for the Pandemic Diaries. In the letter, the agent said that due to the high number of memoir manuscripts they need to be selective. They can only take on work that would resonate with enough people to make it worth their time. They don’t consider obscure topics. Now I wonder. Did the agent even read my letter? Covid-19 is not obscure. The coronavirus has been in the news for months. One hundred thousand people have died. Almost two million Americans have tested positive. But still the topic isn’t current enough? It wouldn’t speak to enough people? I bet if Beyonce or Tom Brady wrote my story the agents would fight over it. I guess regular people don’t count for much. Our stories don’t matter.

And now the hospital bills have started to roll in. How is it ethical for doctors to charge $1000 dollars for 30 minutes? I’m not saying they shouldn’t get paid well. But that seems excessive. I mean they aren’t god. They’re not that good. If they were, they’d have been able to save my dad. The fact that they couldn’t proves they are just mortals doing their jobs. Why are they entitled to $1000 dollars for 30 minutes when teachers get paid shit. There wouldn’t be any doctors, if there weren’t any teachers. How is it okay to pay teachers a measly $5000 a month when doctors can charge that same amount for two and a half hours? Does that seem even remotely fair? But whoever said life is fair? Life sucks. You work your entire life. Most people doing the best they can to get by. They finally reach a point in their lives where they are happy. Where they are doing things they enjoy. Then a pandemic sweeps through town and kills them. No, life isn’t fair. It’s miserable. And then you die. In the end, what’s the point? Why bother? You work so someone else can kick back, relax, and live an extravagant life-style while you cut corners, wondering when your luck is going to change. Never. That’s the answer. It will never change. Tomorrow will not be better than today. Tomorrow the doctors will be richer and the teacher will be poorer.  And me, I’ll still be wasting my time chasing dreams that turned to dust years ago.