Pandemic

Dear UD,

The world is closed. Shut down. And all I want to do is talk to Mom about it. Talk to you.

Mom would scoff at the way everyone is panicking and at the mass hysteria of hording toilet paper for Coronavirus, a respiratory illness. Like others, she would decry the world-wide pandemic, saying, “It’s just a flu” and thinking that the world has gone mad. That, plus she would preach that it’s proof that Jesus is returning soon. Whether I agreed with her or not, I would give anything to hear her voice and her laugh right now, to be able to talk to my mom about this global epidemic, to share news articles and concerns, and at the end of the call, have her say, “Everything’s going to be okay. Love you, honey.” How I miss my mom and conversations with her. All day, every day. I miss her.

And you, Uncle David, you would sigh and point out connections between this scare and ones from the past. You’d retell the story about when you were kids and had to hide under your desks after the Second Red Scare to prepare for a possible nuclear attack during the Atomic Age. We’d have a discussion that touched on history, literature, theater, psychology, and current events. Whether we agreed or not, I would give anything to hear your voice and your laugh, to debate this important topic with you, and at the end of the call, have you say, “Everything’s going to be okay. Love you, Rach.” How I miss you and our conversations. All day, every day. I miss you.

No matter what side of the debate one is on (people are freaking out for no reason versus the pandemic is real and serious), the images seen around the world are surreal. From Chinese in full hazmat gear to empty Italian streets to local stores with empty shelves…the images are eerie and disturbing. I’ve been listening to information from primary sources from the beginning (Uncle Bob sharing stories of Tim and his family quarantined in China as well as the Italian student I’m hosting providing news from her family in Italy). So I started stocking up before everyone went crazy. Uncle David, you would stock up, just in case (and Uncle Bob even stocked up after telling me all about the timeline of the Spanish Flu), but Mom, she wouldn’t need to prepare, living on a farm with well water, freezers always stocked with fresh farm meat, chickens roosting in the chicken house providing eggs, a pantry full of canned goods from last year’s garden, and the spring asparagus that just came up. Knowing that always made me feel safe. The family farm was my backup plan, and now, like you and Mom, my backup plan is gone.

 

I am adrift on a sea of uncertainty, feeling unmoored, isolated, and alone. 

My school has moved online for the rest of the semester, which means working from home. The U. S. hasn’t quarantined the whole country like China, Italy, and now France and Spain have. Perhaps it won’t happen here, but there are rumors that it might. Either way, we’ve been cautioned to practice social distancing as much as possible.  

I’ve prepared for hurricanes here in Florida, but that usually only means a few days or a week at home. The last time I remember even just two weeks stuck at home was when I was living in the upstairs rooms in Mom’s house on the family farm in 2015 right after Dad died and right before we lost you. That winter there was an ice storm and then a snowstorm that kept us mostly indoors for two weeks, but it was okay because even with forced “social distancing,” we had plenty of family members to hang out with. We played Bridge, Spades, and Scrabble, watched movies like Cool Hand Luke, The Blues Brothers, and Moonstruck, ate huge homemade meals together, watched the Blue Jays, Cardinals, and chickadees at the birdfeeder, and hiked outside down the road and along the rivers to see the glorious ice-covered woods and structures. And the younger generation also went ice-skating on the frozen pond and sledding. I even remember Sonny and Ben attaching a gate to the

big red truck to take the kids sledding. Yes, we still got a bit stir-crazy, and there were fights and annoying moments; however, we were in it together, got through it together, and survived together. And now I have those memories that I cherish.

But staying home now, here in Florida, for weeks or months with only a few rooms and only one other person to share it with feels very different. I keep thinking of Anne Frank and her family. They were in hiding for years. How did they do it? How could they stand it? I know they didn’t have a choice, but it is still unimaginable.

It’s not that I haven’t gone without before. Mom and Dad scraped by, and sometimes we ate whatever Dad could hunt. Mom birthed ten babies and only ever used cloth diapers. I grew up sharing one bathroom with ten other people and grew up rarely eating out. But I’ve gotten used to my comforts, including being able to go out and about whenever I want and going to the store and buying what I need and want. But, now the stores are out of some necessities.

And now, no one wants to talk anymore. They don’t want deep conversations, or phone calls. Just text me, they say. Just message me. Send a video, a photo, an emoji. But no phone calls, that human connection when not in the same physical space, that voice of a loved one, the sharing of words, ideas, questions to one other person who is really listening, who cares, who is taking time to share space together.

I’ve had a rough week, and not just because this one week held a time change where we lost an hour, a full wolf moon, a Friday the thirteenth, and a national emergency, but also because of communication struggles with loved ones. One morning, I ended up in the bathroom at work, sobbing before my classes started. Sobbing because I desire that human connection of really talking to others, really sharing everything with them (both positive and negative), and because I wish so much that I could talk to you and Mom about it all. Sobbing because I want to be seen and accepted for all of who I am. That day, I wiped away my tears, freshened up my makeup, and then went to teach stories like Kurt Vonnegut’s “Harrison Bergeron,” and Ray Bradbury’s “The Pedestrian.” Stories that have predicted so many things in our current society, stories that are coming truer every day. Is the Coronavirus the ultimate pandemic or is it the polarizing discord on social media or even the loss of human connection as we give more and more of our lives over to media and machines?

Plus, it’s March, which means spring and your birthday. I remember six years ago when we were all gathered together at your place to celebrate your birthday with you. The night before, we stayed up with Sonny, Mom, and Uncle Bob, playing bridge until midnight to ring in your birthday. Just before midnight, you jumped the bid to three no-trump and made it! And when the clock struck midnight, we sang Happy Birthday to you before heading to bed. The next morning, you made customized omelets for everyone even though you were the birthday boy, and we spent the day together playing games, talking, laughing, eating delicious food that you prepared, and sharing your birthday cake. Obi, Harley, and Lucky galloped in the backyard while you walked us around your property to witness the signs of spring: crocuses and daffodils, asparagus shoots, buds on the trees, martins and swallows around the birdfeeder, a lone red-headed woodpecker continuously striking a tall evergreen, and the filled rain gauge from recent spring showers. You and Mom both loved spring, and I love spring, though now it is bittersweet. I, too, still search for signs of spring, but there’s an ache knowing that we’ll never witness it together again.

Happy 66^th birthday, Uncle David. I am blessed to have had you in my life, and I will pass along the many treasures and lessons from you. And those from Mom. You would both tell me to remember that God is with me through even this. While that offers comfort, I still wish…  

I wish we could rewind to back when you and Mom were still with us. I wish you had both had more time on this earth. I wish we were together again, celebrating your birthday or riding out the pandemic or even just talking on the phone.

Love, Rach

It's April

Dear UD,

It’s April, the month of newness and spring and green—new births, spring buds, pink tulips, purple hyacinths, fresh asparagus, morel mushrooms, early garden planting. The time when box turtles awaken, baby goats frolic, and baby chicks chirp. The time when we color Easter eggs and celebrate a risen Savior. The sun is shining again, and in between April showers, blue skies spark warmth and happiness, enticing us outside for fresh air and the “peace of wild things.”

It’s April, the month we lost you four years ago, the month that brought unwelcome change. We’d just lost dad that January, and then months later, you, and everything changed for all of us. That year, Mom moved from the main farmhouse into a trailer on the upper part of the family farm and started over. New place, new vegetable garden, new flower garden planted with the bulbs you’d previously given her. She’d taken care of grandpa and then dad. She’d survived losing her baby brother. She was starting over.

It’s April, and Mom’s asparagus finally came up. Two years ago, she planted it. For two years, she cultivated it, waited eagerly for it, and now it’s here. Ready for her to eat, enjoy.

But she’s not here.

It doesn’t make sense, UD. I was just talking to a friend who is fifteen years older than me, and she talked of generations ahead of her and how she knows the time is coming for her to start losing them. One generation leaving to make room for the next. Sad, difficult, but part of the cycle of life. But you, dad, mom…you were all taken too soon, too young, and now we are orphans facing too much time alone, without your generation’s guidance and wisdom and support. It doesn’t seem fair, right.

I hate it.

For the first time in my memory, Mom’s vegetable garden is empty, earth untilled. Her flower garden is overgrown with weeds. Her yard unmowed. The position of matriarch of the family vacant.

Empty, barren, useless—that’s how the future feels right now without you, without Mom.

In her voice, I hear the echoes of her last words to me, “I love you, honey.” Though I will never hear her say those words to me again in this lifetime. That’s unbelievable. Unacceptable.

UD, it’s April, and the world looks so bleak without you, without Mom.

On April 13, the last known female Yangtze giant softshell turtle died in China, perhaps dooming the species to extinction.

On April 15, Notre Dame burned. That day, we didn't know the extent of the damage, but either way, it was still tragic. Horrific. And while I posted about it on Facebook, I didn't have anyone to call to mourn with me. Because it would have been you and Dad and Mom.

Notre Dame burned, and that day, one journalist wrote, “Notre Dame is a symbol of human accomplishment, and more than that, of social accomplishment. It’s not the work of any one person, but of generations upon generations of labor.”

When I talked to Alyssa last weekend, she told me a story about how you nurtured her, reminding me of how much you meant to her, to me, to all of us. For years, you were so vital to my life. Talking to you helped me process emotions and life. Working with you was part of my creative, artistic process—beginning, middle, and end—you assisted throughout. I knew you would listen anytime, about anything. Your unconditional acceptance and love sustained me, fueled me.

It’s been three months since we lost Mom, yet it feels like forever. Constantly, reverently, I reach to call Mom, text Mom, talk to Mom. All my life, she was there. Only a phone call away. No matter what, no matter how long, no matter why…I could reach out to her, the one constant in my life. And now, suddenly, she’s gone.

Without you, without Mom, where do we go from here? How do we survive? How does our large family stay connected?

The journalist also shared that “[Norte Dame] survived riots from the Huguenots. It survived the French Revolution. It survived Napoleon. It survived World War II. Notre Dame represents the most beautiful things that we as human beings can make if we pour unimaginable amounts of labor and wealth and resources and time into the effort.”

Likewise, all we can do now is survive. Survive and continue using the “resources” we learned from you, from Mom, from the generations before and pass them along to the generations that come after.

It’s April, UD, and we miss you. We miss Mom. We wish you’d both stayed with us a while longer.

Love, Rach

Note: It’s April, and my sister Jill took these photos on the family farm.