Then Covid Took Dad
Dad passed away on Wednesday, January 27, three weeks from the day we learned one of his caretakers had Covid, the same day the mob attacked the Capitol. Three weeks that went like a flash and which were agonizingly slow. Three weeks of thinking we might be able to make a difference and the terrible weight of that, three weeks of hurried notes in my journal, of terrifying texts, of wanting to comfort Dad like he’d comforted me during my 65 years on earth. Three weeks of Covid hell, because every Covid death contains the exquisite pain of hope and dread, dispensed in the irregular heartbeat of hospital time.
Most unbearable was the time after hope had been finally, completely shattered but before Dad died; stuck between present and past tense. I I couldn’t write the obituary, not yet. I delegated the job of calling the funeral home and the cemetery to my husband. Nevertheless, still in a conditional present tense, we talked to our rabbi in New Jersey and Ellen’s rabbi in Virginia, who would both have to work our grief into their schedules.
The day before the burial was pretty awful too. We’d had two feet of snow and it was still coming down, lightly. I began to worry about the drive to Virginia, about the roads, even though I knew the highways would be clear. I tore up my eulogy and started again from scratch. Then I fought with my siblings over the poetry that was going to be read. They preferred simple rhyming poems and had no use for Mary Oliver. I, the Writer, couldn’t let it go. Ultimately, we found a compromise.
Warren drove, four hours down, four hours back, and my consolation prize for that long dreary day, of seeing the open grave, of standing in the snow in a blustery wind, in a small Covid crowd of was that during each of my three bio stops, the ladies bathroom was empty.
And that same day, which had started at 5 a.m., and which had covered 500 miles, we had a Zoom shiva at 8 pm. I was shaky with the Kaddish, but afterwards a legion of cousins held forth on Dad’s greatness, his generosity, his love of life and sports and Mom.
I asked for friends to send Dad’s death notice from The Washington Post, and it sits with the condolence cards. Every time I see it, my heart does a sad little flip, like a fish thrashing on the floor of a boat. Because there’s that wonderful face, that wonderful Dad who was just there wishing me a happy birthday on December 25, now looking out from the death notices, the one place in a newspaper I never wanted to see him.
And the reminders are everywhere, and they don’t even have to be labelled “death.” There was a file folder I’d labelled “Scans,” which contained two magazine stories, one about me, the other I’d written about my trip to Mexico last January, with pictures of my art. I’d started scanning the articles, but never finished. The scanner broke, or I got interrupted. It was always the chore lowest on my list. But it’s whole purpose — I realized now — was to send those scans to Dad, to make him proud. And now, what was the point? Who could possibly care like my Dad? And I berated myself for my laziness, because I’d deprived him of that tiniest little morsel of pride.
Or today, the beginning of the impeachment trial, and seeing those videos of the insurrection on Wednesday January 6, the day Covid entered our lives. I felt it again — why does pain lie literally in the heart? — that overwhelming ache.
Then Jamie Raskin told his story, of how he’d gone to the Capitol January 6 to certify the election the day after burying his son, and as I cried for Jamie Raskin and Tommy Raskin, I realized that in the great hierarchy of grief, I ranked fairly far down, because at least in our case, death proceeded in the normal order and Dad had lived 91 mostly wonderful years. Nor was I the only one who would forever pair this moment in American history with my personal grief. And there was some cold comfort in that as well.
