Covid: A patient's confession (Part 3) & a loyal dog.
Am now entering my 3rd week of Covid. Am slowly recovering. I have nothing to whine about. The world is another matter.
So this is my Day 16 of the Plague. I am still somewhat sick, but not pathetically so. Am congested and have an intermittent dry cough, but nothing else. My sense of taste is coming back. The most enduring symptom is still my complete fatigue. Most routine activities are an effort. Managed to drive 3 km and shop at the local (outdoor) farmer’s market on Saturday morning. It was not a huge chore, but I felt like a stranger visiting a strange land. I felt a sense of abject distraction and mental spaceiness. I would like to dress this mindstate up and call it “advanced non-attachment” but in truth, I know I am just, as we used to say, really spaced out.
My mother spent her last 4 years in a local long-term care facility here in Peterborough. I recall noticing that many of her colleagues seemed content to find a sunny place to sit and stare out the window. What were they looking at? What did they see? Perhaps now I know. They might have been enjoying a complete lack of intention; a sublime absence of necessity. A sense of being rather than a striving towards a no-longer relevant goal. With Covid, I am no longer dogged by the usual dozens of tasks —domestic and professional— that normally fill my waking hours. The time slips by. I have no urge to hang on to the moments or chain them in service of a higher purpose. Watching the sunset seems to be as motivated as I dare acknowledge.
Mortality comes to mind more & more as I drift through these days. I notice news items or social media posts that report the passing of people my age. Why them & why not me? When is my ship going to sail? I brood about all the accumulated rubble in this house that I have hoarded, hung on to and now hide from. I need to clean it up, to give it away, to recycle it somehow. The books will not be a problem; I have hundreds of pounds of books. I can give them to the local library. It is the outdoor gear that I need to give away; the kayak, the packs, the wet suit, the camping gear, the paddles, and the skis. I admire Buddhist monks who strive to leave this life only with their robes and bowls. I seem bound to leave with a robe, a bowl, a pressure cooker, a blender and an entire kitchen, plus tents and sleeping bags. Am I hanging on to this detritus of a lifetime to forego the inevitable, or is it a defence against accepting that my ship is about to sail?
It is a poignant time to be dwelling on mortality. The 10/7 attacks by Hamas in Israel shake us out of our everyday minds. Young adults — the ages of my kids— dancing at an outdoor music festival. Children at play with each other while visiting their grandparents. Families together on a holy day. Shot. All gone. Dead. Searing images. I saw a video clip of a terrorist lighting a house on fire. The family dog —a black lab— bounds up the sidewalk to see what is going on at her house. The terrorist casually shoots the dog. 3 bullets. I watch it again. The dog had a family, a home. It was loved. This image haunts me still. Death’s appetite knows no limits. First the butchery of civilians and the rocket barrages, and now the bombing of more civilians in Gaza. My sickness is profoundly unimportant. An inconvenience—nothing more. I can teach online at the college as my symptoms slowly heal. I live on an island of delusional privilege in the midst of an ocean of unfathomable chaos.
As usual. I identify with much of what you write. This weekend I pushed my expiration date from age 86 to age 88. There is a story behind that decision. When we each feel better, I will share it.