As
we approach the threshold of one million deaths from Covid in the United
States, it is easy to get lost in the incomprehensible vastness of
one million people. This is especially true for those of us who live in rural
areas. As those numbers climb, I lose the ability to relate to that many
people. Perhaps in makes more sense to consider one of a million.
My wife, Amy, was diagnosed with Covid on October 2, 2020. We went to the emergency department at a hospital in a neighboring county that evening. Amy’s oxygen levels were low but stable. She was given a prescription for steroids and sent home. Over the next days she improved slightly but crashed on October 7th. She died the next day at age 55. She was one in a million.
Amy’s death was jarring. I never envisioned offering her eulogy. I stumbled and crashed my way through months of mental and emotional fog that still rolls over me when I least expect it. I’ve questioned God and tried to understand His sovereign will. I often feel lost and alone and empty and rudderless. I am one in a million whose life has been changed forever.
Over
the past 18 months I have endured social media videos of precious little
children trick or treating, dressed as the Coronavirus; listened to “experts”
tout the healing properties of horse wormer; seen “proud Americans standing up
for freedom” dragged from commercial jets because they refuse to wear masks; listened
as pundits politicized pain and hurt; and heard skeptics attribute those
million deaths to preexisting conditions as though it was Amy’s own fault that
she died. Unfortunately, ours is just one of a million other families who have been
forced to drink this cocktail of anger, disbelief, selfishness and
individualism.
Amy’s five-year-old grandson, Liam, has cycled through a season of soccer, t-ball, flag football, and basketball since her death, and is now starting that seasonal succession once again. Amy loved sports and longingly anticipated the day when Liam would begin playing. When Liam looks to the sidelines or into the bleachers, he sees many of his family cheering him on. But he doesn’t see his Gigi filming every play and shouting encouragement. Liam is one in a million who sees an empty seat that should be filled by a loved one.
I
am fortunate to be embraced by family and friends who have helped carry a load
that is heavier than I can shoulder alone. Amy’s family invites me to family
gatherings; church friends have fed me physically and spiritually; and so many people
have given me space and grace to verbalize thoughts that are rambling, often incoherent,
and accented with both tears and smiles. Each of these individuals are one of
millions who are helping others navigate loss.
Over the past months I have been sorting through Amy’s things. Each item requires consideration of how it is to be handled. What do I do with a poem from her college English class? Or what of the handwritten letter from her dad, who was responding to her apprehension of whether she could make it in college. He affirmed how proud he was of her and how much confidence he had in her abilities, and most importantly – that he loved her. As I filter through these fragments of Amy’s life, I realize each decision is one of millions that families are wrestling with as we struggle with what to hold to and what to release.
I find myself in a space with no guardrails or absolutes. It is a place where extreme sadness and loss coexist with budding happiness and hope. This is a dark and empty void punctuated with flashes of light tinged laughter and the delightful squeals of grandchildren playing baseball. It’s where memories of the past mingle with the hope of a haze-filled future that lies just beyond the horizon. I find that people can frustrate and disappoint me, and yet many more offer love and support. Here, I catch the faint whiff of honeysuckles after a late afternoon thunderstorm. I am one of a million people in this space.
***
In the United States, one out of every 332 people have died after contracting Covid 19.
