COVID-19 Deaths Month 5: July

I spent the whole of the month isolating in a cottage with my parents. We all isolated for two weeks beforehand. Even though I usually only see them a couple of times a year, there was a tinge of mortality in the air that made those hugs sweeter, and each touch, each connection more meaningful.

Our month-long visit was a balm that I needed. Events occurred that made it fortuitous that I was present. But even as much as I needed the break it was mitigated by the sea of visitors without masks in the nearby park and shoreline. Each morning walk I ended up using my cane to lift up discarded (and mostly unused) masks. My faith in humanity is shaken.

I have started having nightmares about needing to be intubated again. I have damage from my previous intubation during my accident so I am at-risk for COVID-19 complications. I see every maskless face as a threat against my health.

I know that the virus is taking lives across all continents, not just in America, but my heart can only bear to keep my eyes on this land. The global numbers are disheartening. And if this is going to be a long haul, we need to take care of ourselves. We need to care for each other better.

 

But here’s the other thing I noticed. I found respite in my time in nature. I saw evidence of nature blooming in our absence. There were more kinds of birds than I have seen at that shore in 20 years, more wild patches of flowers. It was breathtaking. It gave me hope for the world, in spite of humanity.

 

The basic news still applies. Wear a mask. Wash your hands. Six feet apart. Isolate.

I check the total dead each day. I have a list of numbers. Every night at midnight I light my ancestor altar. I call on those who weathered plagues and mysterious illnesses that swept through villages and cities. I call on my foremothers and fathers who lost loved ones, and those who lost their own lives in such times. I ask them to guide the dead. I ask them to watch over the living. I ask them to wrap the world in some measure of peace.

And I chant the number of souls who died that day. I chant it seven times. I wish them ease. I wish them peace. I sometimes cry for their families, for the ones who died alone. Especially for the ones who died alone. Viruses don't care about human need. I try to remember that.

It's a simple ritual. It keeps me mindful of what is happening outside of my own isolation.

 

This month's death toll declined! It feels like we have a bit of breathing room. For as disgusting as the carelessly discarded masks are, we must be doing some things right.

 

 

In July, we lost twenty-three thousand eight-hundred and fifty-one Americans.

23,851

That's near the total population of the city of Kingston, NY in 2010.

Since the rise of the pandemic 175,002 Americans have died of it.

 

 

Light a candle. Say a prayer. Wear a mask. Wash your hands. Stay six feet apart. If you think you are ill isolate yourself for 72 hours. If you think you have been exposed quarantine yourself for 14 days before exposing anyone else to you. Video chat with your loved ones. We can do this. May we all come out the other side.

 

 

[Statistics gathered from this W.H.O. website. They have changed as the numbers have come in, so there is some wiggle room around the exact number.]

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A Contemplative Poem for the Month

 

Do not be dismayed by the brokenness of the world.

All things break. And all things can be mended.

Not with time, as they say, but with intention.

So go. Love intentionally, extravagantly, unconditionally.

The broken world waits in darkness for the light that is you.

 

~ L.R. Knost