Two Lines a Day

And it happened to us. One day. Her eyes were fear-filled as they took her away. The men in PPE who looked to her like men from space. She did not want to go. Who does. We assured her from a distance, with masks on, that she would soon be back. That it was for a few days. I do not think she understood anything. How could she? No comforting hug. No touch. No words spoken as one held hands. Just a wave from afar.

Abandonment.

With her was my brother. He had been with her all his life. He too was going with her, because he too was COVID positive. For us, in a way, that was a comfort.

News would trickle in once a day. Better. Worse. Nothing to be concerned about. Oxygen needed.

I sat at home. Helpless. Thinking of how alone she must be. We were told they had to be in ICU. A precaution. They were on beds next to each other. But could not speak because of the tubes. How could she anyway, at 92, talk across an ICU bed? I hoped his presence across from her comforted her. Did she even know? Or did it worry her?

And the trickle of news came in. Two lines a day, conveyed to one family member only, who would then share with the rest of us. They are better. They are worse. We need to ventilate. They are eating. They are stable. They are not. No more.

All alone. Close to each other, yet unable to talk. No word from us. A hazy ICU. Strangers hovering around. I wonder how she asked for water. Or for more sugar in her tea. I wonder if someone held her hand a moment when they pricked her for blood. What did she do when her leg hurt. Did she think of us and wonder why we had not come?

My brother. The carer. Here with the mom he had lived with. Unable to help himself or her. Did they help him comfort her. Did they wheel him to her so they could talk? He got worse, and we were told to be prepared.

Yet just the two lines would trickle in. I had to stop my mind from imagining what they were feeling. Alone. Fighting for life. Fighting for breath. Fighting among strangers. Strangers busy saving lives. At risk themselves. Tired, possibly, after so many months of an unending battle. Of watching lonely people come and go. No more emotion left in them to give.

Alone. In a hospital bed. After always being surrounded by love and family. After always having a hand to hold and someone to laugh with. After having given so many warm hugs.

And then the daily trickle of news came again. He lost his battle. He is gone. Now you may come and see his face. Say goodbye when he can no longer hear you.

She continues to gasp. To fight. Alone. Not knowing the bed next door has someone else, and not her son. They will not tell her. It's our only request. That's all we can ask at this time. They say they understand. We hope she does.

As we go through the nightmare of paperwork, a son will be buried without his mom, whom he looked after. Perhaps it's best. We don't know now what's best for her — to come home knowing a son lies below the earth, gone, while he lay next to her and she could not even hold his hand during his last moments in this world.

As we perform the funeral rites with no one else, I wait for those two minutes of daily trickle news. My mom waits, wondering why none of us are by her side this as well.