Our child died. It wasn’t from opportunistic infections or carelessness. It was from cancer. All of the germ fighting things we did for him so that he could sustain the strong treatments we hoped would save his life remain with me. There were times when he had zero white blood cells. He still died but at least we controlled the things we could. His death is 100 percent, but my regrets around him are zero.
So when a pandemic hits, it’s like riding a bike.
While other people are still moving in slow motion, I leave my old life behind without looking back. Everyone is immunocompromised when it comes to COVID-19. The implications are massive and unwieldy.
Soon my hands develop eczema from all of the washing. This too, is familiar. I take the recommendations of epidemiologists and then embellish them all for good measure. My doorknobs gleam.
I don’t game the rules, finding a little loophole here or there.
Before my child developed pediatric cancer, I was just like the rest of you. I call other parents, unscarred by chemotherapy regimens or pint-sized caskets, civilians.
Civilians live in a place I can observe but not access. You do not have flashbacks of the moment your child died. You do not have what psychologists call intrusive thoughts that come uninvited, superimpose that death onto surviving family members in crystal-clear details that can only be described as hyperrealism.
Make no mistake. I have no desire to edify or initiate you. I don’t want you wearing my shoes or walking in them. I want you cosseted in innocence because the alternative is just too tragic.
But this pandemic is a beast of unnatural proportions. Would it hurt you to be a little more careful, watchful, aware? Of the children you’ve been gifted? Or, while you are at it, yourselves?
From the archives:
