Covid Journal, Day 113: Sadness

72 this morning, but comfortable enough for morning watering and other chores. As I write, it's now 93. Still no rain.

I was saddened this morning to hear that my friend Liz Lamac passed away on July 4. She was so creative, funny and talented. I had not seen her in the past year but we'd get together sometimes to talk about writing, antiques, and so many other things. Liz had been a ventriloquist and traveled with a magician when she was younger. She was also an expert on Jumbo peanut butter jars and had a huge enjoyment in all the little things in life. She always encouraged me in my writing and my antique booths, and was just plain fun to be with. 

We also lost an elderly neighbor this week. Helen was a good lady and I know she will be missed terribly by her family. My sons loved to stop at her house on Halloween because she gave the best treats-and always invited the trick or treaters inside so she could see their costumes. With the coronavirus spreading  like wildfire now, and so many people not wearing masks, I am not going to wakes or funerals, which makes me even sadder. I wish those who refuse to wear the masks understood that the masks are for the peace of mind of others, and by not wearing them they are limiting the activities of others who must be careful. I'm 99.9% positive we're Covid-free, but I wear my mask in public, and being in places where others are wearing their masks makes me feel comfortable, and grateful that they care about me. It's such a kind act, really.

It's a day for sadness, it seems. I have another neighbor who is my age and who has been fighting cancer hard for the past year. She did well for a while, but has had some setbacks recently which have left her frail, worn out and in pain. We have stopped to visit a few times, but not as much as we should. Today we went out, and stopped by to see Brenda on the way home. She looked, well, worn out. She has been such a fighter and it was hard to see her like this. She told me in her whispery voice that she had told her husband it's time to call in hospice. I fought back tears when she said this, and listened to her explain that the pain isn't worth it any more. I didn't know what to say. What could I say? That everything will be all right? That she should keep fighting? That she can't go because there are so many who love her and will miss her? 

So I said nothing except to murmur some sort of agreement, and fortunately her husband, such a good man, brought up another topic of conversation. I don't know if he heard what she had said, but I was grateful to him for giving me time to swallow back my tears and readjust my face to a happier expression. We had a good visit, remembering some things from the past. She's been my friend since I moved here 45 years ago, and even though we didn't see each sometimes for years, the friendship has always remained strong. 

When we left and got in the van, Larry remarked that we should have been visiting more often. By this time my tears were right on the surface and I fought for control. "This is why I haven't visited her, Larry," I told him. "The sadness is just too hard. It's like grieving over and over again."

The tears are flowing again as I write this. I am sad for my friend, who must suffer so much and who doesn't deserve it. She lived a good life, never smoked or drank, raised countless foster children and fought for them by working for CASA in their behalf in court. I am sad for her family, and for her good man who still manages to smile while providing almost total care for his wife. And I am sad for me, that I will not have more time with this good friend, and that I missed opportunities over the years to see her before cancer reared its greedy head.

Outside, the flowers are still raising their colorful heads to the sky. The dogs sleep in the shade, and a hen has just laid an egg. Blackberries are ripening along the roadsides, and a light breeze stirs the leaves on this hot July day. The world goes on as if nothing is wrong, as if no one has left or may be leaving. It feels wrong, and yet I know this is how it must be. Somehow those of us left behind must continue, one step at a time, one day at a time. Sadness and grief cannot be what defines us.

Copyright Susanna Holstein. All rights reserved. No Republication or Redistribution Allowed without attribution to Susanna Holstein.