Because of Covid-19

Because of Covid-19, I laugh more easily, more loudly and longer than ever before.

Because of Covid-19, I weep more easily, more often and longer than ever before.

I seclude myself and hunger for companionship.

I miss my son, my daughter-in-law, and my precious grandchildren profoundly. From visiting them six times a year, I have seen them once since last Christmas, and we could not hug when we saw each other.

I have missed, for the first time in their lives, being with both of my grandchildren on their birthdays, which in the past drew their entire families together to celebrate the joy that is called "family." FaceTime is a poor substitute for being with them, and with all the ones I love.

I go for long solo walks in the evening, when my husband is resting after his long day at work. I say hello to everyone I see.

If I go into a store, when I am leaving I always say, "See you later," hoping that is actually the truth, that I will, indeed, see whoever it is later.

I weep for the truly inspirational leaders we lose and despair of those who do not take this pandemic seriously.

I yell at the TV because I am so angry with the failure of this nation to figure out how to come to grips with this pandemic.

I am 71 years old, and this is the hardest time of my life. I despaired and mourned during the Vietnam War; I remember CBS's Walter Cronkite, the nation's "Uncle Walter," crying on television the day John F. Kennedy was assassinated and the day the Vietnam War was officially over for the United States; we had faithfully watched him for years, praying for the day he would announce that terrible war was over.

I helped tear down a fence outside the campus of Northwestern University in Evanston, Illinois, and blockade the main north-south artery north of Chicago the night of the Kent State shootings, and I stayed on that barrier until early in the morning, until I finally had to catch the elevated train home, only to get ready to work for the remainder of the day.

On all of these occasions, I wept. The pain which caused the tears was sharp and insistent. But Covid-19 has been different.

It is insidious. It has crept into the national consciousness slowly; no one sat up and shrieked "Watch out!" when we first learned of it. But it has overtaken our lives and we are poorer for it, not only in the number of lives lost, or the number of people sickened, but because it stands between us and the people we love.

I have been fortunate enough to be able to associate with two very dear friends, along with my husband, in each other's actual physical presence, during the past month. The absolute honor of being with people I love is profound. Being in my son's backyard, with my lovely daughter-in-law and my two beloved grandchildren has been earth-shattering and dynamic and absolutely beautiful, despite the fact we could not hug each other.

But, instead of thanking Covid-19 for making my actual physical meetings with the people I love perhaps the deepest experiences of my long life, I curse it.

We didn't have to go through this, experiencing the highest infection and death rates of the entire world. This is a cataclysm that could have been, if not avoided, at least dampened by even-tempered minds and strong hands on the reins of our country.

Instead, we all laugh too loud and too long. We all weep too easily and too often. We all cling to the friendships we have and dearly hope to make more friends we can actually be with. We are angrier than we ever remember being, sadder than we have ever been, and we deeply mourn those who have inspired us when they pass from this earth. We miss our families profoundly. And we yearn to return to what we consider to be normal.

Wouldn't "normal" be great? I am not a religious person, but I pray for "normal."

The opinions, beliefs and viewpoints expressed by our columnists do not necessarily reflect the opinions, beliefs and viewpoints of the Left Hand Valley Courier or its owners.