It’s been six months since I first heard of COVID-19. As was my ritual, I’d watch the evening news each night before heading to slumber and noted reports of a new, mysterious coronavirus identified in Wuhan, China. I didn’t pay it much attention, continuing to plan and book a holiday to Newfoundland that, in an alternate universe, I would soon be taking. Within a few weeks though, the tone and urgency of messaging changed and I understood the ramifications of human ignorance as cruise ships were left stranded at sea without port and countries called upon their military to help with the sheer volume of the dead.
Just six months later, updated daily death counts on the same newscast are normalized. It’s a strange detail to a strange reality. Even stranger is how little people seem affected by it. Whether through deliberate avoidance or willful denial, a large portion of the population doesn’t appear to be humbled by mass death. Meanwhile, I’m low-key drafting my will. I often wonder how this will be processed and reflected upon in the decades to come. I feel a major part of the discussion and dissertation will revolve around society’s dependency on the structures of capitalism rather than community and our subsequent increasing separation from the natural world.
As of this writing, there are just shy of 9,000 lives lost to COVID-19 in Canada (679,000+ worldwide). Those are nine-thousand people who have family and other loved ones mourning their loss. Nine-thousand individual stories of life that go beyond being a number on a counter. And that nine-thousand statistic includes people of all ages and socio-economic backgrounds. No one is immune. We don’t hear much of this. Of the plans, hopes and dreams cut short. A lot of what we see has been dehumanized by design, for detachment and convenience, but I personally feel it’s important to remember. Being thoughtful towards others, as well as mindful of your own mortality and the fragility of existence, is essential in times such as these. Empathy is a balm.
I’ve been thinking of my father a lot of late. In some ways, the world since his passing would be unrecognizable to him. In other ways, it would be similar in ways only he could truly understand. In his final months, one of my father’s favourite places to visit was IKEA because they had wheelchairs at the entrance available for those who might require them. Not those giant motorized scooters that seniors use to blaze down the aisles of Wal-Mart, but an actual wheelchair that would allow his daughter to walk with him in normal pace while window-shopping couches and bookshelves. While being pushed around an endless maze disguised as a furniture store doesn’t sound like a great time, this respite from cancer treatments and feeling part of society again, no matter how banal, was greatly welcomed. Most businesses and other public places did not make this consideration. Spending time with someone immunocompromised made me realize first-hand how little we, as a society, take into account the needs–physical, mental and emotional–of those with varying health conditions.
Which leads me to current recommendations by health officials to wear a mask in public spaces to help limit the spread of COVID-19 (and the unfortunate resistance of some that it is in violation of their “freedom”, as though one man’s rebellion to wear a small piece of fabric on his face is equivalent to the entire life and worth of someone else). It’s a simple measure that would help people like my father feel recognized, regarded and safe while trying to live during a time when added stress and uncertainty should be minimized. But it is also a small measure to help others as part of your community. Because any one of us may become part of the 9,000.