Time's Up

Three years into the pandemic and I have been COVID-19 free … until now. Despite having all my shots and boosters, it has hit me like a train leaving me sicker and weaker than I have ever felt in my life. Oh, how I lament my naïveté at thinking I was somehow immune.

Day One: a little kitschy-kitch in my throat that develops into what probably feels like a smoker’s cough. I don’t smoke.

Day Two: my head feels like there is pressure. I experience very sharp pain in my right eyeball. A feeling of exhaustion comes over me so I go to bed at 5:00pm (!!!) … and I don’t wake up until 9:30am the next morning. The entire night, I alternate between being frigid and absolutely sweltering. In the morning, my sheets are soaked in sweat.

Day Three: I can’t seem to do anything for more than five minutes without taking a rest and lying down. Going from my bed to the kitchen, for example, leaves me exhausted. I haven’t eaten in three days. I am not hungry at all. Just subsiding on water. It feels like it is taking more effort to simply breathe and get the same amount of oxygen in my lungs as it would under normal circumstances.

Day Four: my throat feels like someone used extra-course sandpaper in an attempt to scrub it raw. My tongue is completely white. I assume it is this. My teeth hurt. My head is still pulsating. This is the day I have lost both my sense of smell and my sense of taste. Which sucks because I haven’t eaten much and now everything is just texture. Fucking wild. Debating switching my diet to raw vegetables in an attempt to find a positive in this.

Day Six: I’m now on Day Six and while definitely doing better than last weekend, I am still so exhausted and my nagging cough and sore throat just aren’t leaving yet. I don’t know what, if any, long term complications will arise but this is definitely something I have never experienced before.

Day 22: sore throat and coughing like a life-long smoker who goes through five packs a day.

The Life I Once Knew

We walked down St. Mary’s Road. It was Autumn and the trees were slowly changing to a gold-tinted colour palette, leaves languidly falling and crunching on the ground beneath our feet. I pointed out a familiar apartment. It belonged to a former boss, Ed, a small business owner that carved out a niche in the Winnipeg advertising community with his partner Richard. They were two of the most honest, down-to-earth individuals I had ever had the privilege of knowing and collaborating with in my life. Looking up at the residence, nostalgia flood my memories. Without their support and encouragement, I never would have started my own business. My father knew this as well and asked if we could stop by and say hello.

I paused, not knowing how to address it with him.

Both Ed and Richard had passed away years ago. But if I told my father this, I would also have to tell him that he did too.

I woke up from this dream and had to lie in bed, staring at the ceiling for a bit before fully consenting to the day. This isn’t the first time my father has visited me in a dream but it was the first time in a long while. It’s always a bit jarring; the warm comfort of a familiar embrace shattered by the reality that you’ve lost that presence—and that life you once knew—forever. I knew my day would be thrown off kilter as I increasingly searched for meaning during a time in which everlasting sleep seems like a welcome respite.

I feel this dream was a result of the continued, relentless stress and anxiety of the ongoing pandemic. I try to limit overexposure to the news and social media, however, it’s hard to escape the current ripple effects of a society divided. Just in the past week, I’ve born witness firsthand how emboldened certain segments of the population are to freely express their hate and discord. As I ran an errand at a local mall, an angry white man yelled obscenities and told the South Asian taxi drivers parked at front to “go back to your own country”. It is disgusting. It is deplorable. I never thought I would live during a time where this and nazi flags being flown in broad daylight would be acceptable in Canada, where the perceived consequence from one’s personal choice are compared to the rape, pillage and genocide of an entire race of people.

But I suppose it’s always been present.

Just hidden.

Many have said that 9/11 was the defining moment of a generation but that seems so long ago (I actually remember watching it with Richard on the small office TV as it happened). The dual pandemic of COVID-19 and social media, and how different our lives and perspective will be moving forward is well surpassing it with everything from everyday safety protocols to personal relationships forever altered. I feel that I may always long for my previous carefree life. That bitch didn’t know how good she had it.

Meeting my father again in a dream, leaves crunching under our feet as we breathed in the crisp, Autumn air, was the momentary escape I needed. The life I once knew is there … if I close my eyes.

It's been 7 long years

It’s been a long time since I visited family.

I wanted to visit at Christmas but couldn’t because of the pandemic.

I wanted to visit on my birthday in early Spring but couldn’t because of the pandemic.

I wanted to visit on my mother’s birthday earlier this summer … but couldn’t because of the pandemic.

So it’s been a long time since I visited family. One year, in fact (or seven long dog years). I missed this guy.

Monty and I at my favourite park (©2021, Deborah Clague).

Monty and I at my favourite park (©2021, Deborah Clague).

Monty (©2021, Deborah Clague).

Monty (©2021, Deborah Clague).

Hallelujah

I spent today lying in bed or on the couch, staring at the ceiling as that is all the energy I could muster. My television was off. My blackout shades were drawn. I couldn’t handle the slightest of stimuli.

My body is fighting off chills and high fever. One moment, the warmth of a half-dozen blankets can’t keep me warm; the next, I feel like I’ve spent hours in a sauna. Every muscle seems to ache, especially my left bicep which I can’t even raise. My head is pounding. There’s also a weird tingly sensation in my mouth.

I couldn’t be happier though. As of yesterday, Friday, June 25, at 1:43pm, I am fully vaccinated against the COVID-19 virus. The double shot of Pfizer may have taken me out momentarily but it’s also given me a world of opportunity as we start to get our lives back.

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Third Wave

The third wave in Canada is relentless. Where I live, the stories break my heart; I know that all of the other provinces, territories and Treaties have their own tragedies I haven’t heard. And probably never will, because it is all so overwhelming. The world is heavy right now.

I read one journalist’s article on how “the dead don’t feel dead, they feel disappeared” and it made me think about how one day we will look back on this and be horrified by what we lived through. How death—something western culture shields itself from—could not be escaped, for it became omnipresent. The nightly death counts on the news are strange enough; now, with India being devastated by COVID-19, we are updated with even more morbid visuals. Comprehending abstract numbers is one thing; actually seeing bodies piled in row upon row of pyres all alight is quite another.

As is putting a face to a statistic.

These are a few of the local stories that gave me pause this week. They are all from my area. Their stories deserve to be heard. The survivors need to be supported.

• 32-year-old father of two dies from COVID-19 eight days after being diagnosed. A GoFundMe is raising money for the children’s education.

• Father dies of COVID-19 days after couple’s third child born. His wife has also tested positive and remains in hospital. A GoFundMe is raising money to support the family.

• Well-known local chef loses his battle to COVID-19, leaving behind a wife and two children. A GoFundMe is raising money to support the family.

• Siblings lose both parents to COVID-19 within months of each other. A GoFundMe is raising money to support the family.

• Beloved teacher loses his battle to COVID-19. A GoFundMe is raising money to start a scholarship for Indigenous students in his name.

365

It’s been just over a year since the pandemic was officially announced. The last three hundred sixty five days have been a rollercoaster of panic, worry, depression, anxiety, boredom, solitude, hope … and now with misguided (or non-existent) lockdown procedures and a terribly mismanaged roll-out of vaccines in Canada combined with an increase of deadly variants of COVID-19, the cycle has started anew.

I still consider myself a lucky one; I’ve been working at home for the entirety of the past year, converting a sunroom with a westward view that I once used as a reading area into a cozy 9 to 5 space with lots of natural light. My active social circle has decreased to only one—my partner—but remains a source of elation. Being around someone 24/7 through sickness and in health, Doritos stress-binging and green smoothie regret, can lead to issues—and I predict an increase in divorce in the aftermath of the pandemic—but our companionship has been nothing but enriching. I haven’t tired of the conversation or silences in between.

I also don’t venture out much. With this newfound expansive pool of free time, I daydream, I read and I catch up on a long streaming list that I’m behind pop-culturally. I’m a natural introvert, so this hasn’t been hard. In some ways, this pause on life has been beneficial. But that statement is not universal; I have not lost someone. I have not been sick and am not experiencing long-term health issues as a result of it. I have not been economically devastated. I have not been undervalued for my contributions to society by being labelled “essential” and sent to the frontlines with no recognition beyond pacifying words. While this event has been a monumental provocation to our collective mental health, wellbeing and structure of community, it has also been a time to step back and reframe perspective. Things cannot - and should not - remain the same moving forward.

It is my hope that the blinding glow of unsatiated capitalism is dimmed through realization of the importance of community and a renewed respect for nature, and how having those work together in concert is the only way to navigate our current global crises. It is my hope that your family (by birth or by choice) has all of the supports they need to live a life safely unencumbered by the whims of those who choose chaos. I also hope we eventually understand that we make the world a little bit better (or worse) through our actions, however minimal.

It’s been my observation throughout life that people don’t like change, no matter what they say when there’s a colleague from HR in the room. The majority do not like altering their comfortable, familiar behaviours unless there is an immediate reward that they deem worthwhile. We’re at a crux in the pandemic where I still encounter those living in their own self-centred world of delusion including one in my own building that takes down mask signage and vandalizes supplied sanitizer, as well as politicians that could really make an impact on the disease with shorter, more restrictive lockdowns while providing business supports but choose instead to bury their heads in the sand at all costs. Including human life. How do you influence those that don’t see the forest for the trees? What type of reward works for them? Is it even worth considering?

I’m not sure on all the solutions. But I do have all the time in the world to contemplate them.

The Wilds

The other night, I went to close my shades and became enraptured by the night sky. During a prairie winter, the sky is normally densely overcast and claustrophobic but on this night I stared out at the stars - albeit few, albeit faint - as well as some scattered, low-hanging cumulus clouds that reflected the crimson light of the city. During a time when I feel I’ve become completely disconnected to nature, I feel like my appreciation for it (and need to preserve it) is growing. When you’ve been stuck in your home for almost a year, the desire to explore the wilds is all-consuming. This pause has given me time to reflect though, on life and what really matters.

In late 2004, I left my job at an advertising agency to freelance. A lot of 2020 is reminding me of that time. I was working at home on a bondi blue iMac when the earthquake and tsunami struck countries bordered on the Indian Ocean. I recall non-stop footage of it playing on the television in the background as I tried to work. I’m an empathetic person, sometimes overly so, and the sadness of it all really affected me. With 230,000+ dead, it was the worst disaster I’d witnessed in my lifetime.

Sixteen years later, I’m once again working at home—again, on an iMac—but this time the disaster hits closer. I’m not watching the tragedy of a far-away land through the safety of a screen, I’m living it everyday. I’m connected to risk and reminded of it through the daily death count on the evening news. My empathy here serves me well. With over two million deaths worldwide, it’s important not to lose sight that these were human beings who lived and loved and deserve to be remembered. Regardless of age, health or any other factor used to discriminate, they are people.

And people are what really matter in life.

The most happiness and bliss I’ve felt have been in the presence of people I loved. The greatest memories of my youth are traveling the west in an old RV with my parents, visiting such legendary sites as Yellowstone National Park, the Rocky Mountains, Deadwood and Wall Drug (okay, that last one is legendary for a different reason but memorable all the same). I remember the fun of playing license plate bingo with my dad or having my mom wash my hair in a rest stop sink because that’s where we slept overnight in lieu of a campground. I didn’t grow up wealthy, so moments like this were currency towards future resolve. Some of the fondest memories of my twenties are just cruising around Winnipeg after-hours listening to music and being present with someone who values and understands me through shared experience.

The brief high one gets through a material purchase does not compare to receiving a message from an old friend who felt the need to check in and say “hello”. Having someone remember and acknowledge your existence is to feel seen. To feel human. These moments have been some of the most memorable during the pandemic.

I’m thankful to have someone to share this moment in time with. Another soul to bear witness to history and the real, raw emotions and fear we all felt while living it. Having someone to talk with, to play with, every day is helping me get through. I look forward to the day when we can one day explore the wilds again, together.

My mom and I somewhere in the Rockies. My dad’s truck is pictured in the background. Before buying an RV, we used to sleep in the back of the truck during family road trips (©Deborah Clague).

My mom and I somewhere in the Rockies. My dad’s truck is pictured in the background. Before buying an RV, we used to sleep in the back of the truck during family road trips (©Deborah Clague).

My mom and I, probably on the same trip as she’s wearing the same clothes. For some reason, I’m not wearing pants (©Deborah Clague).

My mom and I, probably on the same trip as she’s wearing the same clothes. For some reason, I’m not wearing pants (©Deborah Clague).

Eleven-year-old me in Yellowstone National Park (©Deborah Clague).

Eleven-year-old me in Yellowstone National Park (©Deborah Clague).