In early 2020, at the start of the pandemic, people were bound by togetherness. We’ll get through these tough times. We’ll protect our vulnerable. But the world moved on. In this beautiful, reflective essay on mourning and loss, Lygia Navarro describes life with long COVID, becoming disabled, and being left behind.
When the forecast calls for the first snow, I make plans with a friend to meet at a nearby schoolyard for our kids to play, but, but we cannot even leave our driveway, as no one has shoveled the sidewalk. My wheels will not budge the snow. The only way to get across the street to the playground is to pick up my wheelchair and carry it over the ridge of slush at the edge of the road. This is too much for my body, but K is desperate to play. This is something tiny and beautiful I can do for my child right now, even if I’ll pay for it later.
During those months, I grieve all that has been taken from me: the enjoyment of my body, the friends of decades who have disappeared, my health, the chance to watch K experience a normal childhood. And I grieve for my family. Our lives are filled with indignity after indignity. My husband must wash my hair now, bring me food in bed. He is always dead tired and on the brink and we receive so little help. This fact alone leaves me aching.
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