The Call

“Leave him the cell!” I shout.

The instant I saw the screen of my mobile phone light up with my mother’s incoming call, dread unfurrowed in my gut. Even the inevitable is terrifying. Never would she call me at work if it were not important. In short rapid statements my mom tells me that she has just taken my father to hospital. The urgency that this instills within me is beyond compare. My surroundings sway and blur as my nightmare sifts in and out of focus. No quick solutions stare back at me as I scan my work place. Fear and concern crowd out all reason and logic.

“I have to go.” I say to my colleague who sits at the opposite end of the room. It takes effort to push the panic from my voice with my cell phone still crushed up against my ear.

“They are taking him into isolation. I can’t go with him.”

“I know Mom. That’s why you need to get the phone to him. Right now!” Grabbing my purse, I bolt from the studio. “I will get you a new one.” I say quickly before she can point out the obvious fact that my parents have one cell phone between them. A flawed decision once based on pure economics leaves us in this predicament. She thought nothing of taking the phone with her because it is more hers than his and for that reason it will be a near useless device in his hands. Yet, it will be his only means of communication that will grant us the smallest window to say good bye.

The grind of my gnashing teeth drowns out all sounds as I think of my father. He must be so afraid. This, was not what he expected his last days to look like. In his mind’s eye he saw himself surrounded by his children and grandchildren upon his last breath. Never did he imagine that he would be alone in a hospital bed. Nor did I. This thought tears through me like shrapnel.

Slamming through the fire stairwell door I fly down the concrete steps staving off the wave of tears that threaten to break. A smart gust of wind and shards of sunlight stop me as I burst from the building with blinding anxiety. The icy realization that I had been running with no where to go hits me like a brick wall.

This cannot be real.

The street I am standing in is empty and I am reminded of how lonely this is; down town Toronto on a Tuesday afternoon and the city feels deserted like the opening of an eerie Stephen King novel.

I shut my eyes against the moment, rejecting what is happening.

At first all I can hear is my mother’s breathing. She is processing what I am asking of her and what I have left unsaid. With a jagged intake of air, I prepare to meet her protest with brutal facts. Instead, the faint noise at my ear shifts and I know that she has turned back towards the hospital.

“I’ll find his nurse.” There is a new determination in her voice that is hopeful and heartbreaking all at once. The cacophony of chaotic sounds that flit by as I listen amplify the agonizing suspense. “There she is. Excuse me. Excuse me.” The shrill edge in my mother’s words send a serrated blade across my remaining nerves.

After a muffled exchange, the tone holds the promise of fulfillment and I allow myself a moment of relief.

“Mom. Mom. You have to say good bye.”

“What?” The question seems to make time stand still. A cold fist of panic closes around me as I realize my mistake.

“To me, Mom. Hang up, then hand the phone off and call me when you get home. Are you okay to drive?”

“Yes. Okay.” The quiver in her voice nearly brings me to my knees. “Good bye dear. I’ll call you back as soon as I can.”

Then the line goes dead before I can say anything. Feeling muzzled and gagged, the silent sting of it burrows into my head and heart.

“God Damn it!” My shout explodes from my throat and with it comes those relentless tears.

Walking in tight circles I rock, hugging my upper body in a desperate effort to keep myself from falling apart. I have no where to go. There is no one to see. I am stuck at work considered an essential through this pandemic. Because I work in news I know too much. I know that my mother will likely never see my father again, in person anyway. Eventually she will derive at this ugly reality too. I know that we only have until they outfit him with a ventilator to talk to him. And that is only if they have one available at a time when breathing apparatus are rare commodities even for high performing hospitals. And if they happen to have a spare kicking around it will only be offered to him if he has a chance of survival. My father is 78 years old. He was a smoker in his youth but otherwise healthy if you don’t take his obesity into account.

My mother is a retired nurse and once the initial shock of having to leave her husband at the hospital wears off, she will come to many medical based conclusions. None of which I will want to hear.

There is no escaping this fate. In spite of the last 75 years of earning the right to be spared the third generation takes its place on the front line. My parent’s grandparents faced the first world war and their parents confronted the second head on. There is something poetic and twisted about my parents looking down the barrel of the third world war. There is no doubt in my mind that this war against COVID-19 is a world war like no other. In a time that looks so different to 1945 it is no wonder that our definition of a world war would change too.

It is a testament to our abundance of misinformation and many manipulators. It shines a spotlight on greed and obscene wealth. Good people raised to provide a helping hand go unnoticed while the fat selfish cats wither and die.

As a feminist who is a big supporter of the me too movement, black lives matter, and breaking the glass ceiling, I had unknowingly secretly been wishing for something to wipe the slate clean. Now that it has reared its ugly head I can look at it straight in the eye and regret what I had once hoped for. This enemy will likely take many of my children’s grandparents.

This enemy does not discriminate. It does not care if you enlisted as we were all drafted in this war. Our elderly and most vulnerable are least likely to survive. But none of us will go unscathed. We will all bare deep scars that will take decades to heal if ever.

The world as we know it has shifted dramatically and permanently. There is no coming back from this without collateral damage and countless fatalities.

My parents are inseparable and have been for more than half a century. For this, one cell phone made sense until today. Now that my mother has handed the cell over, hopefully it finds it’s way to my father’s hands. But will he know how to use it? As he faces is greatest fear will the phone grow more useless to him with mounting desperation.

So many competing thoughts bump and bruise my mind. After checking the time on my screen another surge of panic nudges me. I need to get back to work. This is an irritating obligation that rubs up against me with resentment.

A cool March breeze brings goose-flesh to the surface of my skin. The chill of the day seeps into my bones. Winter refuses to release us from its icy grip. My chattering teeth are not enough to push me back inside. Yet, willing my phone to ring proves useless as I consider how this will all unfold.

My parents live two hours outside of Toronto but this does not matter. With self isolation and public distancing, I do not dare go to her anyway. So, I wait. I wait for her to make the drive home and pray that she calls me back before making a tea and staring out over the back yard contemplating what to do next without talking to me.

This, I have feared and anticipated for for so long that I almost expect to meet it with a sense of relief as an unknown has been discovered. Instead, I am so afraid that I feel powerless for not going to greater lengths to prevent this tragedy.