COVID Days -2022

I have been writing little “Mini” memoirs for the past several years. Each chapter is a short personal essay on a different aspect of my life, rather than a chronological “I was born . . . and then I died” longer piece.  My goal was to share a bit of my life with my family in an interesting format.

This piece was written in March 2023 as a therapeutic piece for me – trying to make sense of my loneliness. Hopefully, this will also provide a glimpse into what some of us went through during the pandemic.   

Alone Together . . .

From the driver’s seat of my SUV, I watch my husband shuffle behind his cherry-red walker, heading for another day “at work.” Depending on where his mind lands today, he’s going to national guard weekend, the police station, or Camp Dry Gulch. Perhaps it’s somewhere else in his past – only he knows for sure. The nurse slings his black “man bag” over her shoulder and gently leads him away from the car. The bag contains his “tools” for the day including several pairs of glasses, an iPad, an oversized magnifying glass, and a small flashlight. His “contraband” coke dangles in a snowman bag off the handle of his walker. I try to listen as he tells the nurse about his morning, but the door clicks and locks behind them.

Halloween Party at Daycare Today!

Bill is legally blind and has Alzheimer’s; I’m his caregiver wife. We’ve been married for more than 50 years; and, for the last thirteen of those years, he’s been unable to care for himself. Today, he’s going to adult daycare while I do some grocery shopping and whatever else I can do to distract myself from the fact that my life sucks. 

We moved to Galveston from Tulsa, Oklahoma, in January 2021.  Our daughter, Shelly, lives on the island and asked us to move down so she could help with her dad. She’s a teacher at Galveston College and has an apartment in the same complex. It’s a perfect solution. I get help caring for Bill which then gives me time to do things for myself. What I didn’t count on was the COVID 19 Pandemic lasting so long. 

I press “Car Play” and head for Sam’s Club, about 20 minutes off Island. Rain is on the way, and I don’t want to be stuck on flooded roads, so this will be a quick trip. I mentally prepare myself for the drive by listening to music.

“All by myself...

Don’t want to be all by myself anymore…”

I realize the words blaring from the car radio describe exactly how I feel. I left my life in Oklahoma, and I haven’t been able to make friends here in Galveston because of COVID. My main communications with the outside world are digital. Text messages to friends and family. Zoom meetings for caregiver support and online classes. Digital messages from friends on Facebook. Unreal people in an unreal world.

And when I do meet real people, we’re wearing masks. We rush by each other, “at least six feet apart,” hoping not to breathe in COVID germs. No one looks at the other; after all, we only have half a face. I still don’t know what my primary care doctor looks like. What color lipstick does the librarian wear? Does the postal clerk ever smile? 

As I drive out of town, I find myself looking forward to seeing the homeless man on the corner of 61st and Broadway selling his “wares.” He doesn’t wear a mask. Instead, his sun scorched face peeks through a scraggly brown beard, unruly hair, and large, black glasses. He strolls up and down the median wearing a black and white baseball cap, camouflage shorts, and a fluorescent yellow vest. I roll down my window and ask, “How are you today?” He smiles and hands me a cold water, and I hand him a couple bucks. A smile from a real person. It made my day. 

I complete my errands, return home to a grilled cheese sandwich for one, watch two episodes of “Midsomer Murders” and wait for the clock to tell me it’s time to pick up Bill. 

He gets in the car and hands me a half-eaten chocolate cupcake. “I wanted to bring you a whole one,” he says, “but there wasn’t enough to go around.” I say, “Thanks” and ask him to hold it until we get home.  He then sits back and asks, “How was your day?” As we drive home, I tell him what I “accomplished” for the day. He’s satisfied that I had a good day, even if I’m not.

I can’t ask him what he did today, though, because it agitates him. Was he in Oklahoma? Delaware? Texas? Was he flying his helicopter, on military weekend, or working at camp? Who drove him there? Did he leave his uniform at work? He can’t remember. He’s alone, too, in his own little world.

We arrive home; alone, together. All by ourselves…