COVID-19 and the Simple Wonders of Christmas
I am craving normalcy. Months of isolation and anxiety have drained me, and I’m tired of wearing stretchy pants and baseball caps to hide my roots and tousled hair on zoom conference calls. I need more human face to face contact, but it comes with life-threatening uncertainty. I fear COVID, as I am a high-risk diabetic, and I carry way too many pounds around my middle.
The constant inundation of stories about the coronavirus desensitizes and creates risky behavior for some. I am hyper-alert, stuck in protection mode, not trusting others’ cavalier attitudes, including my family members’. My intoxicated sister coughed on me purposely at my nephew’s graduation party because I was trying to keep my distance. She herself is at high risk but in denial that this is nothing more than the common flu. She hasn’t grasped the severity of this invisible virus that kills. She works in a bar and has a steady stream of friends over to her home. She lives under false pretenses. I lived in angst for more than a week praying that she had not exposed me to the virus.
She believes the narratives and lies she’s heard from patrons at her work:
“COVID only kills old people,” and
“The death count is overstated.”
Her inner circle does not want interference, especially by the government, in their ability to hang out and enjoy their beverages of choice.
On a walking path, a friend and I were yelled at by a mid-60’s grumpy old runner who told us, “YOU don’t need to wear a mask outside, IDIOTS.” '
I have set boundaries to limit my exposure to people who have different beliefs from mine regarding the coronavirus. I limit my contact. I was not with my family over the 2020 holiday season. I am scared of their (in)abilities to assess risks.
After ten years, I decided to put up my Christmas tree. The last time was shortly before my dad’s first diagnosis of non-Hodgkin’s lymphoma. I have not decorated my own home since. The Christmas spirit broke inside of me. I would still celebrate the holidays with my family, but my home was off limits when it came to showing any acknowledgment. I was a self-imposed Grinch. There were no stockings hung on the fireplace nor a wreath on the front door. No lights on the house or decorations in the yard. They were all tucked away collecting dust.
A few years ago, after three rounds of non-Hodgkin’s and two strokes, my dad died, and the next year, Jonathan, my nephew was murdered by a drive-by shooter as we walked home from a Fourth of July community dance. The two most important people to me are gone. No reason left to celebrate the holiday season. My cynicism towards Christmas set in like the fine line above my brow.
Along comes the unprecedented 2020. By mid-September, the general mood of the country was good riddance. By early November, I had an ear worm. I kept hearing Jonathan’s voice in my head encouraging me: “Put up the tree, Aunt Cam.”
Weeks went by.
I finally decided to flip the switch. What was it that made me decide to drown my inner grinch and let the bright white lights shine in? There was no little Cindy Lou. Some might suggest that my nephew represents the Ghost of Christmas Past. But that wasn’t it either.
It was COVID-19. It had caused so much restriction in everyone’s lives, in my life. I needed to gift myself with simple pleasures. I had to find balance. I needed to find a way to make the stay-at-home orders my sanctuary with the surging pandemic. I also needed to reconnect with traditions to celebrate the generations of my family and our values to create continuity.
I adopted a 42-pound beagle-hound mix named Dude right before Christmas 2017. He is my family. He is who I am quarantined with, protects me and ensures my daily exercise. I am creating Christmas for us by simple acts of putting up a tree and then buying and wrapping presents to put underneath. Lots of presents, different shapes and sizes, just like when I was a kid.
The Christmas tree did not disappoint. I positioned it in the dining room near the sliding glass door, so those who drive by might see its magnificent lights. This door leads to the patio and my backyard where Dude plays and chases squirrels.
Dude lounged on the couch upstairs while I put up the tree. I could hear him snoring to the Christmas music. When I finished, I went up the stairs and called for him. He jumped off the couch and ran to me. He stopped abruptly. Dude took a few steps down and then came back up, never taking his eyes off the tree. He just stared at it, his face up near the rails for more than five minutes. My heart melted over his childlike wonder. I had to coax him down the stairs. Every few steps he would stop.
I finally bribed him with a stinky liver treat as I stood by the sliding glass door. He ran past the tree so fast, he slid across the floor as if on a skateboard, banging into my leg. Once beside me, he stepped towards the tree, cautious at first, fearful. Dude leaned forward, feet firmly planted, and sniffed it. He looked at me and tilted his head. “It’s fake,” I said as if he knew what that meant.
Over the next few days, I placed his treats underneath the tree so he would get used to it.
Each day, Dude rested at the top of the stairs and just stared at the tree. Christmas finally arrived in my home again.
The Dude abides. And so, do I.
