We stop the drips.
Turn off the ventilator.
And wait.
You think of their family. At home. Sobbing.
Someone starts saying a prayer.
You can’t help but cry.
This isn’t what we do.
You stand by. You wait.
This isn’t what we do.
You stand by. You wait.
Time of death: 7:19PM.
Merciful God, God Most High,
May You remember all those Who died of COVID-19,
Of old age and known preconditions,
And those who died Entirely surprised
By the terrible fragility Of our human bodies.
With love we repeat the words Of an old Yizkor book:
“I had a dream. I returned to the town of my childhood.
Everyone there was still alive!”
Dreamers we are,
Of a world in which You are still alive,
Living among us, going about the life
We once knew as normal.
May your memory be a blessing
And a reminder,
To shelter those who are fragile,
Even in times of fear.
Tomorrow, when the latest Deathomoter of Covid is announced in sonorous tones,
While all the bodies still mount and curl towards the middle of the curve
Heaped one atop and alongside the other
My sister will be among those numbers, among the throwaway lines
Among the platitudes and lowered eyes,
an older person with underlying health conditions,
A pitiful way to lay rest the bare bones of a life.
MY SISTER IS NOT A STATISTIC
Her underlying conditions were
Love
Kindness
Belief in the essential goodness of mankind
Uproarious laughter
Forgiveness
Compassion
A storyteller
A survivor
A comforter
A force of nature
And so much more
MY SISTER IS NOT A STATISTIC
She died without the soft touch of a loved one’s hand
Without the feathered kiss upon her forehead
Without the muted murmur of familiar family voices gathered around her bed,
Without the gentle roar of laughter that comes with memories recalled
Evoked from a time that already seems distant, when we were
connected by the simplicity of touch, of voice, of presence.
MY SISTER IS NOT A STATISTIC
She was a woman who spanned the seven ages.
A mother
A grandmother
A great grandmother
A sister
A Friend
An aunt
A carer
A giver
MY SISTER IS NOT A STATISTIC
And so, she joins the mounting thousands
THEY ARE NOT STATISTICS ON THE DEATHOMETER OF COVID
They are the wives, mothers, children, fathers, sisters, brothers
The layers of all our loved ones
If she could, believe me when I say, she would hold every last one of your loved ones, croon to and comfort them and say – you were loved.
Whilst we who have been left behind mourn deep, keening the loss, the injustice, the rage.
One day we will smile and laugh again, we will remember with joy that, once, we shared a life, we knew joy and survived sadness.
You are my sister …….. and I love you.
