On Sunday July 7th, escaping the heat on another day forecasting 112F/45C, Antoinette and I drive 420 miles to the Oregon Coast, where it’s a good 50F/10C cooler. 

 

The next morning, we arrive at dad’s house as planned. He is to come home with us in a few days and start a new life in California, where he lived the first 78 years of his life. He has been reluctant, even angry about this change, but he has no choice. We have no choice. We are here to help him.

 

He knows we’re coming, but has not been answering the phone. This is not unusual for him. We have gone through periods like this before. The plan was to arrive at his house at 10:00 on Monday morning, the 8th, and take him to his favourite place, Mattie's Pancake House, for brunch. After that we’ll spend the day visiting with him; driving to his favourite beaches, and hopefully getting him comfortable (again) with all the changes to come. 

 

Tuesday and Wednesday we plan to help dad pack whatever he wants to bring (that can fit in my Jeep) sell his car (he has agreed to give up driving, even though Oregon recently renewed his license until he’s 103) pick up his medications (not many) and prepare him for the long drive home Thursday morning. He has not been on such a long drive in about a decade, so is understandably anxious about it. 

His home (a modest duplex he has rented for 18 years) will be emptied by professionals after we get him to my place. It would be too upsetting for him for us to attempt this while he is still living there. We have learnt from experience how to minimize his stress and anxiety which has grown with age and isolation. 

 

These plans have been four months in the making. We have kept dad informed every step of the way, but he is experiencing some cognitive decline and often doesn’t remember what we’ve talked about. He is also stubborn, proud, unpredictable, and angry about giving up his independence. We get it. We’re sympathetic and are trying to make the best of a difficult situation. 

 

 

Back to Monday morning. 

 

 

We arrive at dad’s house at the agreed time. When he doesn’t answer the door, we call and shout out to him from outside. Eventually we discover the door is locked in such a way the key alone won't work. He has never locked up the house like this before.

 

Upon summoning the property manager and the police, we eventually end up having to break the door down. Elderly neighbours come outside to watch. 

 

Once inside, we discover dad’s dead body on the bedroom floor, straight as an arrow, left hand over heart, feet facing the door, wearing underpants and cowboy socks. It was a lonely, violent death. There is a lot of blood. It looks like an assassination. And in fact it was.

The police confirm this was a Covid assassination. They have seen it before. 

 

 

Dad was never vaccinated for Covid. He said he and his doctor didn’t believe Covid was a big deal. Heartbreakingly, it turned out to be a very big deal. He died from Covid, with his bags neatly packed, ready to finally come home with us. It looked like he had been dead a couple of days. Probably since Saturday. 

 

 

 

We cry our eyes out and do all the things one does cleaning up after death (plus more in this gruesome situation) We get dad's body cremated, at the only place in town, and in less than 48 hours after finding him, we’re sprinkling his still warm ashes in his favourite harbour. A lone male California Brown Pelican, dad's favourite and the first spotted on this trip, shows up and plunge dives for half an hour.

 

These magnificent creatures have had a rough year. Hundreds have been found starved to death because of the changing ocean currents, storms and wind, brought on with climate breakdown, making it harder for them to feed. 

 

We take small comfort knowing that dad wanted to die. He told us this many times since mom’s death two-and-a-half years ago. He had outlived nearly everyone he had known, with the exception of two friends who lived far away. He was isolated; alone; alarmed by his diminishing stamina and strength; angry at the state of the world; chronically perplexed by how complicated everything had become; overwhelmed by the practical demands of modern life. 

Returning home, we resolve to rejoin our health club - and DO - after a six month hiatus. Antoinette gets a stunning six-hour memorial tattoo in remembrance of her pelican loving grandparents. We practice a lot of self care as we grieve what is and might have been.

Two weeks later, we’re filled with hope and optimism as Kamala Harris launches her campaign to become our country’s first woman president. It’s a time of new beginnings. I throw myself into designing ‘President Kamala’ yard signs and bumper stickers. I interview to join our city’s Senior Citizen Commission, determined to invest my remaining time in the Socialist politics I’m most passionate about. 

 

 

And then,

And then we are hit with Covid. 

Antoinette, John and I.

Fallon seems okay, but then the young usually are, fortunately. We’re downing Paxvolid and sleeping a lot from exhaustion. 

 

This is my third encounter with Covid, in spite of having every vaccination and booster on offer. Each time it has been very different. The first time it hit my lungs hard and permanently damaged them. The second time it clung to my throat, sinuses and lungs for months. This time it’s mostly gastrointestinal. Antoinette and I were commenting on how we can feel Covid moving around in our bodies; actually feel it attacking various places. Super creepy. 

 

The first time I caught Covid in January 2023, I thought for sure I was going to die. The second time, seven months ago, I thought I might die. This time, I’m pretty sure I won’t die from it, but wish I had stronger immunity. This is getting crazy.

 

People who say Covid is no big deal infuriate me. It’s a huge deal for many of us, especially those with chronic health conditions; weak lungs and immunity issues. It’s a very big deal, but I am unwilling to not participate fully in life for fear of Covid. I try to minimize my risk, but the risk is always there. 

If so inclined, here’s a look at our July 2024 Gallery

 

No matter how compromised

I feel, when my President Kamala signs and bumper stickers arrive, I’m going to plaster them around the yard and on the Jeep. That will definitely lift my spirits. If you want me to send you a bumper sticker, I'm happy to do so. 

 

Sadly, I had a friend from our health club, in her seventies, tell me that she and her husband are afraid to put a President Kamala bumper sticker on their vehicles. They live in Vacaville, about twenty miles from us in Davis. This is one of the surprising things about California. A shocking number of ultra conservative people live here, especially inland where we are. Even in Davis, a liberal university city, it is not unusual to see someone driving a massive pick-up truck, sporting Trump propaganda. What a relief it will be when he finally disappears into obscurity. 

 

If only I could be a good Buddhist like Leonard Cohen was and let people off the hook, help them off the hook.