It occurs to me that I don’t recall last Easter. That is a remarkable thing for me as I typically like Easter. But I don’t remember the first detail of last year.
But then again, there’s a lot about the last year I don’t remember. And some of what I remember I would prefer to forget. But memory is a tricky thing. Try as you like you sometimes can’t pick and choose what gets burned into your consciousness.
What a terrible year 2020 was. 500,000 of our fellow citizens perished from a pandemic that I was only vaguely aware of when I was summoned out of the blue to appear at the office of my PCP in February of that year. I want to say it was last February. But time really didn’t have much meaning last year. Days succeeded to other... days. Days during which there was little to do but to exist.
“Paul, you need to listen to me,” the doc said. “We are about to confront the health care crisis of a lifetime. We can’t treat it right now. I can’t even test you for it. We are completely unprepared. People like you with chronic upper respiratory issues are at tremendous risk. To the greatest extent you can just stay home I want you to just stay home. I’m a firm believer in fresh air and sunshine. So you can go for walks by yourself or with your wife. But that’s about it. And I want you to do this. Here. Stand beside me.”
“This” was deep inhalation followed by forced exhalation. Like when they test me for asthma.
“5 times,” he said. “In and out. 3 times a day. We need to build your lungs up in case you get it. Here are all your prescriptions for the next 6 months. Hopefully we will have a better handle on things by then.”
He put his hand on my shoulder.
“And if you think you have COVID don’t come here. Go to the ER at the med school. That’s all I can tell you.”
We tapped elbows and I walked out the door.
And, to quote the famous poet, in short, I was afraid.
That doctor’s visit I do remember.
And my brother David died last November. I will always remember that.
But I don’t remember the first thing about last Easter.
Maybe today marks a new beginning. My church is holding services outdoors at War Memorial Stadium. That seems to me to be a hopeful thing. It will be good to wear seersucker and see familiar faces again. Well, to the extent that you can see them obscured as they will be by masks that is. And like my doctor, I’m a firm believer in fresh air and sunshine.
As many of you know, I don’t have much use for Christmas. It is, for the most part, frivolous and expensive. But I like Easter, with it’s Gospel lesson of victory over despair. If the world ever needed some Easter it is now.
My brothers and I are going to play golf this afternoon. I can’t think of a better day to begin a new tradition. Life is too damn short. We are not promised tomorrow. God almighty were we ever taught that bit of truth last year.
I hope that today is an Easter to remember. For me and for you.
***
I haven’t written much since Dave died. I can’t describe it other than to say that I just basically went blank there for 2-3 months. I am sustained and hovered over by a good wife and the best friends a man can possibly have. And yet I still have those moments.
But things, both personally and out in the world in general, are returning to a semblance of what passes for normal. The COVID infection rate is going down. More people are getting vaccinated. The economy is picking up. I’m back at Catholic High and I still have my law students to tend to if only online. The state legislature is a cauldron of stupid. But that’s to be expected in Trumpified Arkansas. Some things don’t change. Indeed, they can get worse.
But the NCAA Men’s Finals are tomorrow night. And Major League Baseball started last week. Trump, ensconced as he is at Mira Elba, as decreed that MLB should be boycotted for pulling the All-Star Game out of Atlanta. Therefore, I shall consider tuning in to be my patriotic duty.
I still have my moments. But things are returning to a semblance of what passes for normal.
I’ll take it. And I’ll see you around.
