Grieving From The Sidelines of Covid
The story and poems shared here, are done so with the permission of those who remain from the experience.
It’s been almost a year (10 months, as I’m typing this) since my buddy Matt Holt (aka Bionic Matt) died of complications from Covid. While a year seems really far away right now, I still remember my experience of the last two weeks of his life as if it had been yesterday.
I had been getting frequent text updates from his fiancé Maris (my other dear friend) as soon as his test came back positive, and hers would follow soon after. I kept assuring her everything would be ok, told her not to panic, and reminded her they were vaccinated. I finally started to worry a few days later, when she texted me that she had just sent him to the hospital in an ambulance.
That was not good.
I’m not going to get into his entire medical history, but it’s important to know that his health wasn’t great, to begin with, he was up there in the “high risk” category, and even though he was vaxed and boosted, and masked and socially distant from the very beginning, it wasn’t enough to save him (and no, this is not an anti-vax argument, I very much support Covid precautions and Matt would too, even if the outcome was the same).
For the next 14 days, I was more or less on-call with Maris in a gut-wrenching 24/7 vigil of trying to ease her own fears and anxiety while also lighting candles, pulling cards, and begging Jesus, Mary and whatever other gods and goddess were around to hear me, to just DO SOMETHING. And for a moment, I thought they had.
I got another update from Maris, she had miraculously willed herself to functioning health, finally had a negative test, and was able to get to the hospital to be with him. She told me he was still on the ventilator but was responsive, he was communicating through notes and that he could feel our prayers. She sent me what he had written for all of us:
I was hopeful, I really was. I kept saying my prayers and kept lighting my candles, but the hope was short-lived. The doctors determined that despite their best efforts to take him off the ventilator, he couldn’t manage to breathe on his own. Maris was beside herself, and I had many heartbreaking conversations with her as she agonized over the impossible decision that was coming. She kept telling me to pray, and I did, but eventually, I changed my petition and just asked for whoever guides us into the Afterlife to make it quick and painless and to take his fear away.
Three days after that prayer, Maris texted me again.
“He’s gone.”
I knew it was coming but it didn’t make it any easier to feel. My husband and I sat in the stunned silence of our apartment for a while, and at some point, I had to move. I had to do anything other than sit in a world where Matt wasn’t anymore. So I picked up the stack of mail I had dropped on the couch right before we had gotten the final update, and started shuffling through it. There, stuck in with the bills and junk, was an envelope from our friend Stephanie. Among her many lovely traits and talents, she’s a poet and we’d signed up to get monthly poems from her. I knew she had no idea of what was going on when she wrote and sent these out, and I think the timing of their delivery was kind of amazing. In my hands, were several poetic index cards reading:
The words didn’t change my reality, but in a way I can’t explain, it was a balm to the immediate grief I was feeling.
Over the following weeks, we spent time with Maris remembering Matt, his humor, his Yoda-like insights on life, and sharing his art and God-like bass and guitar skills which should be known to all.
Due to his pre-existing health condition, Matt wasn’t someone we saw often, but we stayed connected through texting, Minecraft, and Discord. When we did get to see him, the visits were always memorable and meaningful, and I am so grateful that my last memory of him was a hug.
Once the shock of his death wore off, I did what most writers do when their pain is still lodged inside their bones, I wrote some of it out of me. I haven’t openly said much about what happened to Matt because I didn’t think it was my place to do so, and I’ve only shared the following poems with a select few, but with Maris’ permission, I am putting all of this out there for the rest of you. To everyone who is still grieving and recovering from the chaos and loss of this pandemic, my heart goes out to you, and I hope in sharing this story, you might feel less alone in whatever pain you may still be feeling.
Also, as one final tribute to Matt, I’d ask anyone reading this to consider making a donation to the Memorial Solan Kettering Center in New York, or donating blood or plasma at your local donation bank.
- Last Words From Me to You (via Facebook Messenger)
MAY 07, 2022 AT 1:01 PM
“Felt like I needed to send this, we’re thinking of you, we love you, and I’ve been tapping into my inner Wiccan for you ❤”
I knew you were going, when she said you had seen your father.
I wish I had hit Send one day sooner.
And I had to hide all of our messages because I couldn’t stop looking at the one that remains Delivered, instead of Read.
2. Day One
Grief sits like a stone in my ribcage.
How much heavier are the stones for the hearts of those who knew you longer and better than me?
3. Excerpt of Messages to Maris, via Text May 12, 2022
Deep breaths We’re hugging you both Holding your hands They all send their love
I have an alarm set I will check-in
If this is what your heart is telling you Go with it, You both know What’s best There is no right Or wrong Decision
We are with you We love you We love him We are surrounding you with so much love I love you
I’m so sorry I’m so sorry We love you Deep breaths.
