Return to Say Goodbye

Tired, I nonetheless carried my pounding head home. There’s no joy in multiple transatlantic flights over a couple of days. An unreasonable panic only made it worse, cutting off the vacation end of my trip. Topping it off was that lingering feeling of a sore throat and potential cold coming on.

Were it not for Elli, I’m not sure I would have made it through. I’d have curled up in the corner of some terminal, a nervous puddle waiting to be mopped away. Elli would likely complain about the trouble I’d caused the poor janitor. We’re the types that constantly poke fun at each other, but she knew how to be serious — at least briefly, until I was good enough to poke fun at again.

Elli’d been looking forward to the final weeks of my trip, perhaps more than I had. She encouraged me to treat it as a vacation. I needed it, she’d tell me. Take some strolls along the shoreline, enjoy the ocean. I like listening to the waves, sweeping my worries slowly back into the endless depths.

Alas, after one short-lived stroll, an epidemic ended my trip.

It was a somewhat surreal feeling at first, at least between the bouts of panic and uncertainty. I was going home because the borders might close. I wasn’t merely traveling — I was escaping. And not in any metaphorical sense, but actually escaping before time ran out.

It felt ridiculous, like another weird political power play, no clear goal in mind. Sure, the World Health Organization was flashing dire signs, but it’s not like they hadn’t done so before. Their parents had never told them the story of the boy who cried wolf.

I guessed I would be with the kids again sooner than expected. I sent them a text message saying I’d be back soon. They’d already lamented the fact that I hadn’t had much time to get gifts for them. My son, Andreas, was fascinated with exotic candy, whereas my daughter, Liz, enjoyed thinking puzzles.

I had been shopping recently, but only to buy some more food for the fridge, stocking up for the few weeks I’d be there. It was crazy; two hours before, I was prepping for my stay. Now I was suddenly prepping to leave. The food was nagging at me as I packed my bags.

There was a package of tempting thick bacon. It had to be cooked. I’m sure it’s a crime somewhere to abandon bacon. I threw it in the stove, letting it crisp to perfection. I sent a picture to my kids, taunting them with a stack of it for me alone. I started a salad at the same time, thinking I couldn’t sit down and eat only a plate of bacon. Though I suspect there’s a similar law somewhere saying that’s an acceptable meal.

Not feeling like eating, I let most of it lie on my plate, untouched. Stuffing myself with bacon before a flight didn’t seem wise. My belly was already grumbling in dissatisfaction, demanding a return to my normal diet. Besides, I wanted to leave some room for nervous eating at the airport.

Sleep didn’t come easily that night, either. Jet lag was part of it, but my asthma was also acting up lately. I woke up around three in the morning with a slight difficulty breathing.

I sent a short message to Elli. Though early, the time zone difference meant she was up. She’d also been a bit ill lately, feeling tired yet having difficulties sleeping. I wished her well, but she said not to worry, demanding I get some more sleep before a likely long day.

I took my medicine and managed to doze back off until five, when I got up and packed the rest of my stuff.

I ended up going to the office that morning, reasoning that I might as well snatch some more time with the remote teams while waiting for the evacuation flight. The mood was somber, and it came as no surprise that I wasn’t motivated enough to get much work done, abandoning my post to arrive at the airport way too early.

It was far calmer than I imagined it’d be. Who’d expect that, with a pending border closure, the flights wouldn’t even be full? My image of people desperately searching for tickets had been misguided. And despite some people wearing masks, the hygiene notices placed conspicuously around us, it was a rather comfortable airport experience. Did most people share my view that this reaction was all a bit overblown — that the coronavirus was just another bug?

I’d been making light of the situation with Elli, but I sensed a note of disapproval in her answering texts. We’d been friends for about a year, but I’d never known her to react that way before. But then, absence tends to make all communication feel less personal, more critical. Maybe it was just in my head. Soon enough, I assured myself, we’d be together again, with an extended embrace to reset all the positive feelings.

A lady coughing in the food court made me uncomfortable. For a moment, my eyes could only see germs. There, floating in the air, landing on the table in front of her. What about the table I was sitting at, the chair I’d pulled out with my bare hands? The food I was eating?

It should have curbed my hunger, but it did not. The haphazard taco construction was problematic, but even a bad taco is still good food. Nobody would accuse me of being lax should I get sick eating such savory morsels. These reasons felt like justification for my inability to stop eating. The food just disappeared, down to the last fragments scattered to the edges of the plate.

Getting through security was relatively quick. I figured it was best to suppress my opposition to the scanners — yet another symptom of political nonsense. Here we have a machine that can outline everything on the body, but instead, due to modesty concerns, the machine displays only a generic body with rectangular areas of interest to the guards.

I would have preferred an explicit, immodest photo. It might have saved me from the intimate pat-down that came immediately after. Better do the bomb residue check as well. All excellent ways to stop the spread of the coronavirus.

At least they had hands-free water-filling stations. I had a lot of time, and my lips were a bit dry, the vague discomfort blending in with that lingering sore throat. I was a little light-headed as well — surely all symptoms of poor rest, bad diet, and plenty of stress over past weeks.

Post-security felt quieter than normal, a welcoming calm, though I still felt a strong desire to eat. I almost never eat food at the airport, but this time, my nerves practically demanded it.

After another bite to eat, I managed to doze off for a while. Departure was still a while away.

The relaxed atmosphere persisted up until boarding, when the Norwegian Air personnel played a chaotic pre-boarding game. Lining people up, checking IDs and passports, asking people to move around the room, lining them up again, delaying boarding, marking boarding cards, calling a hundred names to recheck the same IDs again.

It was the scene I’d expected in the entry terminal, hundreds attempting to leave while they still could — yet it looked like the delays were caused by the boarding staff, not the passengers.

I never got an explanation of what happened. For all the chaos, the flight was surprisingly under-booked, every third or fourth seat remaining empty. Everybody obediently suppressed all coughs and sneezes, desperate to avoid raising any alarms.

The cabin crew threatened to lower my mood with their sullen frowns and kept me awake by bumping me every time they walked past. My last-minute ticket didn’t entitle me to food, not even water, and certainly not friendliness. At least the dodgy service took my mind off current affairs.

I worried there’d be problems with my connection. It should be fine, but then again, a couple of days earlier, this whole situation would have seemed unrealistic. Still, in my head, the crisis was primarily one of overreaction.

It’d be okay. And, despite a long layover, it was.

I had a chat with a young lady bound for pre-tourism holiday training. It was her first summer job, and she was looking forward to it. It was reassuring to have people going about their normal lives still. Hopefully, the political powers that be wouldn’t interrupt her summer.

That last leg of my journey was better than the first; a half-empty plane and a far more pleasant flight crew.

It’d been a month since I was home, so it would be nice to see everybody again. My kids would have missed me. My friends were likely anxious for another movie night. Though I wasn’t central in the city, I apparently had the biggest place — or perhaps they came for the snacks. It didn’t matter, I’d see them all soon enough.

I called Elli the moment I got home; it’d definitely be nice to see her again. But that would have to wait a bit. She was recovering from a light illness and didn’t want to put me at risk. We’d play it safe a few days until she felt better. I joked that she’d have to find a better excuse to avoid me the following week. She assured me it was nothing of the sort, feigning disgust at my intolerable humour.

Somehow during the call, she managed to convince me to take care of myself and avoid meeting people as the pandemic situation became grimmer. I was still unconvinced of the world’s reaction, but I also didn’t want to be one of those idiots dying of hubris. As the news told me, my asthma was a pre-existing condition that put me in an at-risk category. The next movie night would have to be put on hold, at least for a week, until I figured out what to do.

My kids were staying with their mother, as they always do when I’m away. Liz and I had just started a new puzzle before I’d left. Her goodbye wish was, “Come back soon, we have a puzzle to finish.”

I’m thankful they decided to come over the day after I returned.

When Andreas and Liz arrived, I gathered them in my arms and squeezed them into a single group hug. My daughter, the older of the two, was old enough to simply accept it. My son, just getting into his teenage years, would squirm, trying to escape this embarrassing physical gesture of affection, quickly looking around to ensure nobody he knew had seen.

I subjected them to an appropriate array of Dad antics, chores, and games. All wholly for the benefit of the children, I assure you of that.

We even managed to make a final trip to the store before being plunged into a locked-down society. My pantry was utterly empty. To avoid spoilage, I’d made sure to clear out my fridge before the trip. I hadn’t planned perfectly and ended up eating my pantry empty as well.

I was only trying to refill my cupboard, though given the atmosphere, my over-filled shopping cart was likely telling a different story. In the eyes of the other customers, I was one of those types, panic-shopping, buying more than my fair share. Loading up on things like dry beans and canned tomatoes as though to last through a hard winter. That I was missing pasta and flour showed only my tardiness, as supplies had already run out, rather than being something I wouldn’t normally buy.

I had to laugh at the thought of all those purchased beans languishing in kitchen pantries, waiting months, years, to be used. The moment the crisis passed, so would any desire to cook those beans or use all that extra flour. Okay, so perhaps I was buying a bit more than needed myself, but surely it’d all be used up within a couple months, if that.

It was nice to see the kids. We’d start our routine again, I promised myself, with movie nights with friends just around the corner. A good end to a stressful trip.

The cough started a few days later. Dry and intermittent, I didn’t think much about it. Sure, it was a symptom of the virus, but it wasn’t unusual for me to have a cough at times. And the heavy breathing was par for the course with asthma.

Tired? Sure, but with a month of traveling, jet lag, overwork, and a bad diet, who wouldn’t be? It wasn’t like I was a young man anymore. I already struggle to keep my eyes open during dinner. Elli often makes fun of my afternoon naps, though I know she’s just jealous.

She worried more about the cough than I did. I was more familiar with my regular symptoms, with illnesses that came and went and tended to be mild. Nonetheless, I felt it was prudent to tell the kids to stay away for a while. I’d focus on my work; it’d give me a chance to clear out the overflowing inbox. I’d check in with Elli regularly. She’d been pushed into a home office as well. Positive cases of the virus were popping up around the city — including at the office I would otherwise have been returning to. To intensify the impact, I’d see its official name, Sars-Cov-2, pop up in the news — certainly nastier-sounding than something “novel”.

A day later, work became a little harder. I was tired, a bit dizzy. But after all, I was still stressed from everything and hadn’t found the time to make proper food, resulting in my not eating much at all. I often get lightheaded when I don’t eat enough.

I took a break and went outside to take care of the flowers, or rather, take care of the pots and prep them for the flowers. I enjoy a balcony full of color.

It was better afterwards; my breathing came easier. I felt like hugging somebody to express my relief.

I took the time to make a big dinner, wanting far more of it than I should have. It felt good to eat some proper food — the perfect accompaniment to an evening of Netflix. I followed it up with a hot shower to segue into a good night’s rest.

Difficulty breathing woke me up early, or late, depending on how you look at it. Grabbing my inhaler, I took a puff but coughed it right back out again. After a few more coughs had settled, I took another puff. I needed to open the window before I could sleep again; it was hot.

A second sleep often takes a good while, so I sent off a few text messages to Elli — some inane joke about “the big bad bug came to bite me.” I’m not sure anymore what I wrote, but something went wrong with the meaning.

I switched my pillow to one that felt drier and managed to slip back into sleep.

I was awoken by my doorbell. It seemed unlikely the packages I’d ordered would be delivered so early, so I ignored it. But whoever it was rang again, and there was also a pounding on the window.

I wrapped a blanket around myself and got up.

I saw two paramedics outside the door. Shit, had something happened to the old guy who lived upstairs? I opened the door. I wanted to ask, “What’s the matter?” I said, “What’s the — ” and had to gasp for breath. “I think I’ll sit d — “ My head was spinning, repeatedly knocked into motion by a hammer. I slumped to the floor with the paramedics approaching me. They were saying something; Elli’s name came up. I guess she hadn’t been happy with my midnight jokes.

“Phone, phone?” Apparently the only words I could form. One of the team grabbed my phone from the bedside. I was focused on breathing more than anything. The scenery changed briefly to sky, then to a shaky vehicle ceiling, then momentarily to sky again. Last, a scrolling ceiling in a sea of people dressed in protective clothing.

I awoke sometime later. My breathing was laboured but stable. A raspy in and out, like ocean waves lapping against a rocky shore.

The phone was at my bedside, running low on battery. I’d have to get a charging cable.

There were several angry, or perhaps just panicky, messages from Elli. Somehow, I’d managed to sleep for another ten hours that night — so uncommon for me that she’d sent people to check.

Nobody else had called or written. I sent off a few replies to Elli, then held the phone, waiting for a reply. Fatigue overwhelmed me again. I felt the phone vibrate, but lifting it up to look, I saw nothing. Just phantom vibrations.

I was drifting away again. A few more vibrations jostled me, but I managed to ignore them and fall back to sleep.

I wake up and feel like coughing again, but no longer have the energy to do so. I’d say it’s hard to breathe, but I think a machine is doing that for me now. In those moments when my hearing isn’t clouded, I can hear that ventilator slowly pumping, air in, air out, wave in, wave out, nipping slowly at my feet, pulling me out to sea.

My phone has fallen away somewhere, but I haven’t received any messages anyway. I guess it hasn’t been that long, though I wish my kids would write something. I wish at least Elli would check on me. Maybe she’s on her way here. My phone’s battery’s probably drained.

I have no perception of time, yet the machine clicking beside me assures me it’s still passing.

It’s been so long since I was last in a hospital. I’d forgotten the empty feeling. Despite people bustling about everywhere, they’re all somehow distant. I remember my parents visiting, how happy I was to see them — people I’d spent most of my days as a child trying to avoid. Now, I could even tolerate the sight of my annoying sister.

With nobody here now, the time drags. Without even a book, it’s only isolation.

I suppose Elli is punishing me for my texts. It doesn’t seem like her, but why else won’t she come? Perhaps I was right: trying to save me from her illness is just an excuse to not see me anymore. I guess these things happen.

It feels like something I should cry about, but something holds me from it. I guess I’ve never been able to cry about much. There are certainly movies that make me feel bad, and at times, perhaps I even feel tears, but something always holds them back. A ray of hope waiting to strike through the clouds?

I’m drifting in and out. Each time I open my eyes it’s to an empty room, only the machine to keep me company.

Surely somebody has told my family, my kids, at least my sister? I guess even if she knows, she’d still be far away. Perhaps those silly travel bans did come into effect, but I assume allowances can be made for family. But we don’t talk often, so maybe she doesn’t feel the need to come.

I struggle to keep my eyes open, labouring to catch glimpses of who else might be in the room. When I’m lucky, there’s a nurse checking my machine.

Sometimes I roll my arm off the side of the bed. A nurse then picks it up and puts it back, tucking it under the sheet and ensuring I’m comfortable. It feels nice, which is odd; they’re strangers, yet the contact is reassuring.

I try to dwell on that feeling, but the thoughts turn back to absence. Where are my kids? Where’s Elli? It feels like months since I’ve seen them; perhaps it has been with Elli. Time, the eater of all relationships.

With every tiny movement, I try grasping at whoever is there, yet somehow my arms don’t respond much anymore. I lie in place, distant even from those in the same room.

This is the moment my composure cracks. I’m not alright, and there’ll be no further chances to reconcile with friends and family. Without fanfare, I’ll fade to a lonely +1 on some chart.

I don’t know if my eyes are open or closed anymore, but I can feel the tears running down my cheeks, a bottled-up wave of emotion pouring over me. Anger at the world, hate for my friends, disappointment with my kids, my family. An ever-growing sea of sadness buoying that torrent of negativity.

The ocean has come to claim me, to wash away this lonely stain stranded on the shore.

So wet the tears, so cold the ocean.