By Shari Adler
Many survivors and veterans of war, or similar conditions, resist the comparison of living through a pandemic to living through any era of massive military deployment. The comparison of annihilating people to eradicating a virus is hard to make, since quarantining from a virus feels benign when juxtaposed to resisting artillery-armed humans. Yet, both situations present unspeakable grief.
On Monday night, February 22, President Joe Biden noted the 500,071 dead: “That’s more Americans who have died in one year in this pandemic than in World War I, World War II and the Vietnam War — combined.”
It is impossible to witness the grave magnitude of our collective loss of family, friends and neighbors without recalling other such losses due to military conflict.
On May 28, 2020, nine months ago, I wrote a Viewpoint piece for this paper titled “Pretend The Pebbles To Be Hearts.” This article was intended as a reflection and mourning of the first “100,000 Americans [who] have left our landscape forever.” I proposed running on a rocky bay beach for the sole purpose of connecting with nature to seek solace and peace.
I imagined the colors of the pebbles, from white to brown and black, awash at the water’s edge as representative of the diversity of skin tones of all the people on our Earth. I suggested that if we could imagine these pebbles to be symbols of our fellow lost souls, this may help us mourn their loss and alleviate our pain.
Now, in February 2021, with a half million lost souls, my emotions feel vacant as I fathom how to grieve for these deceased individuals. There are too many people gone. Mourning their loss seems hollow and insufficient. It is unfathomable and grotesque.
I wish it were a hyperbolic story, an exaggeration, or a fabrication. But these statistics are real and personal. Biden warned that “we have to resist becoming numb to the sorrow.” However, numbness is exactly my sentiment.
The reality of our collective loss is so severe, I am challenged to sleep through the night, and hard-pressed to retain energy during the day. I am concerned for my loved ones, my family and my friends who have yet to become vaccinated.
I spoke emphatically to a friend last week imploring her to concoct a story, any story, to get the vaccine. I begged her to be aggressive, to get it done. Her children have already lost one parent to the virus. I could not bear to see them lose another.
Every day, with trepidation, is an exploration. For one year, we have lived under the duress of not knowing if it is safe to visit a friend, go to the grocery store, or venture into a public arena. Young people, in particular, have given up living in quarantine. It simply is not in their DNA; their COVID fatigue is an understatement.
As a parent of young adult children, as are all my friends, I am viscerally worried. I fear for their lives while simultaneously empathizing with their need to socialize, since their mental health is vital to their well-being.
I decided to resurrect the minds of several great philosophers and authors to discover words of wisdom that might offer some solace. I journeyed through time via Google to resurrect unique pearls of comfort, and to learn from the brilliance of others.
My first search found Elie Wiesel, who said, “I write to understand as much as to be understood.” Writing is a fantastic tool for therapeutic exercise. When one writes ideas, keeps a diary or communicates with others through the written word, it helps to make sense of matters that, in fact, or otherwise, seem deeply illogical.
I continued my quest for thought-provoking philosophers in order to seek additional solace and comfort. Toni Morrison popped up, who said, “When there is pain, there are no words. All pain is the same.” Sure, pain is pain — but if there are no words, I am still at a loss. I remain bewildered as to how we convey feelings and share thoughts in order to provide relief and comfort.
I continued my pursuit. Next appeared Ernest Hemingway, another most amazing writer, who claimed, “There is nothing to writing. All you do is sit down at a typewriter and bleed.”
Every time I sit down to write, although at a MacBook Air, I try to convey an honesty and openness that bares my soul. The reader should be able to intuit my inner guts, my pulse, and the blood that pumps through my veins. To speak the truth is to be vulnerable.
My voyage through the internet continued, when I came upon James Baldwin, who claimed that, “Those who say it can’t be done are usually interrupted by others doing it.” Thus, according to Baldwin, the only option is doing — complaining is for cowards. If you are unable, someone else will step in and do it instead.
With 500,000 American people gone, we live in a state of fear about who may be next. I admire the steadfast tenacity of my friend who exudes inspiration as she courageously forges ahead. Her loss is unfair. To leave this Earth, with all its foibles as well as its beauty, prior to the completion of one’s life mission, is a tragedy.
After journeying through history researching great scholars, I have learned one lesson: Every day is a gift to be exploited toward its full potential. Since the beginning of the virus, I have been living as though in a bit of a hurry, knowing that one day there may be an abrupt end. I wish to leave enough of an established footprint from which the next generation can feel proud to follow, like my father left me.
As we experience each day with purpose and conviction, we mourn the magnitude of our collective losses of too many fellow American souls, family members, friends and neighbors. We reflect upon their stories; we say, may their memories be a blessing.
As Biden commemorated all those we have lost, he instilled hope as he promised, “This nation will smile again. This nation will know sunny days again. This nation will know joy again.”
Let us pray.
Shari Adler is a resident of Southampton and New York City.
More Posts from Viewpoint
