Day #4 Writing Through Covid-19: My Parents Move In

So much has happened so fast. My daughter in Spain is my harbinger. Her country had zero cases when I was there 24 days ago. This morning their tally was 24,926 including 1326 deaths.

It is her warnings, and those from family in Minneapolis, that were the impetus for today's move of my feeble and moderately confused parents from their sitting-duck situation at Friendship Haven to their moving-duck situation in my basement.

We don't know if this move will actually prevent them from getting Covid-19. But the care center where they've been happy to be living for the past year is necessarily limiting the residents to their rooms. No more Bridge Club, Trivia Fridays, Memoir Writing Group. My siblings and I agreed that moving them during this time will hopefully lessen their chances of being exposed, at least in the short term. The main goal is to increase their happiness, not necessarily their longevity.

My biggest worry for now is that there might be some confusion on what increases happiness.

We have set up their living space on the single floor of our walk-out basement. It is bright with east windows, and they can walk their dog Vern out the back door without a step. (Side story: my parents' favorite topic seems to be quantifying Verm's BMs, as they call them.)

Last evening I showed my mother where the washer and dryer were and told her I could show her how to run the machines as often as necessary. She laughed and said, "Oh, the machines at Friendship Haven are automatic! I'll just use those."

"But you're staying here," I said, jolted again by how memory holes suddenly gape open in her conversations--like loud cracks of ice when you thought the ground was firm.

My mother looked at me with terror and said, "How LONG will we be here?!"

I quickly realized my mistake in saying "staying here" and assured her she would eventually go back to Friendship Haven--where she wants to be. I reminded her that this was a temporary move, and her horrified expression relaxed a bit. We shared a common shudder at that thought this situation might be permanent.
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Before I went upstairs for the night, I walked my mother into the bathroom to show her a poem I had taped to the mirror. She began reading it aloud, and I joined in. We read it together to our reflections as our audience.

Enough.
Stay well.
Write.