Day #41 Writing Through COVID-19: Poems and Newspapers

On Thursday my brother-in-law Randy was given two units of blood to counter his severe anemia that likely resulted from the blood thinners used during his induced coma. His hemoglobin has since stabilized and he is feeling stronger. He is still hospitalized but no longer in the ICU.

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After last night's rant, I prioritized housekeeping today. I washed the bedding and vacuumed and even ran vinegar through the coffee pot. I'd give myself a solid C+ in Basic Living today.

Because my dad is reading a 600-page tome about Abraham Lincoln, I selected Whitman's "Captain, My Captain" for our morning poem--our second Whitman poem in as many days. Last night they watched "Death of a Salesman," so at breakfast we had that classic to discuss as well.

My parents are an English teacher's dream: they love literature; they're eager to discuss what they have read or watched; and (bonus!) they do not have SnapChat or TikTok as constant distractions. 

Spending the first hour of my day drinking coffee and discussing "The Old Man and the Sea" or "When I Heard the Learn'd Astronomer" with thoughtful, pleasant people gets us started on the right foot. 

But like most days, we also had missteps today.

It was the newspaper. Again. I delivered my parents' mail at lunch but had to tell them their papers hadn't come. I gave them (another!) letter from my sister Adrienne, who has written to them daily since they moved in. 

But my mom wanted a newspaper. I weakly offered her my thin Atlantic News-Telegraph.

An hour later, I'd lain down for a nap when my doorbell rang. It was my mom at the front door.

"Our newspaper hasn't come!" 

"Right," I said. "It didn't come today."

"Why not!?" She was ticked.

"I don't know. It usually comes. Today it didn't." 

My answer was inadequate. I tried offering her old newspapers, the ploy I used successfully last week to distract her from the non-existent Sunday Register. "I don't want to read old news," said the woman who can no longer read a novel because she can't remember what happened in chapter one by the time she reaches chapter three.

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It is puzzling and fascinating, but also sad, to watch my mother talk thoughtfully about a poem, laugh quickly at a joke, engage fluently in some conversations--and then (hijacked!) spin off on a day-long jag about the missing newspaper! 

When I called the Register to check on the status of their Sunday subscription, I was routed through a series of voice prompts before hearing the "Due to COVID-19..." message that ended with a disconnection.

Tomorrow will be my parents' seventh Sunday here on Eagle Avenue. When I invited them in, I didn't know what to expect. I've been surprised at how loving we are to each other. I'm cherishing the hours I spend in their company. I had no idea how much reconnecting to my parents at this stage in our lives would mean to me.

But I also didn't realize how missing newspapers would come to dominate my days.

Enough.
Stay well.

Write.

Allison