Quarantined and grieving the loss of my father on St. Patrick’s Day
By: Wanda O'Brien
Tags: St Patricks Day, Coronavirus, Dads, Death, Grieving

Quarantined and grieving the loss of my father on St. Patrick’s Day

With nowhere to go, and dwindling alcohol supply, I’m forced to pause and confront the death of my dad amidst the coronavirus crisis. Wanda O'Brien Mar 18, 2020·5 min read

The canal in Edenderry, County Offaly

March 17, 2020 will go down as a remarkable St. Patrick’s Day in history. It’s the day people did not gather in the pubs, did not parade down the streets, did not sing songs in crowded spaces. Whether in Dublin, Toronto, another major city or a small country town, the Irish are celebrating their heritage, identity and pride in their own smaller ways; individuals doing their part to communally combat and slow down COVID-19’s spread across the globe.

I’m sure St. Patrick himself would be pleased at this show of community togetherness: protect the vulnerable and give our hospitals a fighting chance.

Still, the shock of the change — the evidence of what’s happening in countries fighting the pandemic longer than Canada, new confirmed cases here in Toronto and abroad, the closure of restaurants and bars, libraries and gathering spaces — is difficult to process.

Yet for me, on a deeper, more personal level, March 17, 2020 will always go down as the first St. Patrick’s Day without my dad.

And I’m by myself.

My dad, an Irish Canadian, died January 29, one day after my birthday, on a Wednesday, six weeks and six days ago or a total of 48 days combined. He died with his family at his side in hospital. He died from an unexpected complication. He died before anyone who knew him thought he would, before meeting potential grandkids, before seeing me get a par on a single golf hole (he was adamant I go for a lesson this summer). He walked every day, he was active in his community, and so present in our lives. He had an indoor golf lesson the day before he went into hospital. All to say, the shock of his death is something that is also difficult to process. I can say that the 72-hours of slow-motion living up to his passing are crystalized in my imperfect human memory, as if I can account for every waking minute. After his death, the motions and emotions stretch a time frame shrouded in the obituary, and the wake, and the funeral — rituals with a forever changed weight and significance. After the Canadian commemorations, I travelled to Ireland with my mom and sister to be with our Irish family, those emerald roots so firmly planted within all my siblings. Then back to Canada, and back to work, and back to the relentless passing of time where I am busy, and I am grieving, and I am moving, and I am feeling, and always, always, I am counting time. The number of days passed. I observe the Wednesday, as a week turned into a month and soon two.

Five weeks to the day of his passing I decided to take a few days off work to go south to get some needed quiet and vitamin D. It was difficult and beautiful and healing. When I travelled home on the Sunday I had mild cold symptoms. Information about the novel coronavirus was becoming more well-known in Toronto, but businesses were operating as usual. With my heightened sensitivity to the health of those around me, I decided to self-isolate and work from home. As further recommendations came out, it was appropriate for me to get assessed. I was tested just as the trifecta of information came in that caused North Americans to needlessly stockpile toilet paper: the NBA season was suspended, the US announced confusing border restrictions from select countries, and Tom Hanks tested positive.

Whether or not the city was going into lock-down, I sure was. I cannot have spreading the virus, because I did not take proper precaution, on my 2020 conscience.

I am extraordinarily fortunate to have a job where I can work from home. So, I’ve been doing that. I’ve also just been quiet. I haven’t watched that much Netflix. When work is over, I look at the way the light bounces off my curtains, and I think, and sometimes I read. I cleaned my room. I play music and dance. On Friday night, I had a FaceTime friend party and we all got to choose a song to play at the same time, and we danced in our collective spaces and really, it was a wild time. I cry, randomly, and I don’t need to hide it because there is no one to hide it from. My emotions are simply with me. I acknowledge them, and we exist together, and it’s ok.

I want to be helpful to others, but I can’t be physically helpful right now, other than by staying put. This situation gives myself the permission to be still, as I responsibly await my test results. Grief is an on-going emotional journey that breathes, and like the pandemic response, it is also fluid.

This doesn’t take away from the devastation ripping throughout the globe.

My heart breaks for people who are losing loved ones during this crisis, whether due to the virus or other reasons. It breaks for people who aren’t able to be bedside in hospital; who want to grieve their loved one with their loved ones and cannot; who had to cancel funerals; who cannot go through the motions of planning a service at this time. I offer them my deepest condolences knowing it’s not deep enough. I hope they share stories about the person they loved, and that people who loved that person share stories with them. Stories are not cancelled. Community, albeit not in-person, is not cancelled. Friends, family, and strangers sharing stories with me of interactions they had with my dad is an antidote to my suffering. It was a balm I didn’t know existed until gifted to me and I worry now that I wouldn’t have received those gifts if I hadn’t been physically present. Memories are powerful and precious, whether shared in an e-mail, a card, on the phone or through a quick text. They remind us that we are not alone, even when no one knows precisely what another human is going through.

Perhaps this is my personal COVID-19 conclusion, the evening before the seventh Wednesday, this March 17. I remind myself that I am isolated, but not alone. I know this to be true because of who my dad was, and my deep sense of who I am, and the beautiful community of loved ones — family, friends and colleagues — who are the threads that make up my support system, whether I tug at them or not. I know it because of the hilarious use of my “drive-by” window, where important supplies (aka wine and Irish cheese) are dropped off. I am overwhelmed by the enormous good fortune I have, and I am reminded of how lucky I am to have spent 33 years (plus one day) knowing my dad.

Happy St. Patrick’s Day — from an appropriate distance.