That Time My Dad Died During a Pandemic
By: Patty Montesi
Tags: Pandemic Reflections, Dads, Latinos, Seattle, Death And Dying

On February 29, 2020, I was not at home in Seattle. A last-minute work trip sent me to Boston, so I took Friday the 28th as a vacation day, hopped on the train down to New York City, and then a bus to my childhood stomping grounds of Hudson County, NJ.

On February 29, 2020, I’m walking up the staircase that leads from the front door to my parent’s apartment with my cousin, whom I just let in. “It’s official! First case of COVID-19 is in the US and in Seattle, Washington no less!” We exchange ‘oh boy’ and laugh nervously. This is the first time I actually feel fear about the virus that’s been on the TVs at work non-stop for weeks. I can’t decide if the fear is finally hitting me because now it’s in the states, or in my state specifically, or if it’s because my dad’s face keeps flashing before my eyes…I get a pang in my heart as though whatever is about to unfold is going to make the end of my dad’s life even harder. Or maybe just more complicated. Or maybe I’m worried over nothing. I can’t decide. He’s been on the decline for over a decade, so I’m not sure why right now is the time for any deep contemplation about his death. I open the door to the apartment and let the sounds of my Spanglish-speaking family push the worry out of my head. Time for empanadas and gossip …the soul-nourishing vitamins I’ve missed for so long.

After seeing the last family member out, I lock the door for the first time that day and sit near my dad. The apartment still has that lingering party energy of camaraderie and gratefulness, but Papi is sleeping. He was seemingly always sleeping. Even through the chaos of three generations of seven families in a modest one-bedroom apartment, Papi slept on his recliner in front of the TV, still blasting a western. My childhood is littered with this familiar scene: Papi loved westerns and they were always on the TV when he was home. I’m sure he could recite this particular one from memory if he were still cognizant enough to do so. I lower the volume. The sound of his labored breathing slowly dissipates the last of the party energy until there’s just pregnant malaise. The red wine blankets my muscles and I look at him. I can hear Mami finish washing the last dish in the sink, sigh, and make her way into the bathroom. I decide it’s time for bed.

On March 1, 2020, my flight departs at 9am so I’m up early and Mami already made coffee. Every time I went back to Jersey over the past ten years, the reality of it possibly being the last time I see Papi pinches me. So whenever I said goodbye, I say it as though it will be the last time. This morning was no different (except it really would be the last time). I ground and center myself. I practice what to say so that I don’t studder or go blank and then be really pissed at myself for not saying “Papi, me voy. Ya me voy para mi casa. Te quiero Papi. Te amo mucho, mucho, mucho y te estraño cada dia. Cuidate.”

I look at him from across the dining room. I take a breath in that I don’t remember exhaling. As I walk over to him, I can feel Mami retreat out of her body. She does that when she’s upset. I kneel in front of him, put my hand on his, and I say the words I’ve rehearsed and spoken plenty of times before. He sits up a little straighter and gives a little grunt, and then he hears my voice and recognizes my face, and he lights up like a tiny tea light in the corner of an empty, echo-chamber church. “Flaca……tisica…te quiero mucho. Cuidate”. Again, I hold my breath then clench my jaw and kiss him very aggressively on the forehead. He is a little sweaty. There is no elasticity to his skin. As I stand, I use my exhale to push down whatever waterworks had started to surface. I don’t want to cry in front of Mami, because then she will start crying and then we both will be crying and yet still ignoring the very real and very present notion that Papi is dying and that he would be gone within a matter of weeks or months now, not years, and how the hell can someone get on an airplane to fly across the country when you know that this is going to happen?

No. Nope. Not I.

No.

I poke my head out the window to confirm that the sound my phone just made is indeed to let me know that my Uber arrived. I put on my coat, grab my bags, and walk down the staircase with Mami. She fights the tears until the very last instant of our embrace. She retreats out of her body again. I suppress the tears one more time and rub my hands for warmth before reaching for the car door.

I am the queen of self-inflicted emotional suppression, and though my therapist will attest that I’m close to giving up the throne permanently, today is not that day.

Over the seven-hour commute home, I allow myself to consider the reality where my brother calls me to say Papi isn’t doing well, and that if I want to fly back, now would be a good time so that I could say goodbye. I get to hold Papi’s hand as he leaves this existence. Then family and friends come over, cooking and cleaning and handing us fresh tissues. The funeral arrangements are made, and we take over the funeral home because we are a Large-And-In-Charge kind of flock. Then we bury him. Then the days blur because there’s nothing to do but talk about him and go through his things and view his pictures and cry with each other and sit at the table — not talking to one another but also not not talking either. And then I fly back to Seattle where my friends meet up with me for the next few days, also taking turns cooking and cleaning and handing me tissues because I don’t want to be in this reality alone just yet. I don’t want there to be no one around to hug. I just don’t want to be alone.

Oh…

I don’t

want

to be

alone

when this happens

I tuck my hands into my hoodie pockets.

The plane lands. I Uber home. I feel pretty jet lagged, and focus on unpacking and resting. I thank myself for buying a frozen pizza I find at the back of my freezer. I wish I didn’t have to work tomorrow. I am 100% oblivious to exactly how extraordinary my life will become and remain….

On March 2, 2020, I tell my boss that we should prepare for me to have to fly to New Jersey rather last minute, as I will be surprised if my father lives past June. Washington state and King County declare a state of emergency.

On March 5, 2020, my day job mandates a Work From Home schedule for the foreseeable future. I have the “what will happen to me if I lose my job” panic, and start to plan just in case.

On March 6, 2020, I dream that my dad is feeding off my life energy to stay alive, and I kept asking him to please stop. He doesn’t. So, I take this energy cord between us and I unplug myself from him. He looks disappointed and scared. I tell him it’s going to be okay and I plug him directly into the earth. I feel terrible…as if I just signed his death sentence. I think about connecting back to him again, but I wake up crying instead. I don’t remember falling back to sleep.

On March 7, 2020, I go to see “Birds of Prey” at the movie theatre with my Ex-Turned-Friend. We get dim sum after the movie. We order and I excuse myself to take my (other) cousin’s phone call.

“Mami texted me that New Jersey has declared a state of emergency and that Papi’s in the hospital now. She had to call the ambulance this morning.”

“Yes. My mom told me,” she replies.

I cry and continue.

“She isn’t going to leave his bed side and I know that means she won’t take care of herself.”

I cry harder. I can feel people walking past on my back. My hands are cold.

“She’s burning the candle at both ends, ya know? I’m not sure how to help her. We all want to help her.”

I can make out the tears gently falling down my face in the reflection of the window as I stare at downtown Seattle.

“Me, too. It’s not easy, being this far from everyone. But she and I talked about the end of Papi’s life and I think we will be OK.”

“That’s good.

I know I just brought it up, but I don’t actually want to have this conversation. At least, not right now.

“Well, I’m at dinner, so I will let you go. Thanks for the call. I love you.”

“I love you, too.”

I enter the restrooms to blot my tears, blow my nose, and wash my hands. One step closer to de-throning. But it’s just a small one today. I will not take this back with me to dinner. I want to stop thinking about and feeling my Papi. I need a break from his death.

But as I start walking back to the table, I get a flash to a recurring dream. I’m walking around Capitol Hill and I get a phone call that my Papi is dying and when I look up, it’s my Ex-Turned-Friend asking me, ‘What’s wrong?’ or ‘Why are you crying?’ or ‘Are you OK?’. So as I walk back to the table, I realize that this dream (nightmare? I haven’t decided yet) is coming true, so I muster all the courage I have and say, “Sorry about that and thank you. It was my cousin. We had to talk about my dad. He isn’t doing well and is currently in the hospital.”

He shares his condolences and, of course, asks if I am OK. (I mean, what else do you say in response to something like that?) I reply that yes, right now, I am OK. Then I’m back on the throne. “So what was your favorite part about the movie?”

On March 13, 2020, Mami visits Papi for the last time as New Jersey hospitals have heavily restricted visitations. She’s allowed five minutes to hold his hand and explain why she is wearing a mask and gloves, and why she isn’t allowed to be with him right now. She explains that she doesn’t know when she will be back, but promises that she will be. (It’s the last promise she will break to her husband.) I decide I won’t tell her about my upcoming medical procedure.

On March 18, 2020, I have out-patient surgery (not life threatening, but not cosmetic). The hospital is checking temperatures and requiring masks and has moved all the departments around to consolidate staff and equipment for safety. Two days later, WA Governor Inslee announces all non-essential businesses are to stop operations on Monday, which would have included my elective surgery.

On March 22, 2020, I have a therapy appointment over video. This is the first time I talk about Papi since March 7. I confess that I feel both relief and guilt for still being employed. I confess I feel ashamed that meticulously following the pandemic news and science has given me a reason to not think about my father dying. I confess that this new pandemic living — from grocery shopping to daily masked outdoor walks to video conference meetings to surgical recovery medication highs to streaming TV 24/7 — gives me this bizarre sense of community through mutual isolation. I confess that Papi’s looming death is like an incessant internal ticking time bomb threatening to rip away all this connection and fleeting moments of comfort. I confess that more than all those preoccupations, I keep flashing back to the dream of Papi and our energy cord and the earth beneath my feet. I tell my therapist that Papi is still in the hospital. She asks me if I can fly back now instead of waiting. I confess that even if I was medically cleared to fly, I can’t imagine not having my home comforts during a pandemic. Besides, with new travel restrictions popping up daily, I can’t stay in New Jersey indefinitely; how would I even begin to plan for that level of upheaval when the world is so unknown right now?

On March 23, 2020, our governor issues a state-wide mandatory stay-at-home order. I text my pal in Cali whose father passed away in 2019. I tell him that my dad is on the decline and I think he will pass in the coming weeks. I wanted to share with someone who has gone through it as no one in my inner circle has yet. He gets it. I’m humbled. And scared.

On March 27, 2020, Papi dies.

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

…

He died.

Some of my earlier assumptions about how this event would unfold did come true.

My brother did call to tell me that the doctor called Mami to let her know that they were not going to be able to resuscitate him again (again?!?!?!). He says that if I want to say goodbye, I need to call the nurse. Hearing is the last thing to go, so if we want, we could call her and she would hold her phone up to his ear so that we could say… that…

That….

My brain kicks into rehearsal mode for when it came time to say goodbye to Papi. “I love you so much and I’m so sorry I couldn’t be there with you right now. Nunca te olvido. Gracis por todo. I love you. Te amo. Te quiero, Papi.”

I text my pal in Cali.

“It’s happening.”

“What’s the best way for me to support you during this happening? ❤”

“Can I just text you and you just acknowledge in any fashion when you can?”

“Absolutely ❤”

Then I make the call. The nurse answers and says that they were just going into his room to check on why his machines are beeping and can I just hold on for just one moment….

…

…

…

“I am so sorry. His machines started going off notifying us that his heart stopped and I just checked. He’s passed. I’m sorry.”

…

“OK.”

…

…

…

…

…

It’s just me and the nurse, in the entire known universe, who know that Abelardo Pacifico Montesi died on Friday, March 27, 2020. It’s 37 years after I made him a father. And 28 days after the virus was detected in Washington.

And I have to call Mami and tell her.

Oh…

I

Have

to

Call Mami

And

tell

her.

So I rehearse what I am going to say…and how I am going to say it.

…

…

…

Afterwards, I sit on my bed. A bucket of ice-cold lava is slowly being poured over my head and enveloping my body. But I’m not crying.

I text my closest Friends-Who-Are-Really-Family in Seattle and try to schedule a video call for when they are done Working-From-Home. Is it fair to ask them to meet me outside my apartment, socially distant, instead? I text another friend to cancel our phone date. I speak with a relative who sends her condolences. Should I call Mami back? I walk to the kitchen and open the fridge. I walk to the living room and call my brother. Is he going to hate me for not flying out to help with the funeral arrangements? He thinks I should look at the travel restrictions their governor just put in place. I don’t. I look at flights instead. I walk back to the kitchen. I use the bathroom. My hands are so cold that I just hold them under the warm water and I think I forget to use soap. I go back to my laptop and email my manager. Another relative calls me but I send it to voicemail. I decide I’m sending all these calls to voicemail right now. I text my therapist. I go back to the fridge. I take out my homemade sweet tea vodka then put it back. I decide I’m not flying — I couldn’t live with myself if I gave my mother COVID and kill her, too (or anyone for that matter). I refresh my email. I don’t know what I’m expecting to read. My Friends-Who-Are-Really-Family and I agree that 6pm is the best timing for the video call. I text my Cali Pal.

“I am pretty sure the sound of my mom dropping the phone is seared into my soul now.”

“[Gif]”

“Does the dead dad’s club come with a patch or members’ card?”

“There’s a secret head nod.”

“Ahh I see.”

I finally start crying.

For the first time, I light this giant candle I’ve had for decades, and I let it burn day and night.

On March 31, 2020, Papi is entombed. The funeral is only two hours, with only five guests allowed in the chapel at any given time. The same cousin I spoke to at the Dim Sim place agrees to video call with me during the 45 minutes she can visit before work.

He looks like a skinnier, slightly younger version of the man I just saw a month ago. But it’s him. And he really is in a casket. And then he is in a wall in a mausoleum, near other family members. I wonder if their spirits greeted each other when he arrived, or if that part already happened when he died…

My phone rings and my (yet another) cousin tells me that my uncle, Mami’s brother, has died from Covid in Miami. His daughter was able to wear the masks and shields and body suits and be with him, so at least he wasn’t alone when he passed. But she was, and my heart pangs when I remember that. For a Large-And-In-Charge kind of flock, being so alone in these precious moments is especially surreal.

My hands become icicles again as I get a flash of my uncle back in November when I visited during a lay-over. Was that the last time I saw him? The last time we spoke?

But I can’t really mourn my uncle right now, because I have to tend to Mami by starting a covert and ridiculous text message thread between me, my (yet another) cousin and sister-in-law to understand when my mom is expected to get home and who is with her and for how long, in order to best time the news of her brother’s passing. So that she is not alone with another new reality just yet.

But a relative from Miami decided it was their news to break. Thankfully, Mami wasn’t alone and she wouldn’t be for a few days.

That night, I dream I am standing in front of a white border. Like a scrim at the opera but lit from the ground up. To my left is Papi at various stages of his life — toddler, boy, teenager, the 25-year-old who emigrated to NYC. To my right was the rest of his life — a 30-something dad, a middle-aged man, an older and greyer abuelo, and the man I met a month ago. I tell them all that it’s time for them to go. They have to cross now. One by one, they each walk into the scrim and vanish. The young boy went first. The middle-aged man went last.

In the morning, I see that my candle had gone out at some point in the night. I place it in the garbage.