The Covid 19 pandemic is isolating Alaskan writers. We can no longer attend workshops or public readings. The coffee bars where we met with other writers are closed. To bridge these physical gaps, 49 Writers is providing this on-line forum for Alaskans writing the distance. Today, Margret Williams provides a Mother’s Day reflection and photograph.
Covid Count-Down
We sit across from each other, smiling. I want to lean in, wedge my arm between her back and her wheelchair, and give my mother a huge hug. I want to feel her thin long fingers as I squeeze her hands. But I can’t touch her at all. We are speaking into computer screens with three thousand miles between us, I in Anchorage, she in a memory care residence in New Hampshire.
Mum and I had never been physically affectionate with each other. We exchanged brief hugs upon greetings and farewells and ended phone conversations with quick “love you”s. When I was young and she pushed my hair out of my eyes or tickled my back, I shooed her away, annoyed. In the last year, though, I found myself touching my mother in unfamiliar ways. As her Alzheimer’s disease progressed, so did her confusion over simple tasks. I insisted – and she relented – on smoothing lotion into her dry legs and arms. I began helping her to dress, buttoning her sweaters and lining up her shoes for the correct feet. In January, my mother’s health care team told me she likely had six months left, so I planned a long visit in the spring. I looked forward to joining her for meals and watching old movies together. I would hold her hand as we looked at photo albums. But when the time came, it was no longer safe to board an airplane. And now her residence is closed to all outside visitors, including family. Having been exposed to a caregiver who had tested positive for Covid-19, my mother is restricted to her room, even for meals. I wonder if she even notices that the aides visiting her are suited up and wearing masks.
Through the screen, my mother’s smile falters. “When are you coming home?” she asks. I want to tell her that I have a plane ticket, that I will come this weekend. But like millions of people separated from their elderly parents or other beloved relatives, I can make no plans. All that I can do is wait. I will wait until her residence is open again. I will wait until it is safe to fly, perhaps only after the peak of corona virus has ripped through Alaska. “I will come as soon as I can,” I say.
Margaret Williams resides in Anchorage, where she works on Arctic conservation issues.