Category Archives: Loss

Not As Hoped

Posted on by under Family, Health, Loss

August 3, 2021 — my birthday — my wife and I were enjoying our first overnight trip since the Covid-19 pandemic began in early 2020. We didn’t know then that it would be the last we’d have together living with the independence we take so much for granted.

We decided to keep it simple, making a road trip from our Maryland home to Pennsylvania and spending time at various points of interest in the southeastern part of the state.

We had a lovely lunch in Havre de Grace, Maryland, in the outdoor seating of a restaurant overlooking the Susquehanna River.

My wife at Tyler Arboretum

We stayed in a hotel in Chadd’s Ford. From there we visited the Tyler Arboretum and the town of Media, where we did some shopping and bought bubble tea.

We had a great dinner for my birthday, outdoors at a nearby restaurant. The summer Olympic Games were occurring in Tokyo, postponed from the year before, and we watched a few events on the television that night.

Our children were off living their lives, moving ahead after the long wait caused by Covid-19. Both called that day.

That summer our oldest had moved out to begin graduate school at Pennsylvania State University. He called to discuss how he and his girlfriend were settling in at their new apartment.

Our youngest was working at a summer camp as a counselor. He called to share how things were going, along with some frustrations regarding the camp staff and how situations were being handled.

Despite the fact that our kids were elsewhere — or maybe because of it — my wife and I felt that we’d mostly left behind us the concerns and restrictions from the past year and a half. It was an enjoyable bit of freedom.

And of hope. We began to see the light at the end of the dark tunnel created by the Covid-19 pandemic. We were feeling that we’d survived, that life would go on, that we could enjoy some of the dividends of having made it this far — through parenting, through a global contagion, through the more difficult years of our lives.

But all that would be halted just five months later. When my wife experienced a ruptured aneurysm in January of 2022, life would not be as we’d hoped.

We’ve spent the last four years adjusting to what is too easily called the “new normal.” Thoughts of a quick recovery have proven to be unrealistic. My wife lost her job and the ability to do many of the things she enjoyed. She applied for (and ultimately received approval for) federal disability payments.

Instead of living out our later years with travel and some well-earned ease, we are now in the positions of being caregiver taking care of one who’s lost their independence.

Perhaps the timing of it all is what’s most frustrating. We put in the work, we endured the hardships, but now are unable to reap many of the benefits.

It doesn’t feel fair. But I also realize that fairness is not a guarantee for anyone.

What’s left is a constant feeling of discontent, softened now and again by some of life’s simpler pleasures. But I can’t help the urge to look once in a while at what’s not available, and think about whether it might ever be available again.

Memo to Joe Breda

Posted on by under Health Care, Loss

“Matthew – I hope you are well. I’m writing for two reasons:”

So began an email from the head of my division at work, my boss’s boss’s boss’s boss. A guy named Joe Breda.*

He continues: “First, while I know you have made a partial leave request with HR I do not have any information about the circumstances of your leave. It is not necessary for me to know any of the details, but if there is anything I can do to assist please let me know.

“Second, I want to make sure you are aware how the company’s RTO (return to office) policy applies to your situation. Obviously, you are not expected to be in the office on days you have been granted leave. However, you should be in the office – up to three days per week – for days that you are not taking leave. If this presents a hardship, I’m advised that you to consider applying for full leave. Please let me know if you have any questions.
JB”

This email arrived on the eve of my wife being discharged after three and a half months in the hospital.

Me at Johns Hopkins Hospital in February 2022.

In January of 2022, my wife suffered a ruptured cranial aneurysm. After emergency surgery to save her life, she remained in the Johns Hopkins Hospital in Baltimore — first in intensive care, then several weeks as a regular inpatient — until late April. She needed months of physical therapy to recover, and she is still disabled today.

This was an incredibly difficult time for me and my family. We all faced hardship, stress, and worry over this entire period of time.

So to receive this heartless, tone deaf email from upper management did nothing to ease the strain.

In fact it made it worse.

Worse because I applied for and received authorization for 12 weeks of protected leave under FMLA. Joe Breda not only seemed to not know this. But also, his insistence that I adhere to the RTO requirements contradicted what I was previously told by HR, namely that those requirements did not apply to anyone currently exercising their FMLA rights.

Worse because the the uncertainty surrounding the day and manner of my wife’s discharge made it necessary for me to be flexible with my schedule, able to travel to the hospital or discharge facility on short notice. Being required to be physically in the office made that very difficult.

Worse because I was running out of leave. So Joe Breda’s glib, uninformed comment that I “may want to consider applying for full leave” is empty and meaningless.

This email from Joe Breda has eaten at me for close to three years. In all the time since this email, Joe never once inquired about my wife’s health or asked how I was doing.

His offer of assistance — especially since he claimed to not know what was going on — was complete self-serving bullshit.

He kicked me when I was down, using the power of his position, and never apologized or even acknowledged my situation.

So I now realize why this eats at me so much.

It was an abuse of power disguised as a “clarification of current policy.”

It was forcing me to concede when I was vulnerable, something that thugs do.

It was bullying.

Joe Breda has left the company and no longer is in a position of authority over me.

So I now want to take the time to say what I have been wanting to say for three years.

Fuck you, Joe Breda.

*Yes, this is his real name. A Google search will bring up some information about him, including the company where we both worked. But I won’t say more than that.

The Enigma of Departure

Posted on by under Family, Health Care, Loss

Most of the time, when you part company with someone, you fully expect to see them again the next time.

It’s just part of how human interaction works. The expectation of continuity allows so many of our institutions, from family to employment to government, to function.

And yet sometimes, there is a high probability that you could be saying your last goodbye. Managing that is not easy.

My mother is 88 years old this year. She had a stroke over four years ago that has left her disabled and dependent. She lives in a retirement home of her own choosing in California. Each time I visit, saying goodbye requires that I both believe I will see her again and know that I may not.

My father turned 90 years old in January. Obviously, he is in his twilight years. I haven’t seen him in person in four years, for a variety of reasons including, of course, the global pandemic. But we talk frequently on the phone. Each time I say goodbye, I hope we will speak again in a few days but also wonder if I have said all that I feel I need to say to him.

My sons are both adults and mostly independent. They come and go as it suits them. All it would take is some careless driving or an undiagnosed health condition to make that casual wave as they go out the door be the last time we see each other.

My wife was in a hospital in Baltimore, struggling to recover from a serious health emergency during the first half of this year. I was visiting her almost every day. But each time I left for the day, I carried with me the possibility that she might not make it until the next day. If I knew for sure that she was dying, I would not go home. But the doctors and nurses assured me that she’d be there when I returned. I had to trust them. And I know myself enough to know that if I try to get by with my reserve of energy at zero, I won’t survive either. That helps nobody.

So the goodbyes are loaded with silent meaning and unspoken hopes and fears. There is no other way it can be. I cast all my bets on there being a tomorrow with my wife, my children, my father, my mother. And then spin the wheel.

Giorgio de Chirico painting artwork

Did You Serve?

Posted on by under Loss

Years from now, our children and our children’s children will ask us what it was like to live through the Great Covid-19 Pandemic.

WW2 ration stickers

By that time, it will be written about in history books and the subject of documentary films. It will seem distant and abstract to future generations, in the same way that World War 2 seems distant and abstract to my generation.

It is reasonable to expect questions from these young people as they seek to understand the magnitude of what we have gone through. These will be the same types of questions that my generation would ask someone who lived through World War 2: Did you serve? What was it like? Did you support the war effort? Were there things about life on the home front that were unusual, out of the ordinary? How did you feel about the restrictions and rationing that the government set up?

With the pandemic, the questions will be slightly different but they will be analogous to the questions about World War 2. I have listed a few here:

Questions for the WW2 generation Questions for the Covid-19 generation
Did you serve? Were you a doctor, nurse, or other health care worker directly caring for people sick with and dying from Covid-19?
Did you serve honorably?* Did you as a health care worker support and reinforce the public health measures put in place to slow the spread of the disease?
Did you support the war effort? Did you not flaunt or actively oppose vaccination and face mask requirements? Did you do your part to socially distance and cooperate with public health measures?
What was the home front like? How did it feel to have to wear masks in public almost all the time; quarantine or isolate for days, weeks, or months; have schools move online and events cancelled; and make decisions about the relative risk of what would otherwise be a normal, everyday activity?
Did you lose a friend, loved one or family member? Did you lose a friend, loved one or family member?

Two years into this pandemic, I don’t think it is too early to begin pondering what our legacy will be. How well did we handle this crisis? Did we come together as a nation to fight the threat? If not (and clearly, we have not), why didn’t we? What prevented us from doing so, and what will that mean for any threats, domestic or foreign, that arise in the future?

Sadly, people are beginning (or maybe it’s been going on a long time) to view fellow Americans with suspicion, not unlike, I imagine, the French who collaborated with the Nazis and the French who actively fought against the Nazis. That makes it very hard to remain united as a country.

Will this country of the people, by the people, and for the people survive on this Earth?

I hope so. But in the meantime, there is work to be done.

*People presume that everyone who serves in the military serves honorably. However, the facts are that some people do not, and end up being court martialed and dishonorably discharged. It’s not a comfortable question to ask, but it’s valid. There reportedly are doctors, nurses, paramedics, and others who have refused the vaccine, spread misinformation about ivermectin and other things, and distributed counterfeit vaccine cards. This is not honorable behavior.

The Road Trip

Posted on by under Compassion, Family, Loss

We were somewhere near the Tennessee-Virginia border in early April. Night was falling, and I was at the wheel of our minivan. We’d been driving for most of the day, having left Arkansas a little before noon.

My son Julian was in the passenger seat, queuing up music on his phone to play this new Canadian artist he’d recently discovered. I was trying not to lose sight of the other car in our caravan, the black Chevrolet with my other son and his girlfriend. The interstate was hilly here and with their taillights not working properly, it was easy to lose track of them.

Julian had driven until we switched drivers somewhere near Knoxville. We’d run through a variety of conversation topics, and the scenery rushing by outside had kept our attention. But with dusk and a change of drivers came a change in mood, as we continued to roll into the night.

The coronavirus pandemic had only recently become a reality, and it had been three weeks since I’d begun working from home every day.

As the music played, I asked him how community college was going, now that they’d moved classes online.

“I’m not going to class anymore,” he said. “And I don’t think I’m going to enroll in the fall.”

“Oh?” I said.

“Being online isn’t working for me,” he said. “And I think this coronavirus thing is only going to get worse.”

We listened to the music for a minute.

“You’ve been staying in your room a lot,” I said. “Some days I hardly see you.”

“I need my space,” he said.

It was hard to be optimistic about the coming months. Anything I could think to say would sound hollow. I nodded in agreement, but realized he couldn’t see that in the fading light.

“What’s your plan, then?” I said, throwing the topic back to him.

“I don’t have one,” he said. “What’s the use anyway? It feels like the whole world is a shit show right now. Everything I expected for this year isn’t going to happen.”

I glanced over at him. His dimly-lit face gazed out at the highway ahead while he got quiet again as the music played. He leaned forward to turn up the volume.

That night, I had no way of seeing just how bad it would get, both in the world and in Julian’s life. The weeks and months to come would be filled with awful news, the shutting down of normal life, the cancelling of so much, and Julian being fired from his job, retreating further from his mother and me, leaving the house to go smoking, getting drunk alone in his room late at night.

But we had a long way to go still until we could get home to relative comfort and some sleep.