Not to be confused with long-COVID (medically called Post-COVID Condition or PCC), I have self-diagnosed my own experience as: PCG or Post-COVID Grief.
I can’t imagine I am alone.
For most of us, the COVID pandemic has faded, and things have returned to some sort of normal. Still, as I move through my days filled with the mundane mixed with the force-feeding of a media-storm of politics and world news and AI and advertising and algorithms and life… my heart still hurts.
September 6, 2021 - COVID took Heidi
September 14, 2021 - I wrote:
She Called Me "Sweetie"
Heidi was nearly thirteen and I four-years-old when I came to live with her and her family. Fresh out of foster care, my brother and I joined the house with four older children. She, the only other girl, suddenly had a new roommate. I imagine it felt very invasive and annoying to share her things—her room, her bed, her dresser, her adolescent belongings—with a small child. And, while I was a mostly a compliant child, I sometimes failed. I will never forget the chaos (and smell) when I dumped a full bottle of her precious perfume across her chenille bedspread.
Still, she called me “sweetie.”
Heidi took me everywhere and never made me feel unwelcome. I recall standing on her feet as she danced to Paul Simon in living rooms where she babysat other people’s children. I remember the summer days watching the wedding of Luke and Laura on General Hospital. During the school year, we trekked after class to her friend’s house and gobbled snacks of tortillas with lime juice and salt. Over and over, we listened to her 8-track of Neil Sedaka and memorized every word to “Calendar Girl” and “Laughter in the Rain.” We ate french fries dipped in ketchup loaded with black pepper, and milkshakes at the local diner. Sometimes we’d get red slushies and jo-jo’s from the grocery deli. We’d roller-skate at the tennis courts, and swim at “the dump,” and she never complained about dragging me along.
She called me “sweetie.”
Heidi read books to me and fabricated stories to keep me entertained. Patiently writing out the letters on a small chalkboard, she taught me to read before I ever started elementary school. With these gifts, she gave ne the power to escape to other worlds and helped to build my lifelong love of reading.
And, she called me “sweetie.”
She let me comb her beautiful hair and put makeup on her face. At night, we played a game called “switch” where we took turns tickling each other’s faces or backs. One of us would shout “switch” to indicate it was time to time to roll to give the other their turn for the safe and loving touch. She cuddled me until I fell asleep and hugged me close when I cried. When things seemed out of control, she assured me that everything would turn out alright.
Yet, she called me “sweetie.”
Many years passed since we last talked—our relationship slipped to each of us going our own ways with our own families. And now Heidi is gone. She is gone. Another victim to the COVID-19 virus.
Today, I struggle with guilt for lost time. And words unspoken. An imposter with no right to her memory or legacy.
Yet, I know—without a doubt—if I had one more chance to talk to her and apologize for my absence, just how it would go. I really do. She would take me in her arms for a big hug. She would smile and tell me, “Don’t worry about it.” She’d chuckle and say, “I love you, sweetie.” And she’d mean it.
So, please don’t fret your lost loved one. Don’t waste time on guilt. Or regret the words you missed saying. Don’t rethink the way you left things with them. I assure you. If they stood next to you today, you’d already be forgiven.
If it was Heidi, she’d call you “sweetie”, too.
October 5, 2021 - COVID took my little brother
October 12, 2021 - I wrote:
A Love Letter to My Friends
My foot lands on a cone. The crunching needles sing a melody that soothes my ears and feeds my soul. I inhale the fresh pine and walk toward the opening where the split-wood offering crackles on the steel altar. The fire-pit always fulfills its promise of healing to the companions who gather around the Narnian space, faces lit by the fire below and the single lamp pole casting halos for all. The Massey Forest: an oasis of green giants in a sage-filled landscape.
“Hi, guys.” My half smile masks the mental squirming in my brain at being the center of attention. I am the reason for this specific gathering of lifelong friends. Me. They had planned this healing circle to comfort ME. I raise my eyes and witness the compassion on their faces. It’s overwhelming to know such love. To be deserving of such attention. I’d rather be on the giving end—it is harder to receive.
Only days before, I had sat with my younger brother as he took his last breaths, another victim of COVID. The second in my direct circle, but definitely closest to my heart. I held his dying hand, sang to him, and recalled stories from our forty-nine years as brother and sister. It took 4 hours for his breathing to stop—the slowing pace of his inhales and exhales—an eternity. The surprise call from a hospital 300+ miles from me the day before had shaken my world. I had had to make snap decisions on how to treat, what to treat, if to treat. Fucking COVID. The hospital staff promised to try to keep him alive until I arrived, so he wouldn’t die alone.
I’d made it in time. My husband drove. As we sped across the interstate, I shared this news with my circle of friends. They are my extended family. The people of my heart. Whether they know it or not, they have been my model and impetus to do better and be better since we were young.
These middle-school friendships found a way to last far into middle-age. When I was absent from their lives—unable to accept love from them, or myself—they still mattered. Over the years, these beautiful people, these grown-up men and women, have been the winds in my wings, each of them bringing something unique to my formation and lifting me up.
“Hiiiii.” Natalie sighs her sweet welcome and opens her arms first. Her embrace comforts and I squeeze back, emotions numb, but thankful. We hug extra-tight and extra-long until she passes me onto the next friend standing around the warm fire-pit.
One-by-one, they take me in their arms and hold me until they are ready to relinquish me to another. I glide gently around the inner circle, and the transfer of love in each hand-off is palpable. Raw, pure, real.
I struggle internally with accepting the unselfish comfort they shower on me. I hate bringing sadness to the party. Again. And again. I don’t want to be the one to break their innocence and force them to face the mortality of their own siblings. I don’t want them to know this pain. This sorrow. I want to protect them. I am adept at dealing with my trauma, but would never choose to bring it to others.
Still, I feel seen. And loved. I am not alone, and it feels so good.
I will let them love me.
And I will forever love each of them.
February 6, 2022 - COVID took Jeffery
February 6, 2022 - I wrote:
And then there were three.
Now, Jeff is gone.
It hurts too much to write about.
I am tired.
Five-hundred and thirty-six days after COVID took my little brother.
March 25, 2023 - I wrote:
Backyard Antics
A portal to other worlds, my great-grandparent’s backyard featured endless adventure for my brother and me. We spent much of our childhood climbing trees, hiding in the bushes, staining our fingers purple from berries, constructing forts, and playing make-believe. We could defend our pirate ship from the gnarled branches of an old tree; have a Wild West shootout along the woodpile; and survive the wilderness by foraging in the garden. We were given freedom to play at will, pausing only for bathroom and meal breaks until the sun went down.
One summer afternoon, when we were 8 and 9 years old, we gathered various sizes of buckets and containers from my great-grandmother's depression-influenced hoard: empty margarine and mayonnaise containers, mason jars, five-gallon buckets, cardboard boxes, and whatever else we could curate for our percussion “rock band”. The local, small-town “Community Days” festival was coming, and we thought maybe we could be good enough for the talent show.
Sweet, sweet dreamer kids. We absolutely were not.
Knocking lyrics back and forth, we came up with a good portion of our first song and started our cacophonous drumming. In loud, rock-and-roll voices, we shouted in unison:
"Driving down the highway
Ninety miles an hour"
Bang, bang, bang, bang, bang-bang-BANG-baaaaang!
We pounded on the buckets like we were Phil Collins with our drumsticks exploding at the crescendo of “In the Air Tonight”.
"Saw some girls
Started hugging and kissing"
Bang, bang, bang, bang-bang-bang-bang!
We yelled the chorus even louder, proud of our clever play on words.
"Give us a break, girls!
Give us a brake!"
Bang, bang, bang, bang.
"Give us a break, girls!
Give us a brake!”
Bang, bang, bang, bang.
That "rock concert rehearsal" occurred in the midst of that fleeting period of childhood where the shackles of judgment and fear hadn’t yet taken hold, and allowed us to be completely uninhibited and free from self-doubt. We never forgot our lyrics, and we laughed about that silly song so many times over the years (well into our 40s.)
A year and a half ago, I sat beside Christopher's hospital bed, my heart heavy with grief. The nursing staff had covered me head to toe in protective gear—double masks, surgical gloves, pale yellow disposable scrubs, shoe coverings, and a face shield—to keep me safe from the virus that essentially already claimed my brother’s life. Nothing else could be done to save him. His heart still carried a slow beat when I arrived, but the hospitalist informed me that it would only be a few hours, or less.
The hospital staff bent the rules to let me stay more than the 2-hour COVID-visitor limit, a gift I will always cherish.
In that four and half hours, I held his hand, caressed his sunken cheeks, and told him how much I loved him. I reminisced aloud all the fun things we did. I apologized for any times I might have hurt him. I sang Amazing Grace. I told him I was proud of him. I shared a message from his first love. I reminded him his son loves him. I assured him that he was a good man. I gave him permission to let go. I repeated these things and searched for words to fill time, over and over and over. And over.
And, I sang about “driving down the highway” at “ninety miles an hour” with a gentle smile taking us way back to our childhood.
The coldness of his bare hands permeated the blue protective wrap of the surgical gloves that separated my skin from his. The audible rattling of fluid with every slow exhalation echoed in the endless seconds, and then minutes, until he drew breath again. Until he didn’t draw breath again. Time stood still.
When his heart stopped, I cried.
My brother died at 49 years old. He never experienced a mid-life crisis. He never had grandchildren. He’d never forgiven himself for not being able to raise his only son. He’d never come to an acceptance of all that he’d been through—too many traumatic things that were not his fault.
We never did play our “drum” buckets or audition our “rock band” for the local talent show. That backyard escape will always be our wonderland of fun: where the world faded away, where we were safe with each other, and where we were always free to be ourselves.
I was there when my brother was born, and I was there the day he died. It was my privilege, to be honest. He was my first “mom-gig" after all.
And I was thankful to be “able to perform our private one-hit-wonder one last time.
Two years to the day that COVID took my little brother.
October 5, 2023 - I wrote:
A Red-Tailed Reminder
Two years ago, I sat with my brother as he took his last breaths from the end stages of COVID. Believe it or not, something beautiful happened when I got the phone call that day. I understand it more now than I did then.
First, in many indigenous cultures, the Red-Tailed Hawk is a symbol of power, courage, and strength, and considered a guiding spirit for humans. (I am not of indigenous decent, but I have learned from their connection to the land.)
I was standing outside in a pine forest overlooking Lake Chelan, when I got the phone call from a hospitalist in the city where my brother lived, 530 miles from me. I struggled to understand the words: late stage COVID, kidney failure, lung failure, COPD, DNR, intubation. I hadn’t even known he’d been sick.
My husband could see the panic on my face as I tried to sort things out.
“Can you repeat that?” I’d asked the doctor several times. “What are his odds of recovery?” “How much time?”
My brain and my heart battled each other in an attempt to make a tough decision. “Okay, I think I understand,” I whispered to the person on the phone. “I just need a minute.”
My husband pointed above my head. There, where we’d never seen it before, flew a majestic Red-Tailed Hawk. He circled about 30 feet above us for what felt like minutes. I still remember the goose-bumps on my arms as I watched it dip and turn, the sun glistening against his red tail feathers.
Time stood still as my heart and head reunited in that moment.
“Hello, are you there.” The hospitalist repeated into my ear. “Can you hear me?”
“Yes, yes. I am here." I took a breath. "No, no, he wouldn’t want to be intubated," I stated confidently. “Please, make him comfortable. I will be there as soon as I can.”
Poetry is not my strong suit, but this weekend (and most weekends since then) the Red-Tailed Hawk revisited us as we sat at the lake.
The words below, though simple, begged to be released.
For Christopher
Today I heard our hawk
whistle through the trees
Reminding me of the choices
I’d made for you and me
The majestic red tail glistened
And he soared effortlessly
Courage, strength, and wisdom
His gifts bestowed to me
Christopher, I think of you
Always, you and me
When I see the hawk, my brother
In the blue sky above the trees
We were all touched by COVID-19 in one way or another. We sat at home, separated from the world. Lonely. Scared. Collectively, we lost so many people - over ten million worldwide. We will never forget. We should never forget.
I hope my writing has touched you and thank you for taking the time to listen or read. I hope you know that you are not alone. If you have a COVID story to share, please feel free. I read every comment.
PS: This piece was also recorded and shared as a Podcast episode on Spotify. Would you let me know if you listened to the audio? I would like to know if it brings value to anyone who subscribes to my writing.
Special thanks to the 26th Avenue Poet for her bravery in sharing her COVID-Times poetry and inspiring me to share my own COVID-Times writing.
this was beautiful. so beautiful. I am so very sorry for your losses. so very hard.
I did not lose those so close, but all in all, I lost 7 people and it is hard to know I'll never see them again.
* the man known as "The Mayor" of a tiny town I lived in. he was the patriarch for this town, related to half of it, and for some reason, he and I really got on.
* the neighbor (same town) whose kitchen table I had sat at with her, endless cups of coffee in our hands. we were friends for a time.
* a boss of mine who owned one of the many restaurants I've worked at and was kind. a truly kind man.
* my ex-b-i-l and my ex-s-i-l who died close together, one first, the other lingered just a little while in coma and then left too. I think they couldn't stand to be without each other. in very difficult family of in-laws, they were the nice ones. my son said to me "I don't have anyone left to sit with at Christmas or Thanksgiving." (it seems unreal to me that my son was a baby at one point and my ex-husband and I wrote a song about my s-i-l turning 40, which seemed ancient in that when now that baby is turning 40.)
* a patient from many years ago and I cannot say more. but I am so sorry that smile is no longer in this world.
* an uncle who was at every family get together, every year. he was one of 6 kids and 4 brothers and they were all mixed together in a way, but he was a good guy. he was once struck by lightening and had a red blaze on his arm.
* a couple of other relatives with no cause of death given. I have to wonder.
* many people I worked with, both medical staff and patients. I am sure people I laughed with, cared for, gave report to, you name it, died during this. I worked respiratory nursing for years and that was front line. but I got Covid early and was forced to retire. I am sure there are now people missing who weren't before, but I'll never know who because I wasn't in touch any longer. it was just too dangerous a job for that not to be true.
I almost died myself and now have long covid. which is also a different sort of grief.
Thank you for so much that you've shared here, Michele. I'm honored to be named as a catalyst for this post. Post-Covid Grief is real and needs feeling and naming, and you've been brave to feel and name it.