The hardest day of my life was when I called my 90-year-old mother to tell her that her son Johnny died of Covid on a ventilator. It was the day he originally was scheduled to come home from short term rehabilitation following surgery. I helped Johnny when he was in the hospital and in the rehab facility. There are no words for how heart wrenching this was for me to see my mother’s grief and despair. I had to be strong for her. Many rallied around my grieving mother and I was grateful. My grief was put aside and overlooked since I had to help my disabled mother who no longer had her caregiver, my brother. Johnny did not have a partner and I had so much to do to arrange everything one must do with the loss of a loved one. It was so challenging as it was the beginning of the Pandemic. So much was needed to be done to settle his affairs. It took a very long time to sort it all out.

Now my 95-year-old mother is in a nursing home and she has moderate dementia. She now thinks my brother is still alive. She asks me how he is doing and I carry out some benign fibbing. I go along with her that Johnny is still alive and well. I am relieved she does not suffer as she once did. Now, after 5 years, I feel like I can grieve without feeling guilty. I can start focusing more on myself. So much grief I delayed. I had to focus on my mother. She is still alive and at peace now. I am relieved. I now have to find my peace in all this. I hope I find it as I am trying. I believe I must really start this hard work.

With apologies to Jonathan Larson.

Two million six hundred twenty-eight thousand minutes
Two million six hundred twenty-eight thousand moments so dear
Two million six hundred twenty-eight thousand minutes
How do you measure, measure five years?

In daylights, in sunsets
In midnights, in cups of coffee
In inches, in miles
In laughter, in strife
In two million six hundred twenty-eight thousand minutes
How do you measure five years of life?

Another day and here I am still talking with your photograph hanging on the wall. I find it hard to believe that it’s five years since you took your last breath, a breath strangled by the ravages of COVID-19. It seems like it was just a moment ago, but the memories are seared into my soul.

When you left, life moved forward. But it has never been the same. I do the things we used to do together and with friends; but now I do them alone. I always bring you along though, there in my heart.

Did Sugar find you? She missed her Poppa so much when you were taken from us. She struggled, looking for you all around the apartment. Eventually, she developed cancer and I knew it was time for me to send her to you. I’m sure she’s happy to be reunited with you. I trust that Dash is with you too. I adopted him last year when he desperately needed someone to love and care for him in his final months. Loving him reminded me of how much you loved Quito and how you nursed her back to health when she was so abused. I’m sure he loves you as much as all our pets did.

I often wonder what your days are like now, wherever you are. Do you still get to watch Star Trek reruns? I hope you have met the loved ones of those with whom I have shared this journey of grief and recovery, the ones I have come to know and cherish here in this place. Do you all share your stories like we do?

I know you watch out for me. I sometimes wake at night and see your ethereal spirit standing by the bed just watching over me. It’s nice to know you are always close by. It warms my being.

I’m doing my best to keep your memory alive. It’s hard because our country has become cold and callous and ever willing to forget. But those of us who do survive, we work hard to let the country and the world know you mattered. Today, it’s five years. Tomorrow, it will be five years and one day. No length of time will keep us from remembering who we lost.

Leading up to the fifth anniversary of losing my dad, I have been reminded of his intense love of his country. As I speak to my young children about right and wrong, I can hear his voice plain as if he were next to me, “Kate, don’t ever be afraid of anyone. When you see wrong, stand up, keep your head up, and speak up. When you know right is on your side, there’s no reason to be afraid.”

I pray I can pass that unflinching knowledge of what is right from him to my kids, who barely got to know him. I may not say things as simply and as purely as he said them, but I have his spirit in me, guiding the feeling behind the words.

April 15, 2020. The day you left us. The day your voice was no longer going to sing. The day your heart stopped beating and ours was shattered. I really thought you would make it. God knows we prayed so hard. For sure there would be an Easter miracle. We waited with open heart and open arms for you to come home, but it wasn’t our home you would return to. It was home with those gone before us.

We were left numb, lost, shocked, hurt and angry. Angry at the world and at God. Why? Why did so many have to die? Why did they have to die alone? He deserved so much more. He deserved to have us by his side; to have a proper send-off. He was loved by so many. He deserved to still be here. Every anniversary will bring in these emotions and I have to accept that. But to this day I still question it. Why did he and so many have to die this way?

Rest in eternal peace my beautiful, amazing, loving, talented, kind brother. Your family misses you every single day.

When I hear the word “anniversary” it always brings up a happy thought–be it a wedding anniversary or another milestone, etc. etc. but your anniversary of your passing is the hardest and saddest anniversary.

You had no choice that fateful day 5 years ago. Never would we think that Covid would take you so quickly and now today I celebrate the 5th anniversary of your passing.
Life goes on. We continue to move forward but it is the life we didn’t expect or want. Losing a spouse is the hardest thing to have to endure. It’s losing your half, your person, your dreams of what you will do together

I keep your memory in my heart and that is how I will honor you today. We will laugh some over funny memories and that will keep us going through the years.

Your life was cut too short at 66 years old. Covid, we hate what you have done to our family.