Six Months

Six months ago to the day I drove up to Eugene, fleeing an unfurling pandemic. I look back at that time, not too long ago, and get that same feeling of when I look at photos from middle school: “we were such babies :)”. We thought hand sanitizer and lysol wipes and a few simple public health policies and practices could return our lives to normal in a few weeks. I moved back in with my parents thinking it would be a hop skip and a jump til I was resettling into my own life. 

Each Friday my parents watch the PBS Newshour and Judy Woodruff started doing this obituary segment, showcasing the lives of people who died from COVID. And we thought it would be a one-time thing, while New York was going through its worst. But then it continued, every week. And every week, we watched as ten second summaries of beautiful lives flashed across our screens: young, old, acclaimed, unfamiliar, important lives. First 2,000 then 20,000 then 200,000 of them.

Then instead of watching weekly obituaries, we wrote our own: for my uncle and great aunt who died in a nursing facility that had a major outbreak in Illinois. Then for my aunt who died from cancer after multiple hospitalizations that she had to endure all alone. All along the obituaries kept playing: now for George Floyd, Breonna Taylor, Ahmaud Arbery, for Jon Lewis and Chadwick Boseman. For Hermann freaking Cain. We marched, we screamed, we learned. We are still learning. But all along people kept dying. 

When I left Eugene, to come back to the Bay Area for the PA job I got in the midst of it all, I had to clear ash off the windshield. The streetlights were still turned on even though it was daylight hours. Our beautiful Mckenzie River forest went up in flames during the time it took for my parents and I to sit down for my farewell dinner. I wore a mask in my car because ash was getting in through the vents. And there were more obituaries. Of people, but of houses and restaurants and dear places that meant so much to so many. 

But 6-months to the day after leaving, I am back, getting settled into my own small space in Palo Alto, FaceTiming my mom on her birthday. Her showing me the rain and clearer air in Eugene, me showing her my shelves and curtains. In the middle of the call, a text from my dad on the screen. I saw from afar it was two words. And just like that “RBG died!” rocked all our worlds again. 

In six months, we’ve lost 200,000 to COVID-19, dozens of Black lives to police violence, and countless more who went “naturally” which from what I can tell right now, means fearfully and swiftly and sometimes alone. Six months ago, a population the size of Eugene/Springfield was ALIVE. And it’s Friday night, and the obituary segment is on once again. I didn’t see it tonight, but I know RBG’s was added. Give us time to read it.