From my porch in Denver, I can view the mountains to the west that fortify the metro area. On some summer afternoons, I can watch storms roll in from the foothills and monitor their progress. I spent a lot of time on that porch last summer. Of course, you can only see the front of the storm when it breaks free of the mountains. There’s no telling how long it will last.
A year ago, at this time, we could see the storm clouds coming through our defenses without knowing the length or severity of the storm. It’s March again, but the storm is still rolling through. That makes these anniversaries harder. We must deal with the current realities on top of the last milestones before this great flood.
A year ago today, I returned from California—my last plane ride. I’d gone with my friend Jeni to ride the new Star Wars ride, Rise of the Resistance. It’s the first trackless ride at Disneyland—a bad metaphor for this year falling off the rails. Luckily, my friend Aaron and his partner Zoe joined us for a day. Who knew that would be the last time I’d see Aaron or any out-of-town friends?
A week later, I attend my last sporting event of 2020 with my sports podcast partner Quinn—a Nuggets win. I even made a note in my journal, “Nuggets crowd was subdued (perhaps because of the Coronavirus).”
The clouds quickly rolled in with the storm. Two days later, on March 11th, the canceling of sporting events would signal the official start of my COVID life.
A year without spontaneous vacations, thrill rides, sporting events and far-off friends. Not all of these anniversaries are bad memories, but they were the last time. And no one told us. Okay, maybe they told us and we didn’t want to listen.
I know we’re all making these same calculations.
Six months ago, I started this newsletter. My goal, at the time, was to prove that I could consistently deliver every Tuesday. This was no small feat, considering the five previous attempts to produce a weekly newsletter fizzled out long before the half-year mark.
The storm of Coronavirus has constantly hung over the writing of this newsletter—even as I tried to ignore it. What was the point of bringing it up every week? I’m not a meteorologist of COVID. The front-line workers are still battered by wind and rain. I’m just the guy sitting in the studio watching shingles fly off roofs. At best, all I can say is, “This is some storm.”
However, ignoring the grief that’s inevitable at anniversary marks is a fool’s errand. Our bodies and nature will remind us constantly. Flowers will bloom for a second time under COVID. The sun will warm our bodies at just the right angle, and those summer storms will again roll in from the Rocky Mountains.
The storm is still overhead. Luckily, a few rays of sunshine peek through. Loved ones are getting vaccinated, and places are reopening.
I’m not a grief expert, but I know that we all are experiencing some form of it now. We will be continuously reminded of the cost of COVID over the next year (and beyond) with each anniversary.
Here’s a gentle reminder. Grief evolves and changes. Two people do not feel it in the same way. It’s a part of life, and we each take that road differently. You should feel entitled to grieve your way. I grieve sometimes by laughing, sometimes by reminiscing and sometimes by letting the storm wash over me.
As the guy at the desk, I do have good news. All of this is going to be some story. Those other storms you’ve heard about may have been big, but we won’t have to exaggerate.
Floods for 40 days?
Cats and dogs living together and mass hysteria?
Disco Fever?
One Direction?
Let me tell you about COVID.