My son Daniel stands at the shore of the Atlantic Ocean with his arms spread behind his back and smiles into the June sun.
With beaches closed due to the Coronavirus, this is not a recent event. It was over two decades ago when we went to the beach as a family and I took the photo that I have since placed into a burnt-maroon frame. When I kiss his face though the acrylic, I know that many see the photo as a three-year-old boy enjoying a day at the beach. But it symbolizes more for me. It’s a reminder to live every day as though it is all you have.
When the photo was taken, our family was trying to do something familiar in a time when nothing felt normal. Less than two weeks earlier we’d been told the tumor in Daniel’s neck was malignant. My son went through tests, two surgeries—one to implant a double-lumen catheter— and a week of chemo. He lost his hair on the trip to the beach; it came out in clumps on the van’s back seat. “It’s sad, isn’t it?” his five-year-old sister said. “Isn’t it just so sad?”
Just the other day during the Coronavirus lockdown, we celebrated my youngest child’s 23rd birthday. Our family tradition is to go to Red Robin for birthday dinners. This week we had to adapt to something new. At a table in front of the restaurant, my husband, wearing a face mask, ordered our meals. We waited in our cars until the waitress signaled our food was ready. With meals in tow, my three kids and my eldest’s boyfriend, my husband and I, drove in our cars to a vacant parking lot in the shopping complex. I sat on a towel on the curb to eat my salad. The others sat and stood at socially-acceptable distances and consumed burgers and fries.
It was wonderful to see my adult children and hear their stories of how they are coping and adjusting to this season of strange. The restaurant where Ben worked closed, so he was laid off in March. The birthday daughter, Liz, teaches her high school students online. My daughter Rachel and her boyfriend have had an uptick in their home repair and remodeling business. “People are looking at the homes they’re in all day and see what needs to be improved,” the boyfriend said.
After we ate, we sang happy birthday. We played music on my husband’s phone and my daughters danced the Macarena. As the sun set and we said our good-byes, giving each other virtual hugs, I smiled. This was by no means an ideal dinner out, but it was all we had.
As we parted, I didn’t say, “Next year it will be better.” I did not add, “Next year we can be back inside Red Robin and enjoy a meal around a table with chairs.” I didn’t voice any of that because I do not know what next year will hold. Days before Christmas 1996, Daniel spiked a fever and we took him to the emergency room. We spent Christmas day in the hospital with him. “Next Christmas,” I said as we ate ham from the hospital cafeteria, “he’ll be finished with his protocol. We’ll all be home for Christmas then. We’ll be a normal family again.”
Daniel’s death crushed the hope that the following Christmas would be better. He contracted a staph infection at the end of January and died in February. His absence is a hole in our hearts.
In the photo at the beach, Daniel wears a cap to cover his bald head. His hands are full of sand and shells. He’s standing by the fierce waves but he looks the other way, in the direction of the sun, that smile on his face. My boy is not fearful. His expression shows that he’s happy to be at a place he loves with his family.
In the midst of lockdown we may think we want this isolation to end and for things to get back to normal. Yet the days in shelter-in-place hold value. We’ve traded a day of our lives for each one. For better or worse, nothing will be the same again. You might think things are difficult, but take a look at what you do have whether it is children, a spouse, friends, or parents. Maybe you are lucky enough to have them all, even if they are miles away.
Here and now, this is the time to stand with your arms spread out, your hands filled with life and smile into the sun.
Another bereaved parent said it best."Life is short, break the rules [but I bet he’d expect us to follow the COVID-19 regulations], forgive quickly, kiss slowly, love truly, laugh uncontrollably, and never regret anything that made you smile.” (Mark Twain)
