Grieving during pandemic isn’t fair

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 31/05/2021 (1733 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

A few weeks ago, I convinced my partner and our daughter that we needed to leave the house for a change of scenery.

I wanted to go for a drive with no clear destination in mind. I was hoping to trade in an afternoon of screen time, or walks in our neighbourhood for an afternoon of looking out the window at places that we never used to bother to notice when the world was busy and not plagued with the virus.

It felt good to dust the isolation off our shoulders, even though we were still encased in our minivan away from other people. We drove aimlessly at first, and then we started to head towards St. Clements Cemetery in Selkirk. It seemed like a safe place to go. It had been at least a year, probably longer since I last visited my father’s side of the family who are buried at this cemetery. I’m not sure if it’s the pandemic, or the work that I’ve been doing with the Reader Bridge (probably a little of both) but I have had a real sense of longing to connect with that side of my family — to figure out where my roots are, and essentially where I come from. I don’t think that I’ll find the answers at the graveyard, but it has always been the only place that I can ever remember visiting my nana and papa. They both died when I was a baby.

When we arrived at the cemetery my daughter got scared and told us she didn’t want to go in, so her dad took her for a walk down by the river, while I ventured in to visit my relatives.

As I made my way to the little plot of land where my grandparents, uncles and aunt eternally lay, the distinct scent of sage wafted in the air. The familiar smell of healing and prayers, out of nowhere. For a brief moment I was startled by the scent and I wondered if it was a sign. Even though I tell myself that I don’t believe in signs or in ghosts, or in anything more for a life that has been severed by death, I am always looking for them. More than that, I am always hoping for them. Perhaps this is an indication that deep down I do believe in them… Who knows.

Please tell me you’re with me.

Give me a sign.

It wasn’t a sign. Not in the way I’d imagined it would be. Rather it was a dose of perspective and a jolt of reality outside of my own. The smell was coming from a funeral service happening at the other side of the cemetery. A handful of masked people, clustered together but apart in small groups had gathered to lay their loved on to rest. I tried to mind my business, as I wiped dirt and leaves from the tombstones that have my last name in big bold letters across them, but every so often I looked up and saw the restrictive goodbye.

I could hear people speaking, but not the words. The smell of sage invisibly flickered. One moment it was strong, and the next it had disappeared, until it was back again. The cohorts of mourners didn’t stray from their bubbles. They kept their distance while paying their respects in this new unaccustomed way. It was uncomfortable and humbling bearing witness to this small service.

I’ve not experienced a COVID-era funeral other than seeing a snippet of this one. It is terribly sad to think that these people and so many others have had to make the best out of their saddest days because of the pandemic. They’ve experienced a deeper sense of isolation by having to grieve inside a bubble, away from people who would otherwise be beside them.

It’s not fair. I’m sorry for those who have gone through this.

Shelley.cook@freepress.mb.ca

Twitter @ShelleyACook