This Passover is the strangest in my life, unsettling in so many ways.  And I’m sure it was the same for those Christians who celebrated Easter. We are all—or at least almost all of us—in “lockdown,” “shelter in place,” or PAUSE (New York’s Governor Cuomo’s term, which I like). And we have been for some time now and unsure when it will end.  We cannot celebrate in churches or synagogues, or have our traditional Seders with family and friends, all sitting at the table.  All of us are suffering from uncertainty about the future, and the fear that coronavirus will strike us or our loved ones and neighbors. Those who have already suffered losses are in mourning. But, as Rabbi Marcelo Bronstein said in the wonderful Seder he hosted on Zoom from his house in Costa Rica, we are all in mourning one way or another. We are mourning the loss of the life we had, a life that we may never entirely recover. Our world will certainly be changed by this—perhaps some of it for the better—that is if we learn we are all connected, interdependent and fix what is wrong in our society around the world.

My mourning has something added, however.  For almost four months I’ve been grieving my husband, Tony, who died December 12th. I miss him, though I’m grateful he died before Coronovirus, for both our sakes. As I sit in my apartment, self-isolated in the “high risk” group, I have entirely too much time to think.  My thoughts turn to Tony, mourning not just his death, or the empty place in my life, but also the horrible, debilitating disease he suffered for the last five years of his life. 

You don’t just mourn when a person dies. If they have gone through what is a slow process of dying, you are continually in a progressive state of grieving. And grieving begins long before the final death of the person. Yes, afterwards you are both released—but then grieving takes on other forms, metastasizes. You think back about their suffering and continue to grieve. You hope they were aware, despite your impatience or outbursts, that you really loved them. You grieve for yourself, wondering if you were everything you could have been when they most needed you. And often, you are awakened by strange, bizarre dreams, at the center of which are loss and abandonment.

When Tony died, I felt I was finally free to go back to my normal life. For years, I’d been constrained by the ever increasing duties of caretaking—doctor visits to two neurologists, an internist, a urologist, a podiatrist, a cardiologist; getting supplies and groceries, cooking all the meals—all while teaching full time, doing research, presenting and publishing papers, and so on.  It eventually became impossible for me to travel, even to see my son and his family. I pracrtically had no social life. No movies or theater. Only a rare meal with friends and eventally no time for even that. But work was good. It kept me sane, grounded. All that time, I felt bad complaining, because there was Tony, confined to our apartment, unable to enjoy the city he had loved so much.

When he died, I was released from my obligations to him. But I didn’t feel like socializing in those first heavy weeks of mourning. I was exhausted. Gradually, I thought, I’ll be up to it. I started teaching my classes at Barnard in mid-January and it felt good. I didn’t yet have energy to go out and have fun, but soon I felt it would come. But then came Coronovirus and it hit me that I was not free after all. The freedom I’d been longing for had been snatched away! I remember how Tony was confined to this apartment, how that made him so sad. “I’m a shut-in,” he’d say. And now I am too. I’m filled with anxiety (when will I be free? How many days or weeks or months of my life will I have lost?), and with a sadness that combines mourning for him, and mourning my lost life and of those close to me. I regularly cycle between fear and grief.

Mindfulness practice teaches that I must dwell in the present, not obsess about the past, a past we cannot change, or worry about the future, a future we cannot predict or control. God, they say, is in the present, so one should focus on that. Breathe. Sit quietly. Let the thoughts come through, acknowledge them and then let them go. But what if the quiet sitting is actually during a time for mourning the death of your spouse? What if you need to sit with your feelings also and they are feelings of fear and grief?

Sitting in my apartment, beautiful as it is, full of light and color, I have too much time to think about such things.

I think back to our Passover in 2019 when Tony was still alive. I hadn’t been feeling much in a festive mood—and Tony never was keen on religious ritual—but I made a minimal Seder regardless. All the essentials were on the Seder plate and I made matzo balls and chicken soup. That would be our dinner. But as we sat at our table and I was going through the Haggadah, I suddenly closed the book. “I just can’t do it. I can’t go on,” I said. “We are NOT free. We are in BONDAGE! I’m sorry. I can’t do more.” And we ate a sad meal, seasoned by my salty tears.

This year, I was sure Passover would be better and easier. I would celebrate with friends who would invite me to their family Seder. But no. We are all in isolation having to make do. I could not get horseradish or parsley. A Passover like no other, “unprecedented” as they say, and not something to celebrate for me, but simply to “observe.”  (I wonder if Christians who celebrated Easter felt more cheerful?) For thousands of years, Jews on Passover have been telling the story from Exodus of slavery and deliverance—our foundational story that celebrates freedom. If it happened once, maybe deliverance will be repeated? That is the hope.

In this Exodus narrative, hope and promise balance out misery and bondage to triumph over it. But hope is hard to come by this year, with Passover falling in the midst of a global pandemic, something we have never seen. The old Exodus narrative feels all too real, for we have an 11th plague to add to the 10 plagues visited on the Egyptians in Exodus. Ironically, we are both the “Israelites” told to stay in their homes (in lockdown) to avoid death and the Egyptians who have been experiencing the plagues. Do we hear a new message as we read this in 2020, when COVID-19 makes no distinction between us, between peoples, races, religions or nations?

My prayer (or mantra) every day as I sit in my apartment is:  May my hope be stronger than my fear. And, I would adapt the words concluding the Seder, hoping that next year will be better for us all, that we will all be closer to being “in Jerusalem,” understood spiritually (rather than literally) as the place of peace, unity and freedom.

No one feels good these days. I know I certainly don’t. The terrible, escalating anxiety about Coronavirus has added to the anxiety that’s always lived within me, probably since utero, like a virus that can lie dormant, in control, but then suddenly erupt. It came back during the last several years as I witnessed the slow process of my husband dying. When he died three months ago, I first felt a mixture of both grief and relief. It wasn’t long, however, before I started to think about my own mortality. And now here comes the pandemic, overtaking the world.

Now we have something not seen since 1918.  Will I escape the Coronavirus, or at least survive it? I am in the “at risk” age range and have mild asthma, though my overall health is strong (of course, they say, keep calm because anxiety weakens your immune system, which makes me even more anxious!). And there’s that small funny-looking growth on my arm that has gotten larger in the last two or three months. I recently finally had a video consult with my dermatologist. She looks at the thing on my arm and says, “It looks like it’s turned into squamous cell carcinoma. Normally, we would do Mohs surgery, but all elective surgeries have been cancelled. Put efudex on it twice a day for four weeks, and hopefully that will buy us some time.”  Hmmn, I didn’t like that expression and felt my anxiety rising and began (as usual) to envision the worst possible scenario.

Knowing I was overreacting, I thought I’d better get to work on my taxes. Being busy has always been my remedy for anxiety. I tried to go into my Citibank account to gather the necessary information about the past year, but I couldn’t log in and a message popped up stating I needed to enter my new ATM/debit card. But I never received one. (Anxiety thermometer rising—what if I can’t get into my bank account?)

Deep breath.

I call the customer service line on the back of my now dysfunctional debit card, but it takes me two days to get a customer service representative (the robot always says, “due to unusually high call volume, your wait may be longer than usual).  When I finally get connected to a real live person the news isn’t good. “It seems your whole account has been cancelled,” she says. (What!?) “It’s for a reason; there’s some paperwork I don’t understand. I’m going to transfer you to a supervisor.” 

Tina the supervisor spent time looking at various things and then grimly reported, “Paperwork was received to block the account because you are deceased.” (What!!??) Only a short time ago I wrote a post about a dream where I shouted, “I am not dead!” But clearly Social Security didn’t hear me! “I’m obviously not. I’m talking to you,” I replied. “Well, the bank and social security think you are,” she said.  “No! It’s my husband who died in December, not me.” Someone obviously made a mistake, sending a notification that I had died. Hopefully it’s not one of those computer entries that’s incorrect and impossible to correct since all my accounts with Citi are now permanently frozen.

“Can’t you just unblock the accounts,” I pleaded. “It may not be that easy,” she said. “Go down to your branch office with identification for proof and talk to the branch manager.” “But I can’t!” I blurted, now crying. “I’m sorry to be so upset,” I said “I’m not yelling at you, but I’ve just lost my husband and you’re telling me I have to prove that I’m not dead, in person and with papers. My doctor told me not to go out, as I’m high risk, and especially not to be in close spaces. The manager’s office is tiny!”   

Only a month ago I was feeling grateful to be alive, to feel the sun on my face, to spend time with friends.  But now, I’m not only living in isolation, but find out that according to my bank’s computer records, I’m already deceased!

I feel like I’m living in a Kafka story.

Within two hours, it seems I have a reprieve! Tina calls back. They still don’t know what the problem is or how it happened, but Citi will unblock my account and send me a new debit card (and presumably will receive my next paycheck and be able to pay my rent and bills). But I will wait for my sigh of relief until I actually get the card and see that all is truly restored.

“Oh,” Tina said, “one last thing. You’d better call Social Security right away. They will not be sending you your benefits anymore.” Oh God. Immediately I call my local Social Security branch. They check my social security number and say, “You’re right. It’s your husband who is dead. You’re okay.” With that, I thought for sure this was the end of the story, but no!

Two days later I pick up the Fed Ex envelope with my new, precious debit card and proceed to activate it. I go online, get into my account, only to find… there is no money in it! The balance is zero! How can this be? Once again, I try to call customer service, only to be told by the same robotic voice that there is an indefinite wait. So, like it or not, (popping a half klonopin) I drove to my branch and risk infection. With my account nonfunctional, all my autopays, including my rental, will not be paid. My problems are beginning to escalate.

I catch the branch manager walking across the parking lot. “Mike,” I shout, “it’s an emergency! I have to talk to you!” He looks at me like I’m a crazy person. I sit inside his office, which does not allow 6 feet of space between people. Mike and another senior banker consult, trying to figure out the problem. These two people are wonderful. Finally, they discover since my call to Social Security two days before, they withdrew my social security payments from January and February, or as they explained, “retrieved,” them. They still think I’m dead! Their advice, “Go back and call Social Security.”

I drove home, made a cup of green tea to calm down, and called. After a long wait, I finally get a Social Security person on the phone. “I don’t understand this,” she says, “and don’t know what I can do except reinstate your benefits” (and who knows if that will even work?). “Can’t you make sure the system knows I’m alive? I ask, “I need to continue having my earned benefits and have the previous payments restored!”

 “I KNOW you are alive! she says, “I’m talking to you! But I’ve done what I can. Have a great day.” 

I totally lost patience. Hope I don’t have a heart attack and fulfill their mistake! Stay tuned…