The fear that I’d lose my parents to Covid-19, tore my heart and slapped my mind. A lurking desperate pain calling for a plan. I don’t have a plan! I feel nailed into my New York apartment, hyper-aware of time and space. Suddenly jobless, socially distant, watching the thoughts bubble to the surface of my mind. What matters? What’s undone? What’s unsaid? Count thirty seconds, as these bubbles rise in my mind, at my age – there’s a lot of dirt to loosen.

I’m forty years old and have always wanted a closer relationship with my Dad. The classic divorce during childhood, step-mom, and abandonment issues have combined to make my version of the “daddy issues” smoothie. I revisit the ingredients each time I want to improve my health – add forgiveness, fold-in healing, let the abandonment soften. I’m fortunate, after their divorce he never really left; he’s just never been close. Distance is a flavor in many of these smoothies – but never the right proportion – too close or too far. Growing-up, I felt like a social obligation in Dad’s checkbook, rather than a daughter in his life. I know financial acknowledgement is a privilege many don’t receive. I only know that now. As a teenager, I needed and wanted his emotional acknowledgement. Show up. Ask about my life. Take an interest. It’s hard to recognize those emotional needs as a child, much less articulate them. During that time, my Dad was closer to my age now – in his forties when life is crushingly busy. Then a global pandemic stops the regular function of life, turning-down the din of our schedules and turning up the silence in our relationships. Whoa. I see you, ‘Rona.

What would have happened in our relationship, if Covid-19 hit back then? Would we have reached toward one another, recognizing the chance to connect, to ask questions, to know and be known? It’s too complex for speculation, yet I worry: I don’t think I would have answered the phone. I wasn’t ready to make the effort, resentful of the extra work required to build a relationship on the foundations of this smoothie. I didn’t throw my life into this blender – you did! Why should Ido the extra work needed to build on your foundation? It’s a grudge I’ve harbored for years. Thankfully, Covid-19 hit now - after time, therapy, art, and more therapy have changed my ingredients. Now, when I still need it, I can finally see that my Dad loves me.

We can only be exactly where we are, when we meet. His love isn’t new, I am. This sounds overly simple, but I needed the time to learn my lessons and I won’t berate myself for the pace of my growth. I’d been standing on my side of this smoothie, tools in hand, waiting for my Dad to build a bridge in my direction. Once I see his action, I told myself, then I’ll build too. Unfortunately, I refused to see his actions as bridge-building. He gave money and I decided what it meant. He’s making sure he looks good in society. Nothing could be a bridge, unless I labeled it so. I refused to label it. It got so bad, I asked myself, is there anything your Dad can do to show you that he loves you and you’ll believe it? I was horrified to answer, No. There it was: my belief system. 

As soon as I allowed the idea that he built his version of a bridge - there it was, reaching directly to me. I’m reaching back. The timing is what it is, and it’s now. Covid-19 gave me my Dad and, as I scrub my hands, I’m thankful for these seconds.