Tell Me What It Is That You Don’t Want to Know

In the era of coronavirus, we do not want to know what it is
for us to die alone.

We were taught that elders have the expectation we shall
pass from this earth to the Otherworld lying on our backs
in the comfort of our own homes.

Our dearest friends and relations will be at our sides as we
gently breathe, our hearts and lungs moving in synchronicity
with love— even chanting, singing, music, incense, candles.

We are planning to breathe in this exquisite environment
until we can no longer. Many in our generation added
the notion we shall be surrounded by an atmosphere
of hospice, with earth angels watching intently,

As breath peacefully expires— what we baby boomers
want for our loved ones as well as for ourselves—
communal experience of death.

We have been asked to tell you what we don’t want to know.

We don’t want to anticipate what it might be like in the time
of coronavirus when there is an order mandating we will die
in a hospital, without our friends and family.

There is a pandemic, and we may not have time to plan
the perfect death. Circumstances of a coronavirus death
don’t allow us to invite our loved ones to participate in this
most sacred passage.

Nurses and doctors may not have time to hold our hands,
know our names— much less soothe our distress. We shall
be among the patients in crowded rooms, corridors,
tents, convention halls, or intensive care wards,

Yet, we may not be focused on others. Most of us will
struggle to survive. Patients may be in a coma on a
ventilator or some other respiratory machine.

There is no sweet voice singing Amazing Grace—
no candles. Rather, light is fluorescent. Those who
extend compassion to others will be extraordinary—
caring for others without utter self-reference.

We who die without ventilators may pass in the
presence of oxygen tubes that malfunction or are
inadequate to aid us to gasp right before we transport
ourselves from a surging hospital hall into the Otherworld.

Are we truly alone in that?

I recall lying alone on a cot in a maternity ward in a lying-in
hospital trying to breathe whilst in labor. I heard a woman
crying out in misery on the other side of a light blue curtain
separating us.

I called to the nurse to go attend to her. The nurse chastised,
“What is that to you? Take care of yourself.” We imagine
sometimes, if we are in a ward, in this brave new world 
of
Covid-19, we can call out to a medic to care

For patients on one side or another of our cot.
Often though, we may find ourselves alone in a corridor.
The distance, in this dimension, between our gurney,
and the next is holy ground.
We don’t want you to know how this feels, yet

We have to tell you— this hurts.