By Suzanne Fouty

Today my mom died of COVID. Today in the early morning hours of Christmas she took her last struggling breath and her heart went still. My mom was 88 years old and while Alzheimer’s had slowly taken her memories, her body had remained strong as did her enjoyment at seeing the young children at the Mount where she was being cared for, at being outside experiencing the seasons with its colors and fragrances, and listening to music. And while she had forgotten who I was, I could remember for the both of us.

From the earliest days of COVID, the Mount sought to protect those who lived and worked there. These protection measures meant that families could no longer visit. Meals with other residents stopped. The children in the Mount’s daycare facility no longer filled the halls with laughter and joy and small voices saying “hi.” The Mount grew quieter and quieter. Their hope was that these measures would be temporary, that the virus would be contained but too many saw and still see masks and social distancing as an infringement of some right rather than a powerful temporary forcefield that would help keep each other and those we loved safe. These refusals increased the dangers of infection for those who could not and cannot stay home and wait it out. Some have jobs that refuse to protect them, many are without financial and healthcare safety nets. And so COVID spread as droplets of moisture emitted when talking, sneezing, coughing without masks were left behind. And then others unknowingly encountered the droplets, some which contained the virus, and became infected and numbers climbed.

COVID is not a gentle passing — it is a body at war with itself. My mom’s heart beat at 120-170 beats per minute even as her oxygen levels dropped and her body dehydrated. Morphine was increased from 2.5 milligrams every four hours to 5 mg per hour to 10 mg per hour to 20 mg per hour to help her stay comfortable. I did what I could. I read her stories, sang to her, played music for her and shared memories via Zoom but I could not hold her hand and give her comfort. Instead, I sat 300-plus miles away — held hostage by COVID and those who refuse to wear a mask and so accelerate its spread. And as I watched my mom dying I knew that everyone who was caring for my mom and doing so with love and compassion was at risk.

My mom is now a COVID statistic. It is hard knowing that the need of some to make a political statement matters more than my mom, more than other people’s moms, dads, kids, friends, sisters, brothers, husbands and wives. That is what really killed my mom — a lack of caring because the spread of this virus would have been greatly slowed if individuals and our nation had been determined to keep each other safe. It would have been the virus struggling to get past that powerful forcefield of compassion and love as scientists raced to understand it and create a needed vaccine, not my mom or someone else’s loved one struggling for breath.

So, the next time you prepare to go out into community spaces without a mask, or only kind of use one, and plan to ignore social distancing, please pause and remember all the moms and dads and friends and kids who have had to say goodbye from a distance. Please pause and take a deep breath. And in that pause, in that breath that you can still take, reimagine the mask and social distancing not as an infringement of some right or a nuisance but as a statement of defiance against COVID. A statement that says to everyone you encounter I am doing my part to protect you, me and those we love and get our community up and running again. As you slip the mask on and wear it correctly, think to yourself, I hereby choose to serve and protect, even in the midst of my frustration, anxiety and uncertainty. I hereby invoke the incredible protective power of compassion and community because you and I and all of us matter.

There will come a time when once again we can safely share meals, have long conversations over tea or coffee, work together, all the things we miss — but that time is not here yet. Let’s do our part, seemingly so small and yet so powerful, to keep each other safe. Let’s mask up and social distance and in the process find our way back to a sense of community.

Suzanne Fouty lives in Baker City.