Issue 2.5--The Big Ol' Boat Stuck in the Suez Canal and Grieving During A Pandemic
Issue 2.5, you know, like those direct-to-home-video Lion King sequels
My whole world changed on May 5, 2020. My mom called me right as I was walking up to the Virginia ABC store to stock up on tequila for a pandemic Cinco De Mayo celebracion with my roommate…and let me know that my father was in the hospital after suffering a sudden cardiac arrest. He never woke up and he died on May 13.
Way to ruin Cinco de Mayo forever, Dad.1
Since then, I’ve learned a lot about grief. For me, grief seems to come in a momentary urge to text my father, followed by the crushing realization that I, in fact, cannot. The first was when the name of Seattle’s NHL team was announced—“Kraken”—and their fans immediately began referring to themselves as “Krak Heads” and calling their arena the “Krak House.”2 Then during the NHL draft. Election night. When Zdeno Chara wound up on the Capitals. The insurrection at the Capitol. When the Montreal Canadiens fired their coach. Etc., etc., etc.
But I have never wanted to text him more than when a container ship got stuck sidewards in the Suez Canal.
My father was a merchant marine for the bulk of my childhood. As far back as I can remember, he was home for 10 weeks, then he was on a container ship for 10 weeks, then home for 10 weeks, then on a container ship for 10 weeks. This was the pre-FaceTime era, so I would go for 70 full days of not seeing my dad at all. He could call on the days his ship was in port—three days a week.
In a sense, him being dead is not unlike him being "out to sea”—except he’s not coming back after 2.5 months. Or coming back…ever.
So that brings us back to the Ever Given, the now-freed ship that spent nearly a week wedged in the Suez Canal, bringing canal traffic and a not-small chunk of international trade to a halt. My inner merchant marine daughter went a wee bit nuts, as thoughts of how the hell does that happen and omg the implications of this are insane and man someone is about to get hella fired flitted through my brain on repeat.
Reading the news, I could perfectly imagine my dad’s reaction: he’d start chuckling quietly, almost like he’s trying to stifle the laughs, and then erupt into full-blown laughter. A friggen ship? Stuck? In the canal? Are you shitting me?
He’d then probably ask who owned the ship, and who was crewing the ship, and what flag the ship was sailing under. Inappropriate comments would then be made about all of these things. He would probably boast about the numerous trips he had made either in the Suez region or through the Panama Canal that did not result in international incidents. There would be a group chat between my dad, my brother, and myself, where we’d share boat memes. There would be much laughter.
But instead, I get none of that. And it sucks.
In normal, non-pandemic times, there are things that help people deal with grief. Unfortunately, in These Unprecedented Times, these things are largely gone or altered in a way that renders them nearly useless. When my dad died in May 2020, a large chunk of the country was still under stay-at-home orders. I technically broke Maine’s quarantine policy when I said goodbye to my father in the hospital, as it had not been two weeks since I had returned to the Pine Tree State.3 People were, understandably, hesitant to come spend time with me. Counselors were not (and largely are still not) seeing patients in person.4 Church access was limited depending on where a person lived.
Is it shocking to anyone that I just drank a lot during this time?5
It’s been nearly a year since my father’s death, and my family has been unable to hold a funeral Mass for him in Maine due to the pandemic restrictions. Maine, unlike every other state in the region, kept its restrictions on indoor gathering in place for an extremely long time. It was only after Connecticut removed all capacity caps, and instead requiring only social distancing and masks, that Maine even began to move towards allowing more than 50 people to gather. And this has been truly the hardest cross to bear in the grieving process.
One thing I truly love about Catholicism is the dedication to ritual and tradition. Anywhere in the world, the Mass-going experience should be more or less the same.6 The priest will, inevitably, wherever the Mass is happening, raise the Eucharist and consecrate the Body and Blood of Christ during Mass. It’s therapeutic—I have very clear memories of a feeling of calm coming over me at my first Mass in college.
Death as a Catholic is no different. When a Catholic dies, hopefully after receiving Extreme Unction, a process begins—at least, in the Normal Times. A parish is contacted. A funeral home is notified. A wake is scheduled. A funeral Mass is scheduled. If the weather allows for it,7 a burial is arranged.
This set process of “wake-funeral-burial” assists with the grieving and healing process. It’s a routine. Once the wake is over, the funeral happens the next day. Then the burial is after the funeral (unless the ground is frozen). They’re all necessary steps and they’re all helpful steps.
Due to the pandemic, my father didn’t get any of that. His “wake” consisted of his pallbearers, some of their wives, my mother, my brother, me, and my friend Bridget, who showed up with a funeral-appropriate dress after Rent The Runway dropped the ball.8 There was no funeral. The burial service was short, but nice. There was no reception afterwards, although I did drink in my driveway and eat pazzo bread.9
Nearly a year after my father’s death, my family has yet to have a funeral for him in Maine, and the disruption in the grieving routine has put a halt to the healing process. It is hard to move on after a loss as sudden and as profound as the death of a parent knowing that there’s still a chunk of the grieving ritual that has yet to occur.
This past year has taught me a lot of lessons that I never expected to learn. Namely, the importance and value of ritual—and the utter randomness of grief. But there are things to look forward to: my father’s funeral in Maine has been scheduled, pending the continued permission of Maine’s Gov. Janet Mills. The Ever Given has been freed, albeit with absolutely zero explanation as to how she managed to wedge herself in the Suez Canal.
And I guess that’s life. Sometimes we just don’t get things. But we deal with them all the same.
To add insult to injury, the liquor store was closed early.
Shockingly, this has not been endorsed by the NHL.
The months of isolation that I had been doing in Virginia did not count; thankfully the hospital did not seem to mind, and I said some creative half-truths to cover my tracks.
Zoom sucks, especially when you have roommates and want to have a private session with a therapist. I would sit in my car.
At least Pink Whitney was legal.
If it’s not, contact the local ordinary.
This is Maine, after all.
Clothing stores were still forcibly closed in Maine at this time, Because Of The Pandemic.