The Weekly Visit
Tekst: Pablo Carbonero Lechuga
Facultad de Medicina de Valladolid, Spania
Bilder: Privat
The weekly visit to her is heartwarming and relentless at the same time. I always find her waiting for me on the other side of the room, mask on, eyes shining. She has been self-isolating herself since the outbreak in March. Summer was an oasis for her, surrounded by her really well-cared garden, books, and inventions. But when the fall began, her little house in the countryside was too cold for her bones. Coming back to the city did mean not only disconnection from the nature she loves but also the return to a much more isolated life. A life where all her friends are afraid. She is also afraid.
And I was terrified when the outbreak hit the country.
I tried to protect her at all costs. I did her groceries during the lockdown months so she couldn’t undergo any risk. She didn’t leave the house for weeks until the so-called first wave was over and she moved to the countryside.
But she had changed.
Her strength, her character, her way of perceiving life and things. She neglected the garden for weeks; she was always angry. Our relationship (always stable, always flowery) got transformed into something very different. I couldn’t deal with her. She couldn’t deal with me, either. And we distanced ourselves, one from each other. She stopped being strong, either physically and emotionally. One day, the last one of a pretty intense and odd summer, when the light was hitting the porch where we both were sitting, she confessed:
«These months have been years .»
Suddenly I understood.
The strict confinement we underwent during spring was necessary. Dealing with those times was a challenge that the society overcame, sacrificing its spirit, getting reunited in balconies to, unknowingly, remind each other of the other’s presence next door. That period, fluid in perception but livid in our memories, was traumatic to many.
She didn’t have Netflix; she didn’t text, she didn’t know how to video call. Time was a hundred times heavier for her than for me. Time was a slab.
And I left the house the first day we were allowed to, and I had a disappointingly feeling of normality. Like yeah, it was hard, but it was not that bad.
But her experience was completely different.
I made a mistake overprotecting her during those long months. In my wish to protect her, I damaged her even more. In my purpose of keeping her alive, I took from her something beyond repair.
When the second wave started, and the cities and countries started to fall again into lockdowns, curfews, and restrictions, I tried to stay calm. I suggested to her, right after she installed it back to her apartment in the city, to go for products she needed.
«Why don’t you go to get some food?»
«I won’t carry it back; you help me.»
I limited the number of people I was meeting with. All my encounters were outdoors. My purpose for this time was, simply, trying to give her back the life quality I unconsciously deprived her of.
We started going to groceries. We had an established tour around the stores she has always bought from. So one day, she was buying fruit, and the next one some milk, and the next one something she had a craving for. We carried things back to her place. One day she decided to go on her own.
«Are you sure you don’t want me to go with you to help you?»
«I have carried pitchers full of milk since I was 5. I’ll be fine.»
And she was fine. Leaving the house to buy food wasn’t something she particularly enjoyed, but it helped her stay connected to reality.
Three weeks ago, we started to go for walks along the river bank. In those walks we talk about how life has changed for us during these months, how we perceive the world now, where we would like to be.
She is not angry anymore. At least, not at me. Her mood has considerably improved, her muscles have strengthened, her breath is compassed with her steps. And even though she is grumpy every time she leaves the house and is cold outside, it takes a couple of minutes to look up to the sun and feel better.
My fear for the virus has not vanished. It is still there like a heavy blanket of truth. I’m not afraid of it, itself, but of its consequences. I’m behaving the best way I can, as we all are. And even with a mask, sanitizer, and distance in between, I can’t stop trying to make her life a little lighter, feeling grateful for these moments with her—weird ones.
But sinful to destroy.
In the meantime, and for the moment, she will keep enjoying her walks and the sun.
And she would keep waiting for her beloved summer to arrive. So do I.
