Counting gowns, memories, promises: Getting through the night with COVID-19

By Mary Kay Roth

At first the bed sheets came from my own cupboards, then from Amazon.  Now they are quiet donations from friends, neighbors, people I don’t even know, leaving brown paper bags on my porch. I take one sheet at a time and carefully cover it with a paper pattern crafted from holiday gift wrap. Pins were a challenge, but fortuitously I had stashed away my mother’s old sewing kit – and sure enough, nestled inside was a clear plastic box of pins. So I fasten a pattern to each sheet, cut along the edges – and another nursing gown is ready to sew.

I am no seamstress, but many a morning after my sunrise walk, I delivery my cutouts to our growing circle of Breaking Thread – wonder women who are also cutting patterns, as well as stitching patterns together. Each Friday I collect finished gowns and deliver them to the local health care facility where my daughter works as a nurse.

The horror over conditions our health care workers face in this insidious pandemic – across the world and country – hit close to home and heart this month with confirmation there clearly may not be enough protective gear in Lincoln. Though local health officials are doing valiant work to find all possible supplies, they are running into national shortages everywhere.  So, as the virus smolders, my daughter and her co-workers have one disposable surgical mask each – and not nearly enough of anything. 

I keep myself busy during daylight hours, but around 3 a.m. the walls come tumbling down and I find myself in the dark abyss of COVID-19. I am scared for the entire planet, but of course especially for my sweet, compassionate grown-up child who has spirit and fire, and who will – in all probability – do her best to make sure people don't die alone.

So instead of counting sheep, I count gowns.  I picture Anna in the middle of an impossible day at work, grabbing the sky-blue gown – sprinkled with stars – that seamstress Nancy created from my son’s childhood sheets … or the gown swimming with comical sharks that Mary stitched from my neighbor’s linens.

Gowns have worked up to now.  Tonight, I need more. In reverence for this profound season of rebirth, I pause to count a few scattered memories I want to hold close – to count a few promises I want to keep.   

I start by counting up the world’s health care workers and their soulful eyes, weary and sad, yet ever caring and fiercely resilient – the touching, committed smiles of teachers, reinventing education overnight – employees who continue to show up, at grocery stores, child care centers, police and fire departments.  And I need to remember the tireless staff at our amazing non-profits, doling out food, diapers, hope – understanding this is a marathon and they will need our support in the many difficult months ahead.  

I also count the magical moments of these solitary days: the glory of dawn, dazzling daffodils, the sound of cricket frogs, the surprise of bouquets and homemade bread at my door. 

At the same time, strange as it sounds, I want to count and hang onto my anger, so fierce and furious it surprises even me.  But as election season approaches, I vow to remember the incompetent narcissist in charge of our country – a man who silences truth-tellers, ignores experts and continues to kill thousands of our most fragile citizens. I pledge to campaign this season as never before.

Moreover, I need to acknowledge and measure my good fortune and middle-class privilege. I am warm and safe with well-stocked cupboards and a steady budget, while this pandemic shines a cruel light on glaring inequities that have long plagued our country. My son works in a high-poverty school in Kansas City and worries less about daily lessons – and much more about children living in unsettled homes with empty refrigerators and inevitable eviction notices. Eventually the pandemic will ease, while poverty will not.  I need to hit the pause button for some hard-hitting self-examination.  

I am lucky.  These are difficult times, but I hope to remember all the friends and family who Zoomed at the exact right moment, kisses blown from afar, dogs who rested their head on my lap when I cried – and intrepid seamstresses who sewed gowns and masks into the night.

Finally, in the light of Easter morning – snow or not – I pledge to never again take for granted our precious gift of touch … as I count down the weeks, days, minutes before I can take my grandchildren in my arms once again. When I can hug the stuffing out of Ace. When I can inhale the sweet scent of Everlyn and Scout, hold them close and whisper in their ear … Yes, GrandMary was really scared. But she kept getting up every morning to watch the sunrise, and she kept cutting patterns, the only way she knew to keep their mommy safe from harm.