Ever since COVID-19 hit, I’ve been in the company of misery.
The phone rings. It rings with the same urgency as
the nurse’s hands move, trying to pump life into a man who has been dead for an hour.
He won’t be brought back—But because of a paper he signed three years ago, our hands are
tied. I’ve been expecting this call. I’ve been warned of the sibling dynamics.

The hatred, the anger, the subterfuge—I’d hoped that the virus—
which has just struck their father down—
would have them grow up. Put their differences aside.
And by doing so, save me from having to utter this trope—which in its own right is the hangman
to my psyche. I measure the words in my mind. Twenty-four, two dozen, two scores, doesn’t
matter how I quantify them. They will be my noose.

I can’t tell you what you want to know.
You are on the list of people I can talk to—
But not about that.

I pick up the receiver:
“Hello, my name is X. I am Y’s son. Can you tell me about his medical state?
“I am sorry I can’t tell you about your loved one’s medical condition.”
“Why?”
“You are not the health-care proxy, and are not on the contact list.”
“But, you actually pick up the phone—unlike the doctor.”
“I’m not a doctor.”
“Just read the chart.”
“I can’t.”
“You’re heartless. He could be dead for all I know”—Click.

He is—He is.
As I hang up, the nurse Purells her hands. She wanted to wash them earlier—there was no hope.
I’m shaking.
Aren’t rules made to be broken? Had they been, my deceased patient’s ribcage
wouldn’t be shattered—and my heart would not be leaping out of my chest.