Like a Box of Chocolates

Last year felt like the world had accidentally signed up for the least-desirable subscription service— and somehow kept forgetting to cancel it. It was one of those watershed, tide-turning, where-were-you-when years, whose ending provided a reminder of the illusion of time, because the new year's beginning did not magically fix last year's mess. But the messiness is where the realizations occur, where strong bonds are tempered, and weak bonds are melted away. If necessity is the parent of invention, then the business of inventing in 2020 was thriving.

With the eyes of the world peeled for coughing fits and fevers, it was difficult for my mom to receive the attention she needed; every visit to the doctor was an endeavor in and of itself, and the immediate assumption of the hospital staff was that she was there for Covid-19. She was not, however, and her symptoms (rapidly progressing loss of vision, shooting leg pain) were soon diagnosed as cataracts and neuropathy. The cataract surgery was successful, and she remained bed-ridden for some weeks as she recovered, allowing her legs a bit of a break, though the nerve damage had made her situation something like that of the Princess and the Pea; any mislaid fold of her blanket summoned a shooting pain more intense than the Princess's sleepless discomfort.

Our family had to adapt to these developments, so each day before my classes met online, I'd ask my mom what she needed, reminding her after I'd gotten whatever it was, that I was only a text away. I'd show her something funny I'd seen online, or tell her a pun I'd heard in my classes, hoping to make her laugh before I had to plug in. My sister would do the same, our classes lining up to almost perfectly switch-off shifts taking care of our mom. There wasn't much to be done, just making little meals, keeping her hydrated, giving her an arm to hold onto when she'd walk from her room to get a little bit of sunlight on the porch. All the while our dad was working, and most times he'd come home to a sleeping house, our mom sleeping through the pain while my sister and I would have just turned in from an emotionally long day of schoolwork and taking care of Mom. There were some days where my sister or I would make dinner and leave some in Tupperware for Dad, but most days we were too exhausted.

My sister and I had gotten into a sort of rhythm near the end of the year, which was when my girlfriend's mom tested positive for Covid, sending her house into a bit of a frenzy. My girlfriend went to stay with her aunt, locked down in their extra room, while her mom disinfected what she could of their apartment before she was completely knocked down by the virus. If it all hadn't been so serious, it might have been comical: two lovers, two sick moms, two households forbidding entry.

These were the times I would softly cry myself to sleep.

With everything that was happening, school became more and more wearisome; after checking on Mom, I would turn the camera off and stay in bed, finishing assignments on my stomach as I listened to my sisters lecturer drone on despite her snoring. We didn't have memory foam mattresses, but by the time we were getting out of our beds again, our shapes were well remembered. Dad started taking one day off a week to help with Mom, and Mom started getting out of bed on her own. Her eyes were much better and her shooting pains would come and go, so she could stay on her feet for longer than she had been. My girlfriend and her mom tested negative again, and they were ecstatic to be reunited. My sister and I finished our semesters without having to drop too many classes, and I received an email that my graduation was approved— by all accounts it seemed as though the storm had passed.

The year had felt like it would never end, but everything ends. . . and also nothing ever does. The driving force of the year felt like it had been the terrible subscription to awful things, but it had actually been the things we'd done in response: my sister and I trying to cheer my mom up when we brought her water for her pills or made her ramen; my Dad working long hours to pick up the slack at the job and to keep a roof over our heads, then sacrificing a workday to help us take care of Mom; my girlfriend texting me “Good morning” and “I love you” and “You're doing just fine; remember to breathe” every day, even when she was quarantined 80 miles away. Our little family and its extensions came together to make sure the year wouldn't break us, and the year didn't. It might've worn us down, but it couldn't finish the job.

My mom's birthday just passed, and we might have missed it in the process of trying to survive, if not for a delivery made that week: a huge bouquet of flowers and a classic heart-shaped box of chocolates. My dad had sent them for Mom, knowing full well that she expected to forgive him for forgetting. I can't remember a time when my dad was early— let alone on time— with celebrating any birthday, but this year called for the best of us, and that's what we all put forward.

Maybe it's cheesy, and I'm sure it won't make it into any history books, but my mom's flowers and chocolates will always remind me of all the little ways we tell our family we love them.