W H E N W E A R E F A C E D with horror in the form of holocausts or plagues, something always comes to mind: “Blessed our loved ones who are no longer with us. They don’t have to witness these colossal tragedies.”
I think of my father, who died before 9/11. He loved New York and visited
me three times. He passed away in 2000, a few months before the destruction of his beloved Twin Towers (we ascended to the rooftop in 1993). I think of my friend the artist Mirtha Dermisache*, gone too soon, who insisted so much that I travel to New York in 1982. She even organized a raffle (we call it GoFund page now) to help finance my round trip—but I never went back! She would probably have been decimated by this plague, collapsing from ARDS, alone in her studio. She smoked. She succumbed to lung cancer in 2012.
I think of Dr. Sacks, who left us in 2015 having lived through the London blitz, 9/11, and Hurricane Sandy. Although in great company with his boyfriend Billy, would he have remained calm and stress-free sacrificing his swimming, his bike rides, his one-to-one patient visits? Would he have complied to zoom chat with Kate, his editor, instead of periodic visits? I think of George Gibson, John’s father, who bid us farewell one year before Oliver, in 2014. He served in the Korean War and not only survived the war but a divorce, his second wife’s battle with dementia, and the estrangement of his children (John was the only one to speak to him until he passed). Besides being a hardcore smoker, he never recovered from a long-time chronic depression. Would he have needed a plague to boot? At his funeral, John was given the folded U.S. flag that all veterans receive. It still adorns the top of our door as we exit.
— NYC, 5/19/2020
