Merry Christmas from the Afterlife
If there is an afterlife where our loved ones can view our lives back on earth, it must be hell for them.
That’s what quarantining in my basement feels like. Like I’m dead. Unable to interact, engage. I can hear them; their lives playing out just as they did before I was diagnosed with covid and forced to live in our bitterly chilly finished basement with all the trimmings one would expect in heaven—a TV with the streaming services that matter, a desk, a comfy bed, full bathroom, and a washer and dryer in such easy reach that my pajamas are toasty warm each night as I head back to sleep. They laugh. They fight. The dog barks. The sound of toy cars racing the length of the house. The pup’s paws chasing after them. The sound of the 3-year-old racing those cars sliding across the floor on sweatpants knees, crashing into everything remotely in his way.
I can see them when I sneak out from the basement, walk to the front of the house and peek into the windows like a pervert, but I cannot participate in their life. I can hear them occasionally talking about me, but the longer I’m down here, the less I come up in conversation. In another few days, I expect to hear the voice of a man telling Katie he’ll love Harry like he was his own just before he moves his shit into my house.
Every few hours, Katie leaves an offering at the top of the stairs. Some of the delicious would-be Christmas dinner we were meant to have with my family had my diagnosis not derailed that plan, a gallon of water, two jugs of Pedialyte, bottles and bottles of vitamins. We speak little more than, “David, it’s at the top of the stairs,” followed by a groggy, “Thank you.” Soon, I expect, I’ll peek up those stairs to see a few small rocks as if the top of the stairs were my gravestone.
Covid isn’t going to kill me. I’ll recover. I mean, I’m healthy, right? I did fifteen push-ups today. With covid! Besides, if I haven’t died yet, I never will. But on the off chance that the science doesn’t back up that statement, I’m not afraid. When my soul flees this human husk, it won’t be venturing into the unknown. No, when I die, I’ll go somewhere quite familiar. I’ll go back to my basement. And it’ll be hell.
