Jan. 23, 2022
My eyes have been glued to this screen all morning.
Usually this tiny rectangle that holds all of the knowledge in the known universe doubles as a gateway to the worst humanity has to offer; chaotically interwoven social platforms where miserable avatars unload their fears and insecurities onto each other or share disingenuous inspirational captions beneath heavily altered digital representations of themselves.
Snapshots of imaginary lives. Filters over faces to hide the scars that come with traveling forward through time as a human being. Sadness disguised as narcissism. Dive into your own facade. Stick around long enough and the algorithm might just reward you with a sliver of the attention you seek.
But not today.
This morning my usual feed of shameless self-indulgence is crowded with a seemingly endless stream of trucks. Photos of eighteen wheelers wrapped in Canadian flags barreling down snow covered highways. Videos of big rigs bumper to bumper, stretching for miles as average everyday citizens stand on overpasses cheering them on; their desires for a free and just society rumbling in the diesel powered engines and carried on the backs of these blue collar heroes.
The most unlikeliest of social media influencers. It started in Vancouver and it’s heading to Ottawa.
In the weeks prior there were whispers that something monumental was about to happen, but let’s face it, this is Canada and monumental events often succumb to dull Canadian apathy before they can grow beyond the topsoil. We don’t dream much here. We have a status quo to uphold, and that status quo must be maintained at all costs. We must preserve our reputation as polite pushovers even if it means our own undoing.
But this time we were pushed too far and that seedling has spread its roots clear across our country.
Tears well up in my eyes at the sight of it all. For the first time in nearly three years I can feel hope return to my heart and fill my body. It’s a strange sensation when you rediscover something you didn’t know you lost- like finding a fifty dollar bill between couch cushions, except in this case it’s one of the most essential human traits you’ve located deep beneath the clutter of pennies and potato chip crumbs.
Three years of utter darkness. Trapped in the gray malaise of a pandemic that was more about politics than public health. A constant haze of deception and government control.
The fog has begun to dissipate from my mind, and right on time.
On January 10th I woke up with a pounding headache, but it was the morning of my stepson’s eleventh birthday party so I had no choice but to suck it up and press onward. As the day continued my sinuses filled with thick mucus and a film of sticky sweat clung to my skin. That unmistakable feeling of developing illness spread through my chest and tugged at my consciousness.
Then, while I sped down a busy city street, anxious to pick up a half dozen pizzas before my mind could no longer will my body to complete such a task, my phone rang.
It was my wife.
“I don’t know what happened. All of a sudden out of nowhere I got a fever. I have to lay down. My whole body is aching. I’m sorry, baby. You’re gonna have to take over the party.”
My worst nightmare; a house full of screaming kids jacked up on video games and root beer, eagerly awaiting pizza and no wife to dampen the madness.
I survived the party- barely.
The next morning I drove to the local rapid antigen test dispensary. It was arranged like an apocalyptic drive-thru; long lines of cars operated by distressed motorists, patiently waiting for nearly an hour to learn their fate as the cars ahead crawled at a snail's pace toward their moment of truth.
I arrive at the trailer window. A nurse stands on the other side, covered in PPE from head to toe.
“Are you vaccinated?” she asks before even taking my name.
“No” I reply, half offended that it even matters at this point.
“Here” she says, aggressively shoving a pair of Covid tests into my face.
I am the unclean, undeserving of even the most basic human dignity.
My wife jams the swab up her nostril with fervor. She wants answers- now. I’m a little more delicate and wince when the swab touches the space between uncomfortable and the edge of my brain’s frontal lobe.
She tests positive, I test negative.
We both know the truth; it’s virtually impossible for her to have contracted Covid-19 and not passed it along to me. We sleep in the same bed. We exchange bodily fluids far more often than the average married couple. If she’s positive, I’m positive. There’s no way around it.
The next two weeks are nothing short of a psychological experiment.
I take the disconnection route- I stay away from the internet and focus my energy on everything but Covid-19. I read, I write, I record podcasts, I exercise, I fill my days with activities to keep my thoughts from drifting into “what if” territory. The endeavor proves successful and the illness never progresses beyond a minor hindrance to my daily life.
My wife chooses the opposite approach. She searches the internet far and wide for anything that professes to be an expert opinion. She absorbs every article and bit of dialogue she can find on the subject of Covid-19. Soon she slides away from the realm of science and into the diarrhea brown waters of propaganda. Her curiosity turns to fear, which becomes panic, which in turn envelops her until she’s gripped by anxiety. Every cough, every sneeze becomes a precursor to imminent death. She’s no more affected by the illness than I am, but she’s captured by what these anonymous sources have told her to expect rather than what she actually feels.
Twelve days later and we’ve both made a full recovery. We’re rendered breathless by what’s playing out in front of us. We cry tears of joy. We can’t quite explain why, but deep down we intuitively know what it is; it’s hope. That aforementioned essential human trait. That glimmer of distant light that motivates us to keep dragging our burdens through life despite the odds stacked against us. We’ve found it again. We can feel it stirring inside us.
Hope.
A link to a fundraiser appears in my feed and I follow it. I’m expecting to see a few thousand dollars donated to this cause and I’m floored when the number pops up on my screen:
Nearly one million dollars raised in just over twenty four hours.
I reach for my wallet and donate three times what I can realistically afford before I can talk myself out of it. If this is it, if this is our last stand, our only chance to topple these draconian government mandates and oust the bureaucratic weasels who forced them on us, I will not look back on this moment and say I stood on the sideline.
If freedom comes with a price tag then I’m prepared to step up and pay what I owe.