Ron’s mom, Natalie, recently passed away. Ron’s brother, Cecil, called early in the morning with the news. She lived in a nursing home in Chandler, Arizona not far from Cecil’s house. He was with her in her final hours. A healthcare worker at the home was diagnosed with Covid-19. Instead of grieving, Ron and I worried Natalie died from the virus and that Cecil may have contracted it while he sat with her through the night.
There are things to do when a loved one passes. We contact family and friends and the funeral home. There are caskets to choose from and church services to arrange. Food, flowers, and holy cards are ordered. Someone writes an obituary and submits it to the local paper; others are asked to speak at the funeral. Hotel arrangements are made for out-of-town guests. Transportation to and from the airport, and from the church to the cemetery are arranged. There is grocery shopping to do, meals to plan, and new suits and dresses to purchase. These are rituals that help us cope. They give us purpose and direction while we mourn our loss. Our need to do something, anything, is primal. We honor our dead. It is a fundamental part of being human. But coronavirus stripped us of those rites. Instead, Ron and I sat in a state of inertia that left each of us edgy, sad, and bewildered.
We had permission to move Natalie from Arizona to New Mexico to bury her here. Could we move her if she had the virus? Who would test her? Would we need to bury her someplace else? We called family and friends with the news. No, we would not be having a funeral here at the ranch. Maybe a memorial later, we said. Not knowing what that meant or when it would happen.
Cecil was still at the nursing home waiting for instructions on how to keep himself and his wife, Patty, safe once he got home. Ron called the New Mexico Department of Health. He had questions about the virus. Should his brother be tested given the circumstances? If his mother was tested for the virus, how long before we had the results? What protocols were we to follow regarding a burial here at the ranch, or was that even possible? At some point the gentleman on the phone admitted he was just reading directly from the CDC website and suggested we do the same.
There was no time for tears. Instead, we were forced to navigate the Covid-19 wormhole. Ron and his brother spoke often throughout the day. Natalie had been tested for the virus at the funeral home. We would have the results in about a week. Cecil went home and stripped down on the patio before going into the house and taking a shower. He would need to quarantine for fourteen days. The funeral home director thought there would be no threat of the virus after Cecil’s quarantine was up and that it would be safe to transport Natalie.
The following day, Ron’s ex-wife, Becky, posted a beautiful photo of Natalie and an obituary on Facebook. Natalie was gone, and this was the first evidence of her passing that felt real. Border Patrol Agents stopped by with a lovely card and a bottle of Patrón to toast Natalie’s long life. We contacted a local friend who agreed to dig the grave at the Border Cowboy where she will be laid to rest on Saturday.
Ron and I, along with his daughter, Xochi, son-in-law, Matt, and granddaughter, Ada, visited the burial site. We have arranged a Zoom meeting with family and friends and are busy collecting photos for a slideshow. Cecil and Patty will be here with us at the ranch. Natalie’s life partner, W.H. Adams, and his children will join us at the grave site. In the days since Natalie passed, we have hobbled together something that resembles the customs we shared “before the virus”. A tagline, I fear, we will be uttering for years to come—our lives irrevocably altered by the pandemic.
Natalie was born August 27, 1930 and would have turned ninety this year. She was born during the Great Depression and was in grade school when Germany invaded Poland, sparking World War II in Europe. She was a young mother when the Korean War broke out and raising two teenage sons during the Vietnam War. She was a strong and gracious woman who had witnessed a great deal of this country’s suffering. To leave us during the pandemic seems both unjust and fitting.
As a young mother with two boys, Natalie, and her husband, Cecilio, attended Arizona State College, which is now Northern Arizona University in Flagstaff. Cecilio was Mexican American. Cultural norms being what they were back then, they had a difficult time finding teaching jobs. They persevered and found positions on the Navajo Reservation near Tuba City where they taught for several years. The family moved to Douglas, Arizona in 1964. Natalie eventually became a school principal and years later, met W.H. Adams. After she retired, she moved here to the ranch in Animas, New Mexico where she and W.H. lived a full life. She enjoyed traveling the desert on a four-wheeler, working in her yard, and spending time with family and friends.
She was loved by so many people and deserves a proper funeral, and so do we. But our loss remains in suspended animation. This is the cruel, parting gift of coronavirus. There will be no service, no hugs, no condolences. We will not gather as a family to tell stories, to eat a good meal, or to say our proper goodbyes. Instead, we search for familiar ground; something we can hold onto that resembles what used to be before the virus.
Natalie’s obituary appeared in the Douglas Dispatch with an ominous reminder of where we are in human history. “Arrangements are pending”.
Someday we will all come together here at the ranch to celebrate her life, but for now, each of us must find our own way through the void.