Words hard to say

My father is 68 and has chronic asthma, and he got diagnosed with COVID-19. He’s ill for 9 days. He has fewer. No doctors come to check him in Russia. He says he’s ok. And I don’t know what to feel. What I should feel or do being thousands of miles away. I just know I already had it.

When I was 21, I had to lose my father. The doctors said so. The illness that killed his mother was about to kill him. And they knew it in advance. I was 17 or 18 when he told me. I said that I wasn’t gonna cry. I told myself that in 3 years everything might change. But then I cried anyway. Telling myself that everything would be ok, I cried my eyes, my heart, and my soul out. I never told him I was crying. He said once “I never cried before my mom died.” I understood that I shouldn’t cry either. But I cried for a couple of years. And I was never ready for what could happen. But I knew how I would feel.

When I was 20, he began to receive the experimental treatment, with meds that his best friends — doctors — brought illegally from Germany. And he got better, but we never knew if we will get more. These medicines were officially registered in Russian only when I was 25. My father outlived his friends-doctors. Well, his best friend — uncle Igor — who adored me, and forced me to be brave, he always lived a bright life — that time he could not resist visiting his mistress right after the surgery on his heart. So he died right there with her — with a happy smile, being just 60.

You’d say it’s not a topic to discuss in a full voice, but when I was 6, we stayed on the balcony with uncle Igor, and there was an unpleasant smell from the street. I noted, “Something smells bad.” “Honey,” he said with a smile, “you’re such a smart and brave girl, embellishments are for losers. You’ll always say as it is. So now say it loud, it stinks.” “It stinks!” I almost shouted. My mom scolded me for foul language.

Here how it was: my father’s best friend (they were friends since my father was 2yo) died because he wanted to fuck so bad he couldn’t wait another week. My father, who by that time lost both parents, cried for the third time in his life. For weeks. And I was pissed by what Igor has done to himself and my father. My mom told me never to say it to my dad. I said that the father knew. And that uncle Igor taught me to always say as it is.

After it, my father always thought that he outlived his allotted time. And that he’s not afraid of death. He even smokes sometimes. And that is why I cannot rely on fact that he now walks and smiles. He may be in a horrible condition, he may be just fine with being like this.

I wanted to say (as it is) what I feel about what’s happening in Russia with my father’s health, but I can’t. I thought that if I get a speedup in my writing, I’ll say it. Well, I can’t. For now, I have to stop.

October 12, 2020
Vilnius
from the letter to Maurizio

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