The power of connection and the painful isolation of the pandemic. A monumental moment seeing my father.

"Love recognises no barriers, it jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope"     Maya Angelou.

Social isolation is difficult.  Sometimes I think our coronavirus pandemic is not only a disease of the body but also of community and relationships.  The idea of loved ones or ourselves becoming seriously ill and needing to be isolated is unthinkable but has painfully become true for thousands of people.   On a far less serious level,  I never thought I could manage being at home for two months during lockdown separated from everyone I know except my partner.  I have missed the sense of community that I took for granted pre-coronavirus such as being able to go to a yoga class, music event or my local cafe.  I have missed normal things like being able to cook for friends and relax around a table.

But I'm surprised that I have found a sense of connection through the world of Zoom.  I have done yoga classes with wonderful teachers I know from retreats in Spain.  I have sung peaceful songs of hope with Deva Premal in the lush tropics of Costa Rica.  Incredibly, I have also connected with Oprah Winfrey in her homely kitchen in California to talk about how to cope in a pandemic (alongside 40,000 others!).  I would still say that on-line connection isn't as good as real human contact, but it has been a worthy substitute.  It has shown me that we are able to connect through our hearts even when separated by physical space and in some cases across continents. 

Now that we can now meet up with friends in person outdoors, I have almost forgotten how isolated lockdown really felt.  After two months of not seeing friends, I had started to wonder if I had lost the skill of having long conversations?  Would it feel strange to see a friend outdoors with a 2 metre gap between us?  So I was relieved to find that my connection to friends feels just as strong as normal, maybe even more so for sharing such an unprecedented time.  Even out on a blustery beach without hugs, my heart has received a little dose of warmth and contact each time.  

But in stark contrast to the easing of lockdown for many of us, care homes remain closed for any visitors.  In my father's nursing home, the only social contact he has had since March is with the caring and familiar nursing staff.  He has to eat his meals on his own in his room rather than the dining room.  He hasn't been able to use Zoom to connect to others round the world.  Nor has he ever mastered using a mobile phone unless a nurse dials the numbers for him.  How on earth is he coping I have wondered many times?  All I've done until now is phone, send greeting cards regularly and hope that the home remains unaffected. 

This Sunday, we were granted permission by the Matron to make an exceptional visit while sticking to their rules of no visitors on their premises.  This would mean being outdoors with extra social distance while we stand outside the boundary of their long garden.  The visit took many hours of agonising over whether it was safe to see him like this and on a practical note, how to find a toilet somewhere "safe" on the long journey.  In the end, my gut instinct was to go but with extreme caution and care.  It felt even more monumental as it was our first journey out of our seaside town since March, now travelling with face masks, disposable gloves and hand sanitiser packed in this "new normal".

Thankfully, the nursing home is located in a beautiful village right on a picturesque river.  Our meeting place was nestled between huge ancient willow trees with the relaxing sound of the river flowing behind us.  We stood waiting behind a wide brick wall,  thankfully only waist height, for him to appear.  As I saw him being wheeled out by a nurse, I wanted to simultaneously clap, cry and hug him.  The moment I almost feared might never happen, did.  His home so far has remained coronavirus free and it means that I can finally see him after three months of tension in my stomach hoping he stays well.

The nurse parked his wheelchair at the end of his path in the nursing home gardens, while we stood the other side of the wall 3 metres away.  It was almost comical, trying to converse at this distance while he juggled a huge umbrella and gusty winds made it hard to hear.  He looked surprisingly well, stoically talking as if we'd only visited a week ago and not in these difficult circumstances.  In answer to my question of how has he coped, his answer was predictably "fine".  Did he miss having visitors I asked, but he evaded the question by reassuring us that there was lots going on in the home.

My deep longing for an emotional response from my father always goes unmet.  Even in a pandemic, it has not made him suddenly burst out of the nursing home walls with tender words of connection.  When my mother died a few years ago, he consistently remained unemotional telling me that he didn't miss her that much really, even though they were married for 50 years.  The solid, wide brick wall between us today is normally there in spirit, with him feeling emotionally far out of reach.  I've managed to cross it in the latter years by small physical gestures such as wheeling his chair or helping him to stand up.  Stuck behind a physical wall on this visit, the emotional distance felt more acutely present.

In desperation to try to connect with him, I tried his favourite topic of conversation, the wildlife from his window.  For the first time in the visit his face lit up fully.  He told me about the hoopoe that he had seen recently, a bird I had never heard of.  And in that moment came a strand of connection as I pictured my father in his room spotting various birds with delight.  While he might be hidden behind emotional walls, he loves seeing birds as much as I do.  And now when I wonder how he has coped on his own during these times, I remember that the birds and wildlife have happily kept him company just as they have for me.

After he is wheeled back to the nursing home, we stay for a while so that I can soak up the nature that he sees from his window by the river.   I look out for a rare sighting of a hoopoe, but instead see a lone swan and mallards.  As I listen to the breeze through the trees. I know that this is the same sound he hears from his window each day.  My heart feels full, in deep gratitude for seeing him and knowing that his care home has so far been spared from coronavirus. 

I wish my father could share his heart with me in words, but I have to believe that love can travel over the wall of the nursing home, through the silence in our conversations and among the birds that we both watch with joy.

Back at home, my bird book tells me how rare sightings of the hoopoe are in the UK, as it normally migrates from Africa or Asia to warmer parts of Southern Europe.  Somehow this unique, colourful bird can overshoot its journey and land on grassy patches of southern England before turning back.  If a tiny bird can travel thousands of miles to sit beneath my father's window then it gives me hope that love too can travel even when we are physically separated.  In some cultures, the hoopoe can apparently symbolise survival over long, challenging journeys.  As we face further months of this pandemic, I will think of the hoopoe's brave and long journey flying across continents.  I now know for sure that love too can travel great distances even in these extreme times of separation.  As the words of Maya Angelou remind us that...

"Love recognises no barriers, it jumps hurdles, leaps fences, penetrates walls to arrive at its destination full of hope."