A Toast (2021)

I didn’t do a toast to 2020 because, well, it was a relatively grim year, all things considered. And this year hasn’t really been much better.

Of course I’m talking about COVID-19. I imagine very few people aren’t talking about it in one way or another. Worldwide, there have been over 5 million deaths from COVID-19 alone, and over 285 million cases. These numbers are staggering, and I don’t think a lot of us can really consider what that really means. All of those people were friends, family. Loved ones. People that we could never replace—only bitterly feel their loss. Good, evil, well-deserved or not is irrelevant when you remember that this virus could claimed less lives. A pandemic could happen in any society, but only a society like ours could allow millions of people to die, and even more millions of people to be infected by a virus that we are yet to understand the long-term effects.

For me, 2020 was a prelude of things to come. My grandmother died earlier this year, and I’m sad in a way that doesn’t quite feel relatable. Not that this sadness is unique to me and me alone, no—but rather than being upset about the fact that she died, I’m more stricken by her lack of presence. We didn’t speak much—she wasn’t fond of loud children, as children are want to be—but the times we did speak, when I was barely 9 and got to listen to her stories as a nurse, it felt nice. Even now it feels nice. I think I’ve said it before, but I feel like a person like her found it difficult to open up to people: even her own family. To expose a vulnerability is like asking to be hurt: unless one is fond of that deep pain, it is a silly thing to do.

But isn’t that why those we choose as friends and family are important? Do they not know us, and accept us, in spite of our weaknesses? They need not be kind and hold their tongue on things they consider importance, for that is not inherently kind, but they refuse to discard us. They know our weaknesses and would never exploit it. But such a thing requires a tremendous amount of trust, and I’m certain that we all know someone (or are, indeed, THE someone) who finds that sort of trust extremely difficult to part with.

My grandmother is gone, and that is that. Whether she exists in another form of existence or otherwise, I cannot say. But what I can say is that wherever she may be: her soul, her essence, her spirit, or anything else one may call it; I hope that she finds the peace and solitude that this life had chose to give to her sparingly.

At the beginning of the year, I also contracted COVID-19. It was bad. It felt like my chest was on fire, and breathing was a chore. Air did not come easily to me. Nor did the feeling of hunger—only a deep and insatiable thirst, accompanied by an endless headache. Medicine only dulled the pain a touch: it allowed me to lie down, close my eyes, and enjoy a thumping headache rather than to immediately sit up and cough up bloody phlegm.

As some know, I ended up in the hospital for a week, two weeks after my symptoms manifested. I couldn’t help but read the news and keep an eye on the COVID-19 tracker. How many people had received their first dose of the vaccine. How many people were infected with COVID-19. And how many people had died from COVID-19. For the first three nights, I seriously considered that I would perhaps never leave this hospital alive, that I would become another statistic.

And I found it funny. Ever since my mid-teens, since I learned about racist cops and active gangs where I lived, I feared that I would become a statistic. I never did anything wrong—nothing illegal. I wasn’t part of any gangs, nor did any drugs. I hadn’t even smoked—not that any of the above is an excuse to be murdered, or makes one more or less deserving than another to die. But the thing I learned is that sometimes, you can do nothing wrong and end up dead. Better yet, you could have done everything right and still end up dead. There are factors that influence the chances of us dying, of course—everyone is aware that smoking isn’t good for you. That our ultra-processed lifestyle is probably not doing us any favours when it comes to longevity of life. But race and gender also come into play, as does class. People like me are well aware that we’re much more likely to die than most others in society. So when I was in hospital, awake in a chair next to my bed at 1am with an oxygen mask around my face, I didn’t laugh. But I found it funny.

The year hasn’t all been terrible, of course. Things rarely swing one way and never the other. Months after leaving the hospital, I came into the care of a kitten named Rin. And having her in my life helped to recontextualise things.

Existence is precious. I know and believe that, but now I know it in a different way that I find hard to make sense. We’ve been through things together; her wetting my bed the first three nights that she slept in my room, her bout of illness from a particular brand of wet food her stomach didn’t agree with, and a number of visits to the vet that she didn’t quite enjoy. But still, we pressed on.

I reconnected with friends that I hadn’t really spoken to in years. I’ve mended relationships with friends that I had previously given up on. I’ve embraced my writing moreso than I have ever done, and this blog is a testament to that. I’ve grown more confident in the things I do. I’ve reorientated how I think about myself. I’ve learned a lot about the plights of others around the world and at home, about people who look like me and look nothing like me.

But still. Sometimes I can’t help but feel pessimistic. Climate catastrophe is all but certain: all that can be changed now is the severity of it. Yet, the people “in charge” fail to take any meaningful action. COVID-19’s latest mutation, the Omicron variant, is ripping through the world at an unprecedented pace, breaking infection records and no doubt existing in thriving conditions to make a better, stronger version of itself. But nothing seems to have changed. In spite of all this, people are still dying to things that they don’t need to die to: to things that we already have the solutions for. People are still being murdered and humiliated and having their lives torn apart for merely existing. Why shouldn’t one feel like giving up? Why shouldn’t I be hopeless?

Oh, I guess that’s why.

Here’s a toast to 2020 and 2021.

Because life will go on until there’s no longer anywhere else to go.