Does the Inside match the Outside

At the beginning of this pandemic that paralyzed the world in 2020, I found myself living with my brother.

Important context to set up is that I nearly lost my father to H1N1, commonly known as the Swine Flu. It, in many ways, was very close to what people see during COVID. A viral pneumonia that’s quick to attack the entirety of the lungs, a need for ventilation to keep the patient alive, countless days in an ICU where every minute feels like a Russian roulette. After 30 days in the ICU, my dad began his road to recovery. He’s fine now. Small mark in his neck from where the ventilator was inserted. From a distance, you can’t tell that my family went through this. It’s only when you look deeper that you see the cracks. We were all left affected in very different ways.

I came out of the experience very changed. The obligation I felt as the most level-headed and rational immediate family member to make choices left me a bit resentful of them. I couldn’t look at my stepmother the same way. I couldn’t forget how easy it became for her emotions to overtake her and render her useless, when it came to medical decisions. My older brother felt less assertive, like he was hesitating to make a call. Most of it fell on my shoulders. My step-sisters could barely help their mom, let alone my dad. So it was on me. I had to carry a lot of it during that month. When he moved back to the intermediate care unit, I ran for the door. I travelled out of the country where my dad lived, and back to the one where I had a life. I remember getting into the shower and crying for 10 minutes. For the entire month that my father hovered near death, I didn’t get to feel sad and cry. Sometimes I would look sad or a tear would dramatically race down my cheek. But they were performance. They weren’t meant to placate my feelings about the situation, they were meant to placate the people around me.

So when COVID began, my first thought was: “I really hope we don’t have to go through it again.” Not to be an epidemiology hipster, but I started paying attention to what was happening in late December/early January. I started telling my dad to make sure to stock up on food. I started doing the same. At work, I talked to my boss about how we need to start planning. When the stay-at-home orders came, we were ready. My brother’s employer facilitated a work-from-home infrastructure. So did mine. We were set. We were going to be okay.

But then at the beginning of this pandemic that paralyzed the world, my brother got sick. It was just fever and fatigue at first. But then there was coughing, some asthma-like symptoms. He never got tested as the public health agency here was recommending people who are sick to stay at home unless they have difficulty breathing to a degree that my brother did not. However, I’m pretty sure he did have COVID.

We did the best we could, considering we both live together. I told him to stay in his room and use the upstairs washroom. I took over his morning responsibilities with our dogs. I took over the grocery shopping and cooking for both of us. I kept the house clean. I was still working. I still had responsibilities of my own.

To be honest, I seemed to thrive in these scenarios. I felt good cooking for him. I even kept on doing it for a while after he got better and no longer needed me to. Several times he suggested that we could go back to normal. Each of us cooking for ourself. He said, “hey, you really don’t need to do this.” I told him that I did. That it would help us keep track of the groceries that we have.

And it happened for a couple more weeks. Then he came into my room one day and he told me that we needed to help each other take care of our weight and that I should stop cooking for him.

I don’t know what I felt in that moment. I think part of it was sadness, because I felt like he was calling me fat. Which I am. Which I know everyone can see. I guess I always thought he saw me the same way, no matter how much weight I put on.

Part of it was also offended that he didn’t want me cooking for him anymore. Did I do something wrong? Did I not live up to whatever standard of eating he had for himself?

Again I felt resentful about having had to take care of my family when they’re sick.

Now, all of this, is to explain where I currently am. I feel like I’m mentally dealing with a lot. It makes me want to eat more out of stress and then hate myself when I do. I tell myself, I’ll be better tomorrow but I’m not. It is also out there, existing like a fart between us, making us want to leave the room whenever we’re together. I can’t look at him the same way. I can’t talk to him the same way. Because I am angry.

I wish I was less angry.

Because until I feel comfortable with the inside, I will never feel comfortable on the outside.