Two summers ago, I remember reading news about an orca whose newborn calf died about thirty minutes after being born. The mother, called J35 and nicknamed Tahlequah, carried her dead calf for 1,000 miles in the waters of the Pacific Northwest. She kept her baby afloat for seventeen days, balancing it and lifting it up with her head. Other whales and dolphins have been known to mourn the loss of a family member, but not for this long. Researchers called it a record-breaking “tour of grief.”
During this pandemic, someone is always grieving. I have 981 Facebook friends. Without being able to visit family and friends in person the way we used to, I mostly stay in touch with everyone through social media. When I scroll through the newsfeeds, I scan posts that give me emotional whiplash - a photo of a homecooked meal, an announcement of a work-related award, pictures of cats, coronavirus-related news articles, school opening updates, and then one that stops me. Another friend has lost a parent.
Five of my friends have lost their fathers during this pandemic. One lost his mom. We didn’t go to the funeral services, some of which have been postponed to a future date to be determined, presumably when things are back to normal again. Expressing sorrow and sympathy through phone calls, emails, and texts is not the same as showing up in person; it seems so shallow and inadequate. There are no sufficient emoji.
When elderly people fall ill, it can turn serious very quickly. A common cold can turn into pneumonia. A fall can mean shattered bones. Whether they are long, slow farewells that stretch over years or sudden, unexpected passings, no one is ever really ready to lose a loved one.
I think about mortality a lot these days. During this pandemic, one of my younger friends underwent chemotherapy for a rare, aggressive form of breast cancer. She was diagnosed mere weeks after giving birth to a beautiful baby girl. We celebrated Kate’s final chemo treatment with a surprise socially distanced parade, all of us lined along her driveway, street, and sidewalk wearing rainbow wigs like hers, in solidarity.
Finding out about a friend’s loss through Facebook or Twitter amid photos of homemade baked goods and political rants diminishes the profound experience of mourning. For people who share their grief on social media, do our comments and tweets help keep them afloat?
Today, during my morning news scroll, I read that Tahlequah is pregnant again. The gestation period for an orca is 15-18 months. I pray for her to carry her baby to term. I imagine her celebrating the birth in a tour of triumph, lifting her new calf up to see the sky, and then swimming alongside her child, traveling another thousand miles, light and liberated.
Read more stories on Raw Data: Living in the Fallout from the Coronavirus.
