My father was laid to rest in May. After a long winter and brief spring of steady decline, Dad passed away from atherosclerosis at age 86 in a Michigan nursing home.
The last few weeks were especially poignant. His building was quarantined during the pandemic, and some residents contracted the virus. Family members could not enter the facility, and he could not leave. Hospice workers kept us updated, and it soon became apparent there would be no bedside farewell.
I worked up the courage to say goodbye. Our final conversations were on the telephone. We shared important and heartfelt words, and I am grateful. In the age of COVID-19, many families never had interactions with hospitalized loved ones that died.
Unfortunately, our journey into social distancing had only just begun.
Once Dad passed, it was time to make the arrangements. Experts and government officials demanded that a maximum of 10 people could assemble in a funeral home. Even though my father had lived in a small community for 65 years, no one could stop by and pay their respects. Neighbors and friends were prohibited from sharing condolences in person.
Our family followed the rules and did what we were told. The mandated safeguards were repeated hundreds of times on the television shows and news briefings we watched carefully to stay informed and make wise decisions.
I was still responding to sympathy cards when marches began occurring across the United States. After months of telling us every hour of the day that contact with non-family members would create an enormous health risk, suddenly, the experts were playing a different tune as protesters sang together in crowded cities. Now, health officials and lawmakers said the urgency of causes espoused by the protesters superseded any potential risks. The finger-pointing and doomsday scenarios vanished as quickly as the streets filled.
Those walking down the avenue en masse were given options never available to our family. Perhaps my father’s neighbors would have taken the risk and attended a memorial service. But it was forbidden. One friend mused that we should have organized an anti-death protest and initiated a march around the funeral home to exercise our First Amendment freedom of assembly.
While a handful of mourners in a rural setting are considered a threat to the republic, the powers that be deem larger gatherings as acceptable and necessary. More than 1,200 health and medical colleagues recently penned an open letter in response to “emerging narratives that seemed to malign demonstrations as risky for the public health because of COVID-19.” Those signing the letter added, “As public health advocates, we do not condemn these gatherings as risky for COVID-19 transmission. We support them as vital to the national public health.”
This bold statement came after health officials and lawmakers repeatedly denounced groups gathering in public squares to question the wisdom of lockdowns.
Many of us are suffering from whiplash as experts and bureaucrats issue decrees and then change them with lightning speed. We were told not to wear masks, and then officials insisted that we must. Certain medical therapies were publicized as promising but then fiercely debunked. Draconian decisions were based extensively on models that turned out to be inaccurate. We are left bewildered and unsure whom to believe.
The shelf life of advice seems to grow shorter every day. A World Health Organization epidemiologist told reporters, “From the data we have, it still seems to be rare that an asymptomatic person actually transmits onward to a secondary individual.” This statement seemed at odds with ongoing narratives, and within a day, the WHO quickly walked back the statement.
A lot of us don’t enjoy the rhetorical luxuries afforded to the ruling class. They talk the talk but don’t walk the walk. They insist on total obedience while moving the goalposts whenever it is convenient for them.
The hypocrisy of their self-serving actions is evident to all. The contradictions and selective outrage have destroyed their credibility.
Any trust I once had in them was buried along with my father.
Kendall Wingrove is a freelance writer from Okemos, Michigan.
