Today marks

11 days in self-isolation;

four weeks since my dad took his last breath;

eight-and-a-half weeks since I got on the first flight possible from the COVID-19 safety-bubble that is the Yukon to the pandemic nightmare that is Toronto.

If you'll indulge me...

Eight-and-a-half weeks have passed since I took one last sip of water on the Air North flight to Vancouver and then put on a N95 for the first time, too terrified to take it off for the rest of the trip until I got into my brother's car at Toronto Pearson.

Air North leaves a seat between every passenger; for some reason, I thought this was the new normal for air travel.

It is not. The Air Canada flight was at full capacity. The strangers in the seats next to me ate and drank, as is allowed on flights. 

I just tried to sleep.

It's been about seven and a half weeks since I walked into a Toronto hospital, completing a COVID screener at the door. Hospitals aren't strange places for me; my parents were in housekeeping. I'd visit my mom near the end of her shift at St. Mike's, then walk to the TTC with her

This time was different. I got a visitor's wristband, like the ones they give out at music festivals. I got a gown, a new disposable mask, a face shield, and a strictly-enforced one-hour visit. The floor manager screamed at me on my way out, even though she had approved my visit.

It's been about seven-and-a-half weeks since my family sat around the kitchen table, one chair conspicuously empty, to make a surreal decision — the hospice only allowed two designated visitors due to COVID. Mom was one. We had to pick whether me or my brother would be the second

We decided my brother would not see my dad alive again. In a twisted way, we were lucky to be able to make that choice — there was enough of a lull in COVID cases that visitors were allowed again. Many families haven't had the luxury of choice. Their loved ones had to die alone.

About seven-and-a-half weeks ago, I got my first COVID test in Scarborough. The hospice required proof of a negative result every 14 days. There were more people in line at the testing centre than I had seen in two months in Whitehorse.

My dad liked to have CP24 on, while he was still coherent. Every every day, sometimes more than once an hour, I'd hear the new case count. Toronto was reporting 5x the number of new cases, *daily*, than the Yukon had recorded *since March 2020.*

That figure's closer to 16x now.

Until a month ago, I had a routine. Wake up. Fill out the online COVID screener in the car. Get my temperature taken at the door and my COVID test checked. Gown, mask, gloves. Stay for 9-10 hours. Switch over with mom. Get temperature taken on way out. Drive home. Sleep. Repeat.

Every day was awful. But I felt, and still feel, an odd gratitude. At least the cases weren't bad enough then that visits were banned. At least my dad never got COVID. At least he was "just" dying of cancer, and not also from his own lungs suffocating him.

I beaded at the hospice. It gave my hands something to do and kept the personal and CP24-induced anxiety somewhat at bay. The nurses and PSWs were fascinated. So was my dad. I beaded so much I hurt my thumb. It hurts to bend. I still can't fully use it.

I can list every place I went in Toronto during my seven weeks: 

-airport 

-home

-hospital

-COVID testing centre

-hospice 

-funeral home

-crematorium 

-grocery store

I saw one person I knew, other than my mom, brother and dad, while my dad was alive. I saw seven more (at a distance) at his cremation (attendance capped at 10, not including staff).

The Toronto-to-Vancouver flight wasn't full. I got a whole row to myself. Air North gave out warm cookies about an hour away from Whitehorse; I pulled down my KN95 and ate it.

I filled out the declaration at the Whitehorse airport; it wasn't until I got home that I realized I wasn't actually sure how "14 days" was counted. I called the COVID info line and got one answer; I emailed the next day and got another. I'm going with the date I have in writing.

Which brings me to today. 4-7, as we say in Cantonese — the fourth time since seven days has passed since my dad died.

Death and all that comes with it sucks. It sucks colossally harder during a pandemic. I won't be the last one to say that I'm so ready for this to be over.

Cherish your loved ones. Keep safe.