There’s an upside to having to isolate in the name of preventing infection of others from COVID-19.  It has to do with the irrepressible urge for aging parents to re-direct every conversation to how “their country” and their self-described “gun-toting conservative” values are under siege. If I must camp out up in my old high school bedroom, it will at least minimize the risk that I’ll suddenly be ensnared by one of these irrational verbal lassos. 

And is it really irrational on their part? They probably don’t think so. But I have only my perspective and my lived experience in my head—so this is how I see such verbal assaults. It’s how I have always seen them…even while I constantly beg myself to remain open-minded. 

As a young kid, my godfather described me as wandering around like I was on valium. There was a measure of doubt regarding how tuned in I was to the world and goings-on around me. Of course, I would eventually prove myself aware—but to this day I’d say that I prefer to keep my focus inward. Or at least on some other unmappable point up in the sky. 

My parents, more than anyone, should therefore know that baiting me into an argument is one of the greatest wastes of their time. Right or wrong, my default response is to withdraw. Even if we share starkly different opinions on a subject. And as their kid, I don’t exactly care if it’s right or wrong.

And this is precisely why my initial frustration of being diagnosed with COVID has sort of turned to relief. Embarking on six days of isolation felt like the cruelest welcome home gift that I could have drummed up. And given the fact that I hardly have the chance to come back home at all, it is almost comic that I would be felled by the virus right now. The rare chance where I would occupy the same space as my late 80s father. What a waste of leave. Precious days where the existential clock is already ticking loudly. I wasn’t initially jazzed to retreat into my high school bedroom.

Yesterday however, my perspective took a bit of a morbid turn. Completing back-to-back streaming of riveting yet chilly family tales (one fictional, the other a true Boston crime that I vividly recall), I went downstairs with my facemask on. I got into a friendly enough conversation with my father about his alma mater as he sat in front of the TV. I made sure to keep my distance, while also speaking up because Dad doesn’t wear his VA-issued hearing aids and opts for the surround sound speaker system that overpowers our tiny living room. And then I’ve got the mask on. I’m also still battling mild hot flashes that come with fighting this virus. 

I don’t need to complete the watercolor by numbers portrait to explain what happened in that short space of time.  Suffice to say that I quickly found my unarticulated perspectives being directly attacked. I could see what was going on. I don’t like arguing, even on my most healthy day—and now I could feel the sweat prickling as I turned around and walked upstairs without responding. I heard my father call me a liberal for walking away. But I had to isolate. I am sick. I love him. I don’t want be the cause for him coming down with a respiratory illness. And what he was saying sounded unhinged to me. But more than anything, I also felt incredibly sad at what had just transpired.

And so sometimes, the good thing about having to isolate is that it forces you away from these situations. You protect your loved ones not only from a virus, but you also protect yourself from a measure of emotional upheaval. Retreating to my room not only allowed both sides to cool off, but it also to keep the relationship in a healthier state. I have long-since accepted that I cannot change his opinion—no matter how many ribbons I have on my chest or how many countries I have visited (I think I am north of 65). The older generations are who they are. And when it comes to our parents, we kids are clearly too close to the problem to think that arguing will produce anything other than hurt feelings on both sides.

The following morning—this morning, actually—I woke up at 4am with my brain already wound from whatever that was the night before. I couldn’t sleep, so I put my mask on and went downstairs. I was careful not to touch too much because indeed, I want to protect my family from getting this stupid virus at Christmas. I was finally feeling hungry, and so I made some waffle batter and cooked myself up a waffle. I put all of the utensils I touched into the dishwasher and hit the “start” button. I brought my breakfast upstairs with a cup of coffee. 

At around 7AM, I heard my father come into the house (he has always lived in the barn). We hadn’t spoken since he’d started to raise his voice the night before, and I knew that wasn’t great. And so I texted him good morning, and offered that there was waffle batter ready if he wanted to make himself breakfast. He responded with a “YAY” and then that was that. 

While it is nice to find a quasi-silver lining to self-isolating, I know that I will eventually need to leave and rejoin the household that I traveled so many miles back home to cherish. Because at the end of the day, I love these jerks and I am just as jerky as they are. And as the good Irish Catholic family that we are, I imagine that we’ll just resume the usual tempo and not revisit this particular topic outlaid. Not revisit the topic, that is, until Dad cannot help himself and suddenly links the cost of a block of Velveeta cheese to the fact that our country is going down the drain on an irreversible course thanks to the current administration. And then at that stage, I will probably lace up my shoes and go for a run. Because hopefully, by God, I will be healthy enough to do so.

In a perfect world, my hope would be that on this occasion, my father will have figured out that it is useless to engage with me on almost all of the hot button issues. This is because for decades, I have chosen the “agree to disagree” route when it comes to this child to parent interaction.  Yesterday my sister sent me a link to our high school yearbooks, now to my great horror, posted in an archive online. Indeed inside the Clipper Compact, you will not find me as a member of the Debate Team. Instead, you will find me clustered with the AFS club and then as a non-lettering member of winter and spring track teams. I just kind of floated through high school with minimal interest in most stuff going on.

I can’t hide up in my room forever, and nor do I want to. I hate being sick—and I have plenty of other experiences that I want to have while home. Plenty that include my father, as well as the rest of the family. Right now, however, this is enough to take. But I also remember that I am lucky to take it. I don’t know how many more of these bonkers conversations I am going to be able to have with my father—so I will do my best to remember that it is a privilege to still have him. So we’ll hopefully both do the best we can and muddling through it all somehow. The new upside will be that the Boston Bruins have some games coming up, so we’ll probably spend time together watching hockey and hopefully not talking about much else.