He wasn't the only one who died of the flu that year. Though it wasn't a particularly virulent strain, it was strong enough to kill my father and millions (yes, millions) of others.
I didn't forgive myself for many years, because I believed he caught it from me.
Right before Christmas of '68, I was hitchhiking from my college in Massachusetts to my home in Connecticut. That's what college kids did back then. It was my first year away from home, and I wasn't feeling well. I was anxious to get back for a little rest, relaxation and home cooking.
My first ride took me as far as Hartford, about halfway home. As luck would have it, I spent an hour thumbing for a second ride, to no avail. I was feeling cold, tired and sick. I found a phone booth and gave my parents a call. They quickly agreed to drive up to get me on that gray December afternoon.
In the days following my return home, I slowly began to feel better. However, st the same time my father caught a nasty cold that he couldn't seem to shake. After a few days he refused to eat or drink anything. His thinking was confused at times. But my father, who suffered from dangerously high blood pressure and other heart issues from childhood scarlet fever, begged us not to send him to the ER. My mother decided to give it another day. Late that same afternoon my father fell into a deep sleep. I was reading in my bed when I heard a terrible bang come form my parents' bedroom, followed by my father moaning in pain. I rushed in to find him on the floor, bleeding. He had, in his delirium, fallen out of bed and hit his head on the wall. We called an ambulance. My father was rushed off to the hospital.
He improved a bit after IV fluid therapy, but his fever was still there. Reluctantly, I returned to college. My father remained in the hospital. After two months of ups and downs, rounds of antibiotics, false hopes and false alarms, I got "the call." My mother told me my father was barely conscious and that he had been given the last rites of the Catholic Church. I rushed home, thinking over and over again on the bus ride, he got this damn flu from me.
My father died on March 1, 1969. "Complications of the flu" was listed on his death certificate. For 50 years, my guilt gnawed at me. Strangely, the current Covid-19 pandemic has helped me come to terms with this guilt.
l had never before realized there was a flu pandemic going on until I recently read about the four great pandemics of the 20th century. I now know that the virus was all around my family. Some people got it, others did not. My mother never got sick. I became mildly ill. But along with millions of others, my poor father died.
Back then there was no large scale testing, no stockpiling of equipment or drugs in preparation for a pandemic. No call for social distancing. It was a different time and place than today. So after all those years I've finally forgiven myself.
But today, as we face the coronavirus, we DO have the testing, but not enough. We DO have the experts, whose warnings were ignored. We DO have the social distancing rules, which are often not heeded by those who feel invulnerable. Will our leaders be able to forgive themselves for doing so little so late? Will our people be able to forgive themselves if they ignore social distancing and someone they love dies? Only time will tell if there will be a Pandemic of Guilt.
