Keeping My Mother Alive

In Greece, a son who has returned to his mother’s home to care for her during the Covid-19 crisis contemplates what the global pandemic can reveal about our character.

- Gianni Skaragas

The first week of March was a frenzy with the concerned messages from friends to con-firm details about situation-report updates, rumors of a mandated quarantine, and safe retreats: “Are you coming to New York? Are you going to Zurich or Athens?” Jennifer was leaving her high-density neighborhood in Brooklyn for a furnished apartment in Hudson; Walter chose the rural isolation of Turbenthal over Zurich; my sister in Athens had to work her shifts in the hospital; and David had no intention of leaving Italy. It was time to decide, before the airport closures, the suspension of flights, and nationwide lockdowns were put in place. The world I’d taken for granted was ending. I didn’t know what to think—I still don’t—only that I had to be with someone who needs me.

My mother does not think of the new pandemic as a doomsday scenario, or of me as anything but her son. In the last weeks, Nelly’s pored over her notes trying to prepare meals culled from cookbooks and food shows. She’s never been particularly drawn into the culinary tour-of-the-world kind of shows and the elaborate cross-cultural dishes. New angles are unattractive to her, unless they can explain her position. She scares easily; my mother is a retired microbiologist. For her, both roles have been the same job. Sometimes she fixes me with the same cautious glance she had when she used the microscope.