The Creepy Crud

“I haven’t seen you since Moby Dick was a minnow!” Mr. Fitzgibbons yelled. “I know!” I yelled back, loud enough to be heard over the blaring Irish music. Corned beef and cabbage had been ordered by my sister on St. Patrick’s Day to be delivered to our multigenerational home as well as to Mr. Fitzgibbons, her best friend’s dad who lives down the street. A self-described “pair of eights”, Tom is approaching his 89th year with the same gusto and humor that he has always had. “If the creepy crud gets me then guess what? My number is up!” he joked. The creepy crud. I will no longer call COVID-19 by any other name. “Tell your parents we can all have a party in Fern Hill” he said as I started to leave. Fern Hill is the local cemetery. I cried laughing as he happily ate his corned beef and cabbage. “What a way to go!” he laughed. “You’re not going anywhere, Mr. Fitzgibbons. Fern Hill can wait.”

Self-deprecation sprinkled with reality, wit, and levity—the Irish sense of humor has a way of worming into your soul even if you’re not Irish nor from this land of first, second, third, fourth generation Irish transplants. Some of us are despicable, don’t get me wrong. I’ve heard some of the most racist, bigoted, sexist crap from members of this community and that’s just abhorrent, it really is. But the meat, cabbage, and potatoes of these people is their ability to stare shite in the face, acknowledge its shitey presence, and laugh. How else can you deal with a pan.dem.ic? Cry? No thank you. I did that a few times this week and though it was cathartic, I much prefer the Mr. Fitzgibbons’ way. 

The creepy crud has taken over our lives for the time being whether we like it or not. It sucks and I’m not here to spray sunshine, rainbows, and unicorns in your face about the whole thing. My three kids, dog, two elderly parents, and I are stuck in a house together for the foreseeable future. And let me tell you one thing, President Trump: if you interrupt Days of our Lives one more time, you will see Mary Paul at your next press conference asking the following—“How are you going to convince all the old people to stay home IF YOU KEEP INTERRUPTING OUR STORIES?” My mom went on a mini rant one day after the creepy crud news had messed with her “lunch hour” with Marlena, John, and Victor Kiriakis. “Protect the elderly, protect the elderly, coronavirus, coronavirus, coronavirus. That’s ALL we ever HEAR. I mean, honestly, what are we good for? We’re old!” I raised my eyebrows and immediately shot back “You’ve got a point, mom. What are you good for?” And we laughed because that’s what you do when the creepy crud gets you down and cuts into your show. 

I am going to have moments over the coming weeks as I know you will too. We are out of our depth in uncharted waters and, at times, we’re going to get tired of treading to stay afloat. We will miss our tribes. These particular days of our lives are not going to “pass like sands through the hourglass” but more like kidney stones through the urethra, especially if you have young kids. As members of the human tribe, we’re going to have to do what we can to reach out in this time of social distance. That might require using our voices and not just our fingers to communicate. When all this is over, we will undoubtedly appreciate more the touch of a hand, the sight of a familiar face, and the scent of a favorite person’s laundry detergent. The need we creatures have to be shoulder to shoulder in this thing called life will be more apparent. I am here in solidarity with you; whatever you’re feeling about all this today is valid. Feel it and ride that wave like the emotional surfer you are. Stay strong, fellow tribe members. If you need a good laugh, give Mr. Fitzgibbons a call. If you want to hear an epic rant, Mary Paul is your woman. The creepy crud has got nothing on those two and, guess what? It’s got nothing on you.