The Malta Independent on Sunday
Covid-19 and me – poet Maria Grech Ganado has her say
MARIA
studied at the Universities of Malta, Cambridge and Heildelberg. She was the first Maltese woman to be appointed lecturer at the University of Malta in 1971. Well-known and much admired her work is published abroad in different languages. She is the mother of three children and three grandchildren. Here she takes centre stage to report on the benefits of a cataract-removal operation, the miseries of isolation and depression soon followed by smiles, laughter and a sense of humour regained.
One thing I’ll never forget about my dalliance with the Corona virus is having to ask the airhostess on my flight from Porto to Malta to help me write my name. I rarely forget what makes me laugh. Perhaps the quality I feel most blessed to have been born with, in fact, is a sense of humour. Everything needs to be tested to survive. And since it is about a survival game I write here, I am grateful this experience was my first.
I was fleeing home in a rush from Porto – slightly embarrassed by the fact that till I got on board, the only masked face I’d seen at the airport was in the mirror but also relieved I wasn’t taken for a robber. On the plane as well, only Maltese passengers were wearing a mask at all. My breath steamed up specs were rendered practically useless by cataracts, so when our air hostess handed me this sheet with miniscule boxes waiting for my personal details, I had no choice but to consider the situation farcical. In such cases, I have learnt, one must either laugh or cry. I must have done both, prompting the air hostess to write down what I dictated. She had a sense of humour too, thank God, and pretended she believed this frail old woman could in fact write in normal circumstances. This was compensated for by being greeted with a warm elbow by my son at a practically empty airport.
My sense of humour continued to sustain me as events turned less farcical. Locked into my home, cataracts and all, I peered at letters on my laptop and books wondering why they weren’t written in a language I could understand. And I couldn’t even get into my Internet Banking to pay my bills so had no TV or Wifi to resort to. How could a writer go on laughing at an inability to read (I feel you, John Milton)? Could an artificial encounter with my psychiatrist over a mobile screen solve this existential problem when I discovered consultations which were not face-to-face were a sure recipe for a breakdown? Why, I wasn’t even sure it was his face there. Was I prepared to face this situation as well? My very identity was at stake here, after all. And it seemed that the word ‘face’ kept popping up when it was meant to be masked. There was no option but to have my cataracts out at a time when incidental surgery was being postponed. Was suicide? I asked myself. Did I have an alternative? Domestic chores? We’re talking about suicide here, remember.
The surgery proved to be beneficial in so many ways. Apart from the fact that I could use both eyes straightaway, it relieved my boredom and loosened my tongue. I’ve always pitied those who have had to put up with its prolific output but at least I discovered that the surgeon and staff in a private clinic are skilled in Patience. It must have taken some training! It’s not the first time I’ve preferred surgery to loneliness anyway and my urgent pleas for help relieved that as well.
Unfortunately, the full blast of isolation hit me when May arrived with its full quota of family birthdays I could only celebrate tearfully online as 2 of my 3 grandchildren blew their candles out. I had already realised that loneliness had set in as soon as I became unable to return to my writing. Suddenly, an aversion to reading or writing anything which was not light-hearted overcame me. My new books were serious, what I’d been writing was serious, the four-letter-word Corona situation was serious. I couldn’t even take refuge in the rest of the news. It was serious. I counted my blessings. I lived opposite a grocer in an area of Gharghur with views and a beautiful walk to enjoy. Above all I had no job to lose, a pension coming in, a car to drive and a lovely sea (minus jellyfish) to swim in once I was let out. Without work at my writing what excuse would I have to escape decluttering my flat?
It wasn’t enough. Depression set in with a vengeance. I succeeded, thank God, in keeping myself fed and clean but was writing frenetic and frantic emails to hang onto. Writing frenetic and frantic poems to hang any readers onto eventually. Attempting prose. Devising new energetic projects which disintegrated on touch. I lost interest in social media. I became aware how distant Corona had pushed friends and acquaintances in a few weeks. But still, they persisted on Facebook to assure me with moving messages how loved I was. In the end, I couldn’t distinguish between tears of sadness and those of gratitude.
Fate must love me nevertheless, I tell myself. It devised other ways to keep me entertained. Things other than I have broken down. My printer, water heater and separate shower-room leaks assaulted my sanity further. BUT they provided company. A friend saw to the first, my wonderful new adopted ‘grandson’ to the second. Consis
tently cheerful despite his separation from wife and daughter in Macedonia, he proved handy with restoring my sense of humour and to keep me smiling. And smiling I am at last. Talking copiously to any I meet while swimming or walking. Lord, have mercy on us all, especially them.