Sympathy for a frightened old man

For just a minute, let’s leave his job out of it.

Think of a sick, old, fat man. Afraid and alone; desperate to deny mortality’s clammy embrace. A sick, fat, frightened, old man.

Death is a fearsome thing to face, and for an old, fat man infected with COVID-19 a hospital room must have the feel of the entrance hall to Eternity. To be admitted would be to be scared witless; the masks and gowns and beeping monitors stark testimony that all too soon you may well joining the 210,000 of your compatriots who’ve traded a face mask for a toe-tag when the virus didn’t magically disappear. He’s afraid. Uncertain of the next day, the next hour. We’d all share that fear.  

To that man, to any man or woman in that situation, I wish nothing but peace; wish him health in body, mind and spirit. Basic humanity demands no less, and if this were virtually any sick, old man, we’d need go no further. But this particular frightened old man is also President of the United States.

Last week reality crashed in, striking down Donald Trump at the intersection of hubris and narcissism. For months he had lived as if he were above the laws of nature; that virology, epidemiology, and even common sense were subject to his personal decree. But as Canute was to the sea, Trump was to COVID and Mother Nature snuck up behind him to deliver a huge viral wedgie when he least expected it. The foolishness of his denial was unmasked, as it were, as he climbed aboard Marine One leaving an infected White House in his wake; staff, aides, allies and the First Lady caught up in and brought down by the presidential viral vortex.

It made for a weekend rich in foreign sounding words: karma, kismet, schadenfreude – variations on a theme of “what goes around, comes around – and petty and vaguely distasteful as it felt, it carried a somewhat shamefaced veracity that only intensified with the passing of time.

It may have begun with the initial snarky observation that, confronted with a definitive diagnosis, the President hightailed it to Walter Reed rather than summoning the Plandemic Doctor, the Pillow Guy or any of the other graduates of the YouTube School Of Medicine he’s so loudly and publicly touted. It was evident that when his own lungs were on the line, even the presidential prophet of hydroxychloroquine acknowledged that alternative medicine is the alternative to real medicine.

Confronted by a virus with his name on it – in Chinese characters, perhaps – he took refuge in the finest, most advanced medical treatment available – compliments of the United States’ government – an irony that did not go unnoticed in light of the litigation backed by his administration that would strip millions of Americans of their access to even minimal health care.

For most, a life crisis teaches profound lessons, but it appears our president is a slow learner. After being a first hand witness and victim to the folly of ignoring and minimizing the reality of the virus, he dared tweet that COVID was nothing to fear – the sort of pitiful bluster and empty braggadocio of a frightened old man whistling past the graveyard.

Still, I’m not entirely without sympathy. I recognize that as a man just as fat, though not quite so old, there by the grace of God go I – though it does seem  that in the context of this pandemic, the grace of God seems to fall most readily upon those who respect good science and exercise good sense – wear a mask, wash your hands, keep your distance – and stay away from the White House.