I cannot claim I know what it feels like to walk as a zombie.
This world’s reality has never offered me this Sci Fi experience.
I also never got to be an extra on The Walking Dead.
A version of myself would’ve taught a scenario in which students worked through surviving a zombie apocalypse connected to some Social Studies or English standard.
But if I had to roll the dice, I would bet walking and thinking as a zombie are what I’ve felt for eleven weeks today.
I wish I was what I call “John Tough.” While some who share his DNA have their anti-fan fic about him and amazingly live with congealed blood to the heart, my husband, John, is a man who has withstood the hurricanes.
Whether his small group of naysayers like it or not, he has withstood challenges that would make some others fall to their knees. When those with those DNA clips felt the need to forever reject him less than one month after the death of his daughter rather than ever having intentions of knowing Corrie or John, maybe they thought he would fall.
Perhaps in their hearts that somehow beat with congealed blood, they felt he would break.
The death of his only daughter did not break him. Why would words?
The truth is you place the
value of Corrie’s father
somewhere between ocean
oil and a manatee. you insist
your childhood lies are truths.
i guess they are when only
lies are ever told to you.
he was never a father to you.
nothing more than ocean
oil and plastic rings, or bottle
caps smashed by boots in beer
and blood. you never sat down
for tea and listened to him.
Instead you shout, ‘I saved a
manatee when we
turned a yacht around.’
the truth is you are jealous of
a truth you cannot reason
when Corrie’s father sits down
for pretend tea. She brings in a
pink tray and tea cup. She says,
‘Daddy, would you like sugar
in your tea?’
‘Corrie, yes, that is so good …
num, num, num.’
When the time came and the
plastic bottle was empty, Corrie
said, ‘Daddy, we put it in the
recycling bin, don’t we?’
‘Yes, Corrie, I will take it
to the big bin.’
Corrie places his worth
like a superman who goes
through what we’ve used to
ensure all plastic is recycled.
Her world is a place she can
start brand new if she
misbehaves, and he earns
a crown if he sneaks her
chocolate cake.”
— eXCERPT FROM “The Sea Cow and the Manatee”
I wish I was built John tough.
I cannot reason through the mindsets of a small number of those with chipped DNA that John is anything but the man I’ve seen. I stopped trying. I stopped caring the moment my daughter stopped breathing.
John chose a life where he could be happy rather than live in the shadows. Much to the dismay of some, he chose to raise his youngest son rather than abandon him.
John built on homesites. In his fifties and sixties, he has gotten on roof tops in heat to repair them or change shingles. He has made recommendations of shingles vs. metal. The man has hiked trails without slowing down to waterfalls.
John did not want to live as a zombie.
When we lived without health insurance and Hayes was young, John dealt with MRSA. He insisted on battling it himself when the doctor would not give him medicine for it unless he went to the hospital. The infection ate away at the skin on one of his middle fingers.
This tough man changed diapers with Corrie and Hayes. He bottle fed them, and he got Corrie to keep on her nebulizer at age one when I could not.
I witnessed him withstand the near death of Corrie at two weeks old from pneumonia. When I had to stay with Corrie because I nursed her, he went home and cared for Hayes. He took Hayes to the park.
I wish I was built John tough.
When I was in the early stages of PTSD and dealt with physical health issues, including Shingles, in April 2019; John cared for me. The older partner took care of the younger partner. In addition, he took care of our children when my mind was lost in past spaces and could not separate the past from the present.
When we went to a demolition derby in September 2019 thinking I could handle the crowd and the noise, I started rocking with my head covered and tears coming out of my eyes. He knew how much Hayes wanted to watch the smashing and crashing of other vehicles. When I was so scared I would watch another person in my life, whether I knew them or not, get hurt or bleed; John got me out.
When the tornado hit our farm in February 2020, John was home. He heard one word in his mind, “glass,” and he got down. He got into a closed off section of the house. The man has done a lot of work with the help of the community, and Hayes, Corrie and I to clean the acres around the house.
I wish I was built John tough.
When people take vows for marriage, we nailed the “in sickness,” we earned the badge with “or poorer,” and death–while the vow is meant for the couple–will not divide us now.
When one of our puppies, Jack, was hit by a car, John and his sister, took care of the scene. I stood there once again vanishing into a near past on an ambulance. I could not divide from May 27th at 3:40 p.m. from the Thursday Jack was hit and abandoned.
John dealt with the paperwork surrounding Corrie’s death. He was the first of our family to learn the final cause of death. With a quiet tempo in his voice, he said, “There was nothing we could’ve done.”
After almost eleven years of knowing the man, I will still gush. As he prepares to flatten the dirt for Corrie’s garden, he does it for her. When I look at him, when I think of him, and I remember all he has done, I don’t feel as much like a zombie anymore.
Yet, some say, “I don’t know how you do it.” I don’t know how I walk down a hall either without falling to my knees. I know I’m tough, too. I always say, “I’m tougher than I look.” I am stronger because of the wind at my back. I am better because John is my husband.
Words and picture by Rebecca T. Dickinson. All work copyrighted 2020 by R.T. Dickinson.
Corrie's Season 