By Dawn Hamilton
Curated and Edited by Martha Greenwald
Date Posted: March 23, 2026.
***
Introduction
In the United States, March has become the unofficial month of Covid loss remembrance. For those who lost someone to the virus, those four weeks, when winter pivots to spring, are a time of grief, anger, and often resentment. “There’s a certain Slant of light,” as Emily Dickinson wrote, that can spark and sustain memories, but that “slant” is different for each of those who mourn the more than 1.3 million lives lost to the pandemic.
I first met Dawn Hamilton when she sent a story remembering her father to the WhoWeLost website, just after it had become a national project. The piece she wrote wasn’t like anything anyone had yet sent to the site. I recall being struck by the cadences of Dawn’s prose and her nuanced sense of detail. I live in Louisville, just across the bridge from Indiana, where Dawn has lived her whole life, but it felt as if she was writing from far away.
Over the past five years, Dawn has written many stories about her father that I’ve been honored to publish on the WhoWeLost website and her work also appears in our anthology (Who We Lost: A Portable COVID Memorial). When Dawn sent me “The Relentless Bully,” I was certain that it should be included as a Dispatch on the Rituals in the Making project website because it speaks to aspects of the pandemic that RIM is still exploring, specifically the vulnerability of patients with comorbidities and the dignity and empathy shown by the health care workers who cared for them.
Dawn describes herself as a wife, mother, grandmother, and recently retired mail carrier, who “quietly noticed the small details most people miss.” She shares that her father’s death from Covid brought forth memories long “tucked away” which compelled her to write stories about who her father was and what he meant to those around him. In the process of finding her voice as “a writer, observer, critical thinker, resister, and ally,” Dawn is continuing to evolve “as each new story finds its way into existence, continuously changing and transforming.”
I will never tire of reading Dawn Hamilton’s work. Her growth as a writer is inspiring, not just because of her abundant skills but also because she represents an essential voice among those who know that documenting the pandemic is a moral necessity.
The Relentless Bully
In memory of Alan Trobe
***
There really seems to be no rhyme or reason the way memories process, or when they show up. I mean (as my hands open and raise up together, thinking, for a way to describe the thought) seriously, how does an unhappy memory from five or six years ago push, claw and pull itself through the myriads of everyday normal, happy, and joyous ones that outnumber it. Then it just sits there, demanding to be dealt with. It’s relentless, a bully refusing to go away, until you cry, write about it, or both. So, here we go.
About four and a half years before dad passed away, there was a disagreement with a family member and Dad became uncharacteristically angry, almost aggressive. After that, dad and mom retreated from the usual family get togethers, midweek lunches and Sunday afternoon dinners. Finally, after trying for a couple of years, I was able to get them to slowly start letting us back in. Looking back, I understand why now. My mom, trying to protect the love of her life, was hiding a secret that was just beginning.
I was finally able to convince them to go to lunch with me and my three-and-a-half-year-old grandson. When G saw dad and mom, he was ecstatic and ran to dad. It was wonderful to see dad smile at the joy of holding his great-grandson in his arms. As we walked up to the restaurant, G wanted to hold our hands. When we got to the step, he signaled he wanted to fly. So, dad and I lifted him as he raised his legs in the air, so he could soar above the step. Unbeknownst to me, my mom had been taking pictures of us as we were walking, capturing that precious moment in time. It’s one of my favorite photos. It’s also the one that causes me the most pain. The last photo of my normal.
Everything was going well. We had ordered our food and the conversation was familiar, just as it always had been. The teas were refreshing and cold. We snacked on the warm, soft buttery rolls, waiting on our food. That’s when I heard it. A quiet conversation between mom and dad. Not sure at first what was going on, I listened while keeping G distracted with crayons. Then there it was. Dad—louder, agitated, his voice unrecognizable from the man I knew. His words, even as I write them now, make my breath catch. “It’s poisoned! They put poison in the food.” Mom quietly tried, unsuccessfully, to reassure him. I don’t remember the rest of the conversation. When I run it through my mind, I can’t pull it up. All I remember is them disagreeing and then hurriedly leaving, with G and I sitting there in shock. I was left trying to explain to my grandson why Bubba left. We boxed up the food with the intention of dropping theirs off later. That version of later doesn’t happen. As we were leaving, my mom called.
On the way home, dad had changed. He was angry and the look he gave my mom scared her for the first time since they became one. He didn’t want to go home and was talking about things that weren’t happening. She went to the hospital but the only way they could admit him was if he admitted himself or the police did. While she was there, he took off walking. Mom called the police, following dad in the car. Two officers showed up, one talking to dad, one talking to mom. My mom told the officer dad was not acting like himself and went into everything that had happened. The second officer came over and said he was acting fine and asked mom how many kids she had. She told him three and our names. Apparently, unbeknownst to mom, she had been married to another man and had several more children. After talking to dad again, they understood.
Dad was admitted to the hospital for observation. We were able to see him the next day and visited him over a few days. Medication began to help, but ever so resourceful, he had figured out the entering and exiting routine of the facility. He tried to escape several times and almost made it the first time. Those visits were heartbreaking. He would greet us with hugs and kisses, talking like he was his old self. Then we would sit in the one area where he could see out the window, intently watching like something was going on. Then asking if we see what those men are doing, causing trouble and tearing things up. The neighbors are always throwing their trash on the ground. So, I look and tell him that I do and how awful that is. The window we were peering out of looked out onto the roof of the building. No people, no neighborhood, no cars, just dark shingles. Yet, he was describing it in detail, down to the colors of the cars. I would find out later that this had been going on for a while at home. Waking mom up in the middle of the night to catch the bus, that didn’t exist, at 3 a.m. nightly. The neighbors’ packages were also being brought into their apartment and mom was putting them back. In the hospital at one point, he was yelling at the other patients and staff that everyone had to get out, the Germans were coming. All the while trying to open the Emergency door. In his delusion he was trying to save everyone. When he was calm, he was walking around the unit helping anyone who needed it, especially the ladies. The diagnosis— he presents with Lewy Body Dementia.
The aggression that dad could exhibit was controlled by medication but was more than could be handled at home. We had to place him in a Healthcare Facility. In the beginning mom would visit him three or four times a day, bringing him clean clothes, food, and her love. She washed his clothes, walked him around the hallway, sat with him outside, helped him shower, and sometimes shared a meal with him. There was no cure, but between the medication and mom, he stabilized. Mom continued to believe dad would be able to come home.
Then, in March 2020 everything shut down. The pandemic closed everything. No visits, no touch, no anything. The phone calls didn’t work. It was too distracting and without contact with mom he was deteriorating. This continued for several months, until restrictions were eased but with rules. We got to visit in person for a small amount of time, wore masks, and were supposed to be only in certain areas. In those few months we lost a lot of who dad was. At first, he struggled to recognize her. I’m not sure he remembered her name, but he knew he loved her. On the first visit dad’s clothes were dirty looking, so she took his laundry home to wash. While there, we found a drawer full of the letters, cards and pictures the family had been sending him since the shutdown. All but one or two of the envelopes had never been opened. No one took the time to help him. Each unopened letter, a lost chance to keep him here. We visited as long as we could and then everything shut down again. This time we could visit him through the windows and door. He would light up when he saw mom, motioning for her to go to the door, letting her know he’d open it for her. Of course, they wouldn’t let that happen.
Until December 2020, the facility where dad was had kept Covid out of his unit. The unit had been closed to visitors. Only the residents and staff were allowed in there. Dad was supposed to be safe. He wasn’t. On Christmas day, mom got the call that dad had tested positive for the virus. The exposure to the virus was from the staff. For the next week we received small updates. Each time worse than the last. Dad had a nurse named James. James became an angel. He was taking care of dad, making him as comfortable as he could. Dad wasn’t eating and his breathing was labored. The last two days, James allowed mom, my brother and I to call his personal cell phone to talk to dad. He listened and we told him everything we wanted him to know.
On the morning of January 4, 2021, at my mom’s request, I made a call to the healthcare facility to check on dad. The phone rang and rang. After a bit a man answered, out of breath. I told him I was calling to find out how my dad, Alan Trobe, was doing. There was a long pause, the man sounded rattled. Then he quietly said, “…umm not very well. He just passed away.” I remember asking him to repeat what he said. After pulling myself back together, I called my mom. I had to tell her that the man she had been married to for 57 years, the love of her life, had died. Then I had to call my brother and tell him.
We would not be able to have a funeral service due to Covid, but the immediate family members could say goodbye. My brother, husband, daughter, son-in-law and grandson were at the funeral home. Due to a separate exposure and being positive for Covid, I was unable to be there. While they were there, I was on the phone with my family, listening. My family was at the funeral home mourning together. I was at home alone.
At the funeral home, when my husband went to pick up dad’s ashes, the individual asked if we knew his cause of death. He answered yes and was told that many of the families don’t know cause of death was from Covid. Although dad had dementia at the time of his death, it doesn’t take away the immense loss of his passing. Every person who was lost to Covid mattered. My dad mattered. They were all more than a number or statistic.
Dawn Hamilton