Nicole Schnitzler - Pandemic Pillows

 

When Illinois's shelter-in-place orders took effect, my dad and I decided to bring my brother, Daniel, home to stay with us. Daniel and I no longer live at my dad's. I live in a condo downtown and Daniel in a suburban group home. He is 44 years old and he's autistic. Our unit is tighter these days. Our other brother, Kevin, lives with his family in California, and our mom passed away from lymphoma when Daniel was 21 and I was 12. We knew it was important to be together right now. 

 

When I picked him up from his group home to get him on a Tuesday afternoon, he was confused. My dad is usually the one who gets him for the weekends which they spend together. Generally speaking, those with autism are highly dependent on routine, and Daniel is no exception. As he gathered his things, I realized the many other things we'd be explaining to him, my dad and I, why his workshop is canceled, why his bowling program has been postponed, why he's now relocating home-home with me and his gene, as he calls our dad. But perhaps, most of all, we were worried about having to explain one colossal change for Daniel, why we could no longer take him to the grocery store. 

 

Daniel relishes the Sunday trips we take to Jewel. An hour, he can fill our cart with Kraft Parmesan cheese, Hershey's syrup, and all of his other creature comforts. An hour of his week over which he can exercise some control. I knew already that I would do everything in my power I could to stop the two of them from going on their own, both high risk for COVID-19, my dad, who is 75 years old, and Daniel, who is overweight with diabetes. 

 

As soon as we got in the car, the requests started. “Nicole, we will go to Jewel.” For lack of a better explanation, I tell him it's closed. “When you wake up,” he says. It's a go to phrase when he understands that maybe it won't happen today, but it will tomorrow, right? “It's going to be longer than tomorrow, buddy,” I say. 

 

The next morning, Daniel hands me a grocery list. “We'll go to Jewel,” he says, putting on his coat. I remain seated, “I'm sorry, kiddo. We can't.” “It's closed,” he says. I nod. And then, that's when it begins. He storms upstairs, grabs the two pillows from his bed and lurks them from our second-floor balcony onto an armchair that rests in our living room directly below. One of the pillows falls to the floor. It's a miss, by his count. He's angry. He thunders back down, biting his hand and making outbursts along the way. Our dad joins me downstairs to observe the pattern that we have seen unfold over the past couple of years when Daniel wants to control something that he cannot. 

 

In seeing this, my dad implores me to let him just go to the store, saying that Daniel's mental health is as vital as his physical health right now, that he's already had to give up way too much too soon, that he needs a single thing that he can count on. It's a valid point. I think about my own comforts to go, the ones that I could easily remedy though, an espresso machine instead of Starbucks runs every day. Zoom calls instead of happy hours with friends. I think of my dad's consolations too. Naps, reading, Entenmann's Donuts. 

 

But I think about the ways also that Daniel has adapted before to the many group homes, to the countless caregivers, to the loss of a mother. I asked my dad to let me try one more thing. After more pillow tosses, I beckon Daniel to the kitchen. I pull up Instacart on my computer and I show him the page where there's a bottle of Hershey's syrup. “What about this one, Daniel?” I ask. He nods, and I add it to the cart. “Okay,” I explained to him, “We add everything here from the list and then the person, the very nice person, brings it to our front door. Does that sound good?” He looks skeptical. I think I did too. But he let me finish his list and I finally did have answer for him. “The groceries would arrive tomorrow, when you wake up.” 

 

The next day, the doorbell rang. Daniel went straight to one bag, the one with the Hershey's syrup, smiling widely as he did. “It looks good,” he said. It's the one go to phrase he has when it's something that he approves of. After mixing himself a glass of ice-cold chocolate milk, he grabs his pillows from the armchair and begins the pillow toss cycle anew. This time though, he is singing Happy Refrains from the producers and Les Mis. My dad grabs an Entenmann's donuts and heads upstairs to read. I make myself an espresso. The three of us stood in various rooms and on separate floors, all listening for the perfect pillow toss. Thank you.