For Marc

“Coronavirus cases SURGE out of control!” “The economy is near collapse!” “Businesses are closing at an alarming rate!” “Experts say it may be years before life returns to normal, if ever.” “Stay home, stay safe!” “Isolate, distance, ISOLATE!”

These are the headlines. Daily. All day. Every day. People, young adults, old adults, children — social creature told to isolate or they are selfish. Told that seeing other people is tantamount to murder. Told the ticker of death on their television is the only news worth seeing. Hopelessness. Death. Pain. Loss. That is the present, that is the future you show them. That is the news cycle. It scares, it sells. So, you sell it more. Isolate or die. Alone together. Sell it more.

But, what happens when the isolation you’re selling becomes death? Who pays that bill?

Marc does.

Marc was a tortured light in the world. A mismatched soul, as complex and colorful as the gay pride flag he proudly waved — alternately silly and deep, catty and caring, biting and introspective. In any conversation I had with him, I could tell that amongst his many critics, no one could have judged him harder than he did himself. You wanted to just reach into his brain and turn off the thoughts that plagued him. If only it were that easy. But, it never is.

He was like so many that struggle with depression, it was like he was born into the world skinless and raw; everything was felt and felt to the bone. No one can simply tell people like that to have thicker skin because that layer doesn’t exist. All the passion and pain is felt to a level that those of us not suffering the same infliction can imagine. So, they numb. They need to numb, “take me away from all this pain”, and they find what they can to do that.

And, now … Marc is gone.

They won’t count him on their ticker of the coronavirus deaths. He won’t be counted as one of your casualties. He won’t get counted at all. No 43-year-old dies of “natural causes”, but it won’t get mentioned in any headline. He won’t be breaking news. He will be broadcast only amongst a series of sad texts between friends trying to process what just happened. How horrifyingly sad and ironic, because Marc listened to you. He listened to everything you told him to do. He was a germaphobe and devout Liberal; he watched your news, took your advice, wore your masks, isolated. He was your star pupil. He listened to you. He isolated.

And, then … the Medical Examiner walked him slowly to his van last night.

He mattered. Marc mattered. His life mattered. Depression matters. Giving people hope MATTERS! At some point, what responsibility do journalists or politicians or people at large take for this? Hope doesn’t sell, but it can save lives. Lives are supposed to matter, right? Isolation and daily hopelessness can kill people quicker than this virus and the complete unwillingness to see this is inhumane.

Marc should be here. Marc mattered.

He had friends and family who loved him. Had they not all been listening to all your directives, maybe they could have seen a look in his eyes, a color in his skin, a tone to his voice that only a friend could detect and say, “hey, buddy … let’s get you some help.” But, they couldn’t because they were listening to you. Stay apart! It saves lives. But, it didn’t save Marc. They are all going to be left with the lingering sting of guilt that they talk themselves out of by saying, “but, I was following the rules.”

What will you tell yourselves to feel better in the press, you medical experts, you politicians that could only see isolation as the answer? Anything? Or, simply nothing at all.

But, it’s YOUR rules and YOUR paychecks that you cash to sell hopelessness and fear that led to this. Because if there is a shred of a conscience left dangling in any of you at podiums and news desk and microphones — I hope that on days when the buzz of the producers and handlers and bosses voices in your ear lessens you hear these five words:

Marc should still be here.