On a layover in BWI airport, I noticed a young couple near me, waiting for their takeout order at a restaurant. They stood facing each other, embracing. They gazed in each other’s eyes, smiled, laughed. They shared a chair when they sat down together, arms wrapped around each other.
When they got their order, the young woman passed near me to retrieve her rolling carry-on bag. I told her that I was happy to see them happy, that I missed seeing people embrace, missed seeing that joy.
She said, “I know. I even wondered if it’s OK to hug in public.”
I miss hugs.
In 2015, when I returned from a month covering the Ebola outbreak in Liberia, I had been deliberately avoiding human contact of any kind for a month; contact was potentially life-threatening.
As a greeting, we would tap the toes of our boots together or bump elbows. Someone checked our temperature each time we entered a building. We washed our hands in a diluted bleach solution, dunked our boots in that same solution when entering and leaving buildings.
It was awkward to meet new people and not offer a hand to shake. It was beyond difficult to spend time with people mourning a loved one and resist embracing them in support and solidarity.
I realized that I build rapport and relationships through contact: a handshake, a tap on the shoulder, a shoulder squeeze, a high five, a kiss on the cheek.
When I returned from Liberia, I spent hours clearing customs and the health screening at the airport. When I walked to baggage claim, my friend of 30 years and fellow journalist, Larry, was waiting for me. Without a moment’s hesitation, he hugged me, in a long, strong embrace.
Words fail me when I think of how important that welcome-home hug was, how loved I felt. I will remember that hug until my dying day.
These pandemic days have reminded me of my profound longing for human contact, how important a hug or a high-five can be in times of grief or celebration.
In late February, right before the pandemic lockdown, I attended the funeral of my friend, Rob Taylor, who had served in Afghanistan and died by suicide. His Army buddies traveled from around the globe to Denver to gather, grieve, share stories and memories of a great father, soldier and friend. Long meals and toasts at restaurants and in homes were integral and important in those three days. There were long embraces and streams of tears at the memorial service and at the burial with military honors at the national cemetery.
In late August, my father died at home, surrounded by the family he loved dearly. Our immediate family hugged and shed tears as the funeral home workers took his body from the house. My mother said, “My whole life just went out the front door.”
Those have been our only hugs. There will be no service until next year, when family and friends can travel and gather.
When I returned home after my father’s death, there were no long hugs or embraces. Words of condolences, yes. Cards and kind sentiments, yes. The strength and comfort of a heartfelt embrace–no.
I am left to hold myself together, bide my time with my grief, alone. We must likely wait for a year before we can gather and share meals, toasts and stories and remember a good man: a husband, father, solider and friend.
I miss hugs. I miss my father.
Copyright 2020 Cheryl Hatch ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
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