Chris and Andrew Cuomo: Lifeguards in Turbulent Seas

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The only good laugh I get every day is when I'm hanging with CNN anchor Chris Cuomo, and his bro'  Andrew, in Chris' basement. Thankfully, it's a nice basement, not a Stephen King basement, or even a Fifty Shades of Filth basement. It's not even a That 70s Show basement where the air is filled with the aroma of cheap Mary Jane.
For a guy who makes a great living, it's not much of a basement with a couple of white chairs which play host to furry white coverings. Unlike other CNN correspondents, Chris doesn't showcase his law books, and his precious collectibles. He's unpretentious, just a big Italian kid with his curly hair and his Jersey Shore tight tees.
We know this is not Chris' real basement. It's been staged. I know this because he has kids, and a dog. I'm sure once the whole pandemic thing is over, the place will revert to the same noisy, dirty, sticky place where most of us keep our kids.
Chris is working from home because he has COVID-19. He's in quarantine with a fever and bad lungs. Instead of laying on his bed like the rest of us, Chris is opening up about his journey, taking us along, describing his fevered dreams, weeping tears for his family, worrying about his mom.
Quite often, Chris is joined by his big brother, Andrew, Governor of New York, now known as the Lov Gov for his penchant for turning COVID-19 briefings into fireside chats.
Together, the Bros Cuomo swap stories about meatballs, childhood rivalries, and their parents Matilda and Mario. They seem nice, like the type of family I'd like to visit for a spaghetti dinner on Sunday. I want to be a Cuomo, I long to be a Cuomo.
But I know this is a bit of a show.
They are rich and privileged.
Andrew was, literally, to the Governor's Manor born.
Chris is a media star.
I know this, but I also know what they are saying is real.
And right now, real is what I have to hang my hat on.
The Cuomos are a vital antidote in the era of lies and mistruths.
I know if I come to the Shrine of Cuomo, I will get the truth with no sugar coating.
People are dying. People are suffering.
The world is dangerous. Stay home. Stay safe.
Truth is what I need right now.
And hope.
The Cuomos also give me hope.
The curve is flattening. Chris is getting better.
Matilda is safe in her apartment hoping to live to 100.
For some reason, this is important to me.
I am just Rose, alone in my house with no one to talk to, other than the people who inhabit the television, and the social media community.
They are my lifeline.
My husband Scott gets up every day as a security guard and goes to work at a government building in the middle of the toney part of Ottawa. My son Nick gets up at the same time to schlepp down to the Parliament Buildings where he also works as a security guard.
Nick's girlfriend, Sara, is also on the front line working as a cashier at Farm Boy, interacting with the unwashed masses who come to buy their fresh produce.
I worry about these three, people I love who work for low pay keeping the population safe and fed during the pandemic. They are the unsung heroes of these worrying times who don't have big stashes of cash to fall back on, who work carefully every day and hope and pray they don't get the Big C and bring it home so that it might kill somebody.
We see so many stories about first responders but we only see stories about these people when they die or have horrific stories to tell.
Like the turds who spit in their faces, or drop their used gloves in the parking lot.
Or the families who walk by my husband with their gaggles of kids, and big dogs, who can't be bothered to pick up their dog shit.
Occasionally, the television reporters turn their mics on these people but they aren't as interesting as those who survive intubation, or don't, and the vital people who spent their time keeping them alive.
These silent soldiers -- the grocery workers, the bus drivers, the security guards -- are left to come home and weep on their pillows, hoping life will return to normal, knowing that their future isn't that great. Still, they keep going.
We don't hear much about their hopes and fears -- life on the line with few savings, living in rentals, letting the kids babysit themselves because there is no school and grandma's too old or sick to get the job done.
The people I love don't have pensions or cottages. They work in shitty jobs but they share something with the other front liners. They have pride in what they do, and they are committed to leaving this world a little better than the way they found it.
Two of my other kids are servers. They haven't worked for a month, and are sitting around the house playing video games and cooking. They had been saving for a house. Now they are using that money just to keep a roof over their heads. I worry that the hospitality industry won't come back, that they have put all their hope in one eggroll, and the message inside isn't good. I hope they don't have to start over.
I know all about starting over. As a single mom, I lived on the line for years working in the gig economy. Often I never knew where the next meal was coming from. I remember once screaming at my daughter that I couldn't invent money. Those were lonely, terrible times.
I remember, too, getting SARS, and having to quit a job I'd just started.
Man, I was sick. I couldn't get out of bed for a month, and had a terrible cough that lasted six months.
Six. Months.
As a result, I have scar tissue in my lungs. So I have to stay home, and avoid the crowds. I am unemployed, with no prospects of work, and so I sit here and try not to worry.
I am fortunate.
And I know things will get better.
They always do, right?
I try to keep positive.
The good news is the air is cleaner because there are no cars on the road.
The water is cleaner because nobody is running stinky equipment and dumping sludge into the waterways.
Maybe we'll meet our GHG targets after all.
But then I think...
Who cares if the air is clean if the people we love keep getting sick and dying?
I hate negative thinking. I can punch it down during the day but it always creeps back at night when I'm snug in my bed, curled up beside Sophie the Pug.
That's why I need the Cuomos to tell me a bedtime story.
And reassure me that everything will be alright.
I cherish them, and hang on every bad joke.
Because whatever happens I know, they will always tell me the truth.
They are lifeguards in turbulent seas filled with germs and deadly viruses.
Thankfully, they are strong swimmers.
And they are saving me from myself.