I'm still stuck there and the world has moved on
Five years after the World Health Organization declared a global pandemic, more than 60,000 Canadians have died of COVID-19 — and for the families left behind, the grief is not a matter of statistics but of glass windows, hazmat suits, and goodbyes spoken into speakerphones. The first year of the pandemic imposed a particular cruelty on the dying and those who loved them: the ancient human ritual of presence at death's threshold was denied, leaving wounds that have not closed with the turning of seasons. Long-term care homes became the pandemic's most devastating sites, and some families now seek in courtrooms what they could not find in those final moments — accountability, meaning, and the assurance that their loved ones did not die forgotten.
- Over 60,000 Canadians have died of COVID-19, but the true weight of that number lives in the specific details — the two-minute visits in hazmat suits, the funerals held in snow with only a handful of mourners, the ashes carried home in velvet bags.
- Long-term care homes became catastrophic epicentres: more than 14,000 residents and staff died between March 2020 and August 2021, conditions grew so dire that the Canadian military was deployed to Ontario facilities reporting scenes of profound neglect.
- Bereaved families describe a grief frozen in time — while the world has moved on, they remain suspended in the early months of 2020, haunted by the question of what they could have done differently to protect the people they loved.
- Some families are refusing to let those deaths pass without consequence, pursuing class-action lawsuits against care facilities — one already certified by a Nova Scotia Supreme Court judge — in search of systemic change and a form of justice the pandemic denied them.
- Five years on, the survivors describe not healing but adaptation — learning, as one daughter put it, to live with a little break in the heart that never fully closes.
Five years have passed since the pandemic was declared, and for many Canadian families, time has not moved the way it has for everyone else. They remain, in some essential way, in March 2020 — suspended at the moment of a loss they were not permitted to witness properly, holding grief that is not abstract but precise and material.
Simar Singh Anand's father, Gurinder — a Montreal restaurateur who had built a community around Punjabi food and three decades of quiet belonging — died at 57 after weeks of struggling to breathe. When Simar rushed to the hospital, a nurse drew back a curtain to reveal his father behind glass. He begged to go inside, got on his knees and begged. He was allowed two minutes in a hazmat suit. Six hundred people attended the funeral virtually. Only Simar and his mother were there in person. "I'm still stuck there," he said, "and it seems the entire world around me has moved on."
Ashley Ambersley's mother Maureen was a registered practical nurse who refused to abandon her colleagues and patients despite her daughter's pleas to stay home. She died on January 5, 2021, at 57, intubated on New Year's Eve. Ashley was not allowed to say goodbye. Her mother had been the kind of person who asked for hospital donations instead of birthday gifts and opened her home to anyone who needed shelter. The question of what Ashley might have done differently haunts her still.
At Northwood in Halifax — where at least 53 residents died, making it Nova Scotia's pandemic epicentre — Erica Surette's mother Patricia contracted COVID-19 weeks after being moved into a shared room. Her last words to her daughter were: "Erica, I'm too tired. I have to let you go." Erica has since launched a class-action lawsuit, certified by a Nova Scotia Supreme Court judge, alleging that Northwood's failures led to her mother's death. "It can't be for nothing," she said.
In Vancouver, Samantha Monckton stood outside her father Garry's care home and played Blue Moon on trumpet, hoping the melody would reach him through his third-floor window. His nurse said he was waving his hands to the music. He died days later. Samantha collected his ashes in a velvet bag and listened to Elvis at home, alone. She described a door that could never fully close — a chapter of life left unfinished.
Linda Gay watched her 89-year-old mother Phyllis — who had never taken medication, loved NASCAR, and baked raisin cookies — wheeled out in a white body bag, her belongings handed over in a garbage bag. They could not bury her in her Quebec City hometown until July 2022. And yet Linda has chosen to look at her mother's photo each morning and smile. "Our hearts are still broken," she said, "and I don't think they ever truly heal. But you learn to live with that little break in your heart." That, perhaps, is what five years have taught these families: not the end of grief, but the slow, difficult work of learning to carry it.
Five years have passed since the World Health Organization declared a global pandemic on March 11, 2020. For many Canadian families, time has moved forward in the way time does—seasons change, the world turns, life fills in the spaces where it can. But for those who lost someone to COVID-19 in that first terrifying year, the calendar stopped. They remain suspended in March 2020, watching the rest of the country move on without them.
More than 60,000 Canadians have died of COVID-19 since the virus began circulating. But the numbers obscure what actually happened in those early months: the isolation, the glass barriers, the two-minute visits in hazmat suits, the funerals held in snow with only a handful of people present. Families say goodbye over speaker phone. They watched body bags wheeled out of long-term care homes. They held ashes in velvet bags because they never saw their loved ones' bodies. The grief is not abstract. It is specific, material, and it has not faded.
Simar Singh Anand's father, Gurinder Singh Anand, died at 57 after weeks of struggling to breathe. The elder Anand had immigrated from India in the 1970s and opened Resto Darbar in Montreal in 2000, serving Punjabi food that reminded him of his mother's cooking—chicken curry and aloo gobi on Styrofoam plates at first, then a fuller menu as the restaurant became a gathering place. Customers called him Babu. After 30 years in Canada, he had built deep connections in his community. Then the lockdowns began, and three weeks after closing the restaurant, he was admitted to hospital. His son was told he had 20 minutes to get there if he wanted to see his father alive. When Simar arrived, a nurse pulled open a curtain to a window. His father lay on a hospital bed on the other side of the glass. Simar begged to go inside, got on his knees and begged the nurses. He was allowed in for two minutes, wearing a hazmat suit. That was the last time he ever saw his father. At the funeral, only Simar and his mother were present in person. Six hundred people joined virtually. "I'm just keeping myself so busy that I don't have to deal with the wounds and the trauma and the grief from March 2020," Simar said. "But I'm still stuck there and it seems the entire world around me has moved on."
Maureen Ambersley was a registered practical nurse at a long-term care home in Mississauga. Despite her daughter Ashley's pleas to stay home, she kept working through the first year of the pandemic, refusing to abandon her colleagues and patients. On New Year's Eve 2020, Ashley got the call she had feared: her mother was being intubated. She died on January 5 at 57 years old. Ashley was not allowed to be by her bedside or say goodbye. "That eats us up every day," she said. Her mother had lived a life of quiet generosity—she asked for donations to hospitals instead of birthday gifts, opened her door to strangers who needed shelter or food, and cared for her parents, children, and grandchildren under one roof in Brampton. "If she could take out her own heart to save someone, she would," Ashley said. Now she lives with the question that haunts many bereaved people: what could she have done differently to protect her mother?
At Northwood, a long-term care home in Halifax, at least 53 residents died in 2020, making it the epicentre of COVID-19 in Nova Scotia. Erica Surette's mother, Patricia West, lived there with early onset dementia. In February 2020, plans were made to move her to a floor with more care. When the pandemic hit, Erica asked that the move be paused. Northwood agreed, then said they had to move her anyway. Patricia was moved into a double room in March 2020 and contracted COVID-19 within weeks. The last time Erica spoke to her mother, Patricia said, "Erica, I'm too tired. I have to let you go." She died days later. Erica launched a class-action lawsuit, alleging that Northwood's practices, policies, and lack thereof led to the untimely deaths of residents like her mother. The lawsuit was certified by a Supreme Court of Nova Scotia judge in December, though Northwood has applied to appeal. Between March 2020 and August 2021, more than 14,000 long-term care residents and staff died across Canada. The conditions were so dire that the Canadian military was called in to help seven Ontario homes, where they reported feces and vomit on floors and walls. "We've all lost our loved ones and it can't be for nothing," Erica said. "If I have the ability to try to help make some change, to help it so that our loved ones aren't forgotten and that their early and untimely deaths aren't for nothing, then why not?"
In Vancouver, Samantha Monckton held a trumpet to her lips outside her father's residential care home in March 2020. Her father, Garry Monckton, was a prolific piano player. She played Blue Moon, hoping the familiar tune would reach him through his third-floor window. His nurse said he was waving his hands to the music. Garry died on April 2, 2020, at 77. Samantha never saw his body. She picked up his ashes in a velvet bag from the funeral home and listened to Elvis at home with the bag at her side. "There was a big piece of what you generally think life should include—your birth, your birthdays and your funeral, right?" she said. "But it was kind of like a chapter or a door that couldn't finally close. It had like a foot stuck in it. There was no way to really close that door."
Phyllis Thompson was 89 when she died on April 5, 2020, at a long-term care home in Scarborough. She had never taken medication, loved watching NASCAR and singing Frank Sinatra, and baked cookies with raisins instead of chocolate chips. Her daughter Linda Gay watched as their mother was wheeled into an ambulance in a white body bag. Her belongings were handed over in a garbage bag. They couldn't bury her in her hometown of Quebec City until July 2022. But Linda chose not to dwell on those bitter memories. She looks at the photo of her mother on her nightstand and smiles. "Our hearts are still broken and I don't think they ever truly heal," she said. "But you learn to live with that little break in your heart." That is what the five years have taught these families: not healing, but the difficult work of learning to carry the weight of what was taken from them.
Notable Quotes
One thing that anyone who hasn't lost a loved one during the pandemic will never realize is what an out-of-body and traumatic experience that was.— Simar Singh Anand, whose father died of COVID-19
We've all lost our loved ones and it can't be for nothing. If I have the ability to try to help make some change, then why not?— Erica Surette, whose mother died at Northwood long-term care home
The Hearth Conversation Another angle on the story
What strikes you most about these stories—is it the isolation itself, or something else underneath?
It's the incompleteness. These people didn't get to close the door on their grief the way grief is supposed to close. A funeral is supposed to be an ending, a moment where you gather and say goodbye together. These families got glass windows and speaker phones. The trauma isn't just that their loved ones died—it's that they couldn't be there.
But five years have passed. Why hasn't time helped?
Because the world moved on and they didn't. That's what Simar keeps saying—everyone else has returned to normal life, but he's still in March 2020. The rest of society has given itself permission to forget, to move forward. But when you've lost someone like that, moving forward feels like a betrayal.
Is the lawsuit—Erica's class action against Northwood—is that about accountability, or is it about meaning-making?
Both, I think. But listen to what she says: "It can't be for nothing." That's the real wound. If her mother's death was just a tragedy, just bad luck, then it's unbearable. But if it was preventable, if there were failures she can name and fight against, then maybe the death means something. Maybe it leads to change.
What about the ones who aren't pursuing lawsuits? Linda Gay, Samantha Monckton—they seem to have made peace differently.
They've accepted that the door won't close, but they've learned to live with it open. Linda looks at her mother's photo and smiles instead of crying. Samantha listens to Elvis with her father's ashes. They're not pretending the wound healed. They're just finding ways to carry it that don't destroy them every day.
Do you think the public understands what these families went through?
No. Simar says it directly: "One thing that anyone who hasn't lost a loved one during the pandemic, one thing that they will never realize is what an out-of-body and traumatic experience that was." We've all moved on. We talk about COVID statistics. But we don't talk about what it felt like to play a trumpet outside a window hoping your father could hear it.