Cristina Gonzalez/Entertainment Director
This article is a part of PantherNow’s opinion section “Pandemic and Me” series
I remember hearing about the increasing loss of life across the world every time I turned on the news or read a new headline. How people mourned the loss of their loved ones and desperately pleaded for others to wear masks, to be safe, to not let their guard down.
I saw those numbers rise every day.
100,000, 200,000, 500,000. I idly stood by and watched as most of us did, empathizing as much as one possibly could. But the truth is after a while I became numb to it. It’s what happens after months of repetitive and tragedy-filled news cycles.
In my 22 years of life, I’d never experienced grief. It made me feel like I was immune to that pain. I lived in a safe, comfortable and impenetrable bubble. I guess in a way, I was lucky.
On March 16, at 8:01 p.m. my mom walked into my bedroom with tears in her eyes. She didn’t have to say anything. I already knew. I found myself feeling the same way I did that day I visited my dad in the hospital.
Suffocated.
I went outside to breathe.
For the last two months my dad had been hospitalized suffering from the destruction COVID had done to his body.
Everyday felt like an eternity. Most days were filled with calls to the Intensive Care Unit at Kendall Regional Hospital. “How is he doing today? Is he stable?,” is what I’d ask the nurse. We would always write down their names and direct lines to make them easier to reach. I lost count of all the names. The days where the nurse couldn’t be reached or the calls disconnected, overwhelmed me with stress and frustration.
Some days offered a small glimpse of hope. His oxygen levels stabilized, he was able to have a full meal and do physical therapy to restore movement in his legs. After months of being bedridden, he lost all the muscle in his legs and the ability to walk. The days where he could do his exercise were days where he would call us and say he was having a good day.
Other days were harder. He’d call and tell us how he just wanted to come home. That he was tired.
My dad was the strongest person I’ve ever known. He was one of those tough Cubans. Nothing ever phased him and that was something I constantly envied. The only time I ever saw him cry was when our English bulldog, Rocky passed away. He rarely got sick so I can count the number of times I saw him vulnerable on one hand.
He never stopped working. Even when he wasn’t working, he was still working. He’d get up at 4:00 a.m. to work delivering construction materials on a flatbed truck and then come back home after nine hours of a long day. Despite this, he’d still enter through the garage door and whip out a big smile when all three of our dogs ran up to greet him. ‘Aye Pipo is home’ he’d say. Our dogs were his whole world. Every day he spent in that hospital room he asked me to sneak Benji, our French bulldog, in. I always laughed and said he’d fit in my tote bag perfectly.
My dad fought to the very end. He went through more than I could have ever endured.
I didn’t know what grief was supposed to feel like. If there was a right or wrong way to feel. I found myself mentally scrolling through all the forums, advice columns and stories of people who’ve experienced grief. I kept trying to remember the basics:
- Acknowledge the pain.
- Remember to take care of yourself physically and emotionally.
- It’s normal not to cry.
- It’s a long process that seems never-ending.
I was trying to do this by-the-book. I wanted to minimize my emotions as much as I possibly could.
The confusion.
The anger.
The survivor’s guilt.
The overwhelming weight of sadness that sat heavily on my chest.
March 5, 2021 was the last time that I spoke to my dad. I grabbed his hand, told him how much I loved him and that I’d visit him soon. “Call me if you need anything, mom will come tomorrow.” Those were my last words to him.
I almost didn’t visit him. The idea of walking through those hospital doors frightened me. I didn’t want to see him hooked up to a machine. I didn’t want to remember him that way.
I walked into the hospital at noon with a black, cloth mask underneath my KN95. “I’m here to visit my dad in room 13A,” is what I told the guard. From the minute I entered the elevator to the walk to the ICU room my heart beat at an alarming rate. It felt hard to breathe.
His room was dark and I instantly heard the monitor beeping and the sound of his oxygen mask. I didn’t recognize my dad. He’d lost over 50 pounds and his collar bone popped out now. Both his arms, abdomen and legs were all bruised from the amount of times he’d been poked, prodded and tested. His gray hair and sunken eyes gave away his exhaustion. He was covered in the blanket I had sent him because I knew how cold hospitals could get.
For the duration of my stay, I sat in the corner of the room watching as he’d drift in and out of sleep. Not a second went by where I didn’t glance at the monitor that displayed his heart rate, blood pressure, respiration and oxygen saturation. I kept sending photos of the monitor in my family group chat. “Is everything good? Are the pink numbers fine?” the messages read. I was worried that something would happen while he was asleep and he was too. My dad would often wake up and ask me what his vitals were. I saw the worry written on his face. It broke my heart thinking about all the sleepless nights he must have had.
The days that followed were filled with anguish and anxiety. Everyday he seemed to get worse and I kept asking myself one question “Why is this happening?”
On Mar. 7, 2021 I got a call around 5 a.m. I woke up startled and looked at the bright screen of my phone. The contact name of my dad’s number popped up, ‘Pops’ as I called him.
I didn’t want to answer. It’s the way I’ve felt about every phone call I received over these last few weeks. None of them brought good news. Every night before I fell asleep I made sure to raise the volume of my ringer. It became a trigger for me to hear it go off but I knew I had to leave it on. I was waiting everyday for that one call no one hopes to get.
The call was from my dad’s ICU nurse, Matilda. She was calling for my consent. My dad was experiencing severe chest pain and they needed my approval to give him Heparin, an injection used to prevent blood clots from forming. I didn’t know what to say. “Can I call my mom or my brother please?,” is what I told her. I had no idea what the medication was and I didn’t want to make a medical decision for him.
Later that afternoon my dad was intubated. When my mom called to tell me, I couldn’t hold back the tears. I knew in that moment that I wouldn’t get to hear his voice again, that he wasn’t coming back home.
I so desperately wish that I had been wrong.
I know that I have to be grateful. My mother and I along with my two brothers, had the opportunity to spend this last month with my dad. We got to visit him, to help him as much as we could and most importantly to tell him we loved him. It’s something that thousands of families never got the chance to do because their loved ones were still COVID positive and visitation wasn’t allowed.
For that reason, I can breathe a little bit easier.
The night I found out, a bit of relief hit me. I knew he wasn’t suffering anymore.
To those who have lost someone, know that they aren’t yet another number or statistic of this vicious and cruel virus. I see them. How much they mattered. Please, know they will not be forgotten.
If you would like to share your pandemic story with us please contact: gabriela.enamorado@fiusm.com
DISCLAIMER:
The opinions presented within this page do not represent the views of PantherNOW Editorial Board. These views are separate from editorials and reflect individual perspectives of contributing writers and/or members of the University community.
About Post Author
