The anguish of worrying about my grandmother’s well-being keeps me up at night. “I know we’re limiting physical contact with residents, but your grandma really wanted a hug — so I gave her one,” the nurse told my sister during a recent call. “I was fully protected with PPE and a face shield, but I could tell she just needed someone to hold her for a moment.”
My grandmother, Margaret, has resided in a long-term care facility since January 2018 after a severe stroke left her partially paralyzed and mostly unable to speak due to apraxia. She needed a level of care that our family couldn’t provide, and she now shares a small room with another resident named Carol.
“Carol is our social butterfly, so we hope she helps your grandma feel at home,” explained the activities director during Margaret’s transition. And help she did! Carol flitted from room to room, engaging everyone with her cheerful chatter, and she always had some entertaining request, making her a delightful presence.
Margaret, who never mirrored Carol’s extroverted spirit, occasionally participated in group activities, such as watching Sister Act. Now, due to her facial and neck paralysis, she is at constant risk for aspiration. This means she can only consume soft foods and thickened liquids, which she loathes compared to her former passion for cooking elaborate meals. However, she still has a love for sweets, and the nurses often surprise her with an extra ice cream cup. I savor the moments I get to bring her favorite chocolates, watching her delight as it melts in her mouth.
Yet, despite these small joys, visiting a loved one in a nursing home feels utterly surreal. I can’t predict when I’ll next bring her a treat or share stories about her great-granddaughters. I worry about when I’ll see her familiar, weathered face again.
Before any statewide orders were issued in Pennsylvania due to the coronavirus pandemic, the nursing home had already “locked down.” No visitors were allowed after March 12, and while I felt relief knowing they were taking precautions for the vulnerable residents, it left me powerless over my ability to visit. My last encounter with Margaret was in mid-February, just before the pandemic escalated.
In late March, we learned of the first confirmed COVID-19 case in the facility. While it was a grim reality we feared, it was still shocking to hear. We took turns calling the staff for updates on Margaret’s condition. Last week, my sister received the heartbreaking news: “Carol has passed away,” the nurse said softly. “She was one of the first to contract the virus. We didn’t have enough testing at the time, but we believe it was COVID.”
The nurse shared that Carol died in the same room as my grandma, who was understandably traumatized by the experience. The thought of Margaret, who has already faced so much hardship, now having to witness such loss was overwhelming.
I couldn’t shake the image of my sweet grandma, far from her warm home that always smelled of tea and lavender, grappling with the fear of loss and isolation. I grieve for Carol, who, despite being in her nineties, had so much life left in her. This situation has filled me with an anxiety I’ve never known before.
As if the situation wasn’t dire enough, the nursing home can’t isolate confirmed cases. Staff members, who are now better protected, have also fallen ill. Several obituaries have appeared for residents over the past few weeks, and my grandma, who has already endured a significant health crisis, is now at serious risk of contracting this vicious virus.
So far, she hasn’t shown symptoms, but I know that could change at any moment. I also understand that the facility won’t be welcoming visitors anytime soon — perhaps not even this year. The spring visit we had planned for her to meet my new baby is now impossible.
What torments me most is the uncertainty. When will I see her again? Will she ever meet my baby? Will she be able to see my oldest daughter, with whom she shared such a special bond? I know this uncertainty weighs heavily on her too. We’re sending her an iPad so we can communicate through video calls, but it’s not the same as holding her in my arms — something we both desperately need.
Lying awake at night, I can’t help but wonder if she’s gazing at the empty bed beside her, worrying that she might be next. My dreams are filled with anxiety about not being able to say goodbye if she falls ill. I write to her, hoping that a kind healthcare worker will take a moment to read my letters and share the pictures I send of my girls.
It’s agony to be outside a nursing home, feeling helpless while a pandemic rages within. I’m constantly consumed by “what ifs,” and I can’t shake them. All I want is to hold her for just a moment.
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Summary:
The emotional turmoil of having a loved one in a nursing home is magnified by the uncertainty brought on by the pandemic. Margaret, a resident who has faced severe health challenges, grapples with isolation and the loss of a fellow resident, Carol, due to COVID-19. Family members feel powerless as they navigate their loved one’s vulnerability, longing for the simple comfort of physical connection in a time of crisis.