As I gazed out at the backyard, I noticed that the trees had shed their leaves overnight, creating a colorful carpet on the ground. My husband had always cherished the beauty of fall, and I imagined the trees had waited just for him to witness this transformation. Just days earlier, I had seen him get emotional over the vibrant colors. I watched as he crunched through the leaves during one of our first short walks after his return home. We were both acutely aware that this might be his last experience of autumn. Yet here we were, feeling the crisp air, accompanied by our elderly dog, waving to neighbors, and enjoying the cheerful chirping of birds.
During our initial walk, we took it slow. I carried a folding chair, anticipating he might need to rest. It dawned on me that I hadn’t checked his oxygen tank, and I worried that we should have replaced it before going outside. I promised myself I wouldn’t forget again. In this moment, I felt grateful for our time together.
We had always been walkers. When quarantine began in March, we increased our walking sessions to combat the fatigue of staring at screens all day. It was during these strolls that we solved many of the world’s problems. We were frustrated by how the pandemic and mask-wearing had become politicized, but we refrained from judging others’ choices for their families. We cherished the extra time with our four children, particularly the fleeting moments with our teenagers. We planted new rose bushes, nurtured our garden, painted a barn quilt, stained our fence—all as a family. We kept our outings minimal, choosing to stay home instead of going on vacations, driven by the desire to keep our family safe.
By early August, as schools reopened, we felt a mixture of concern and a false sense of security. Reports of COVID cases seemed distant; those we heard about either had mild symptoms or were recovering from colds. Although we were aware of the virus’s severity, it still felt remote.
Then, mid-September arrived, and with it, allergy season. When my husband developed a dry cough, I didn’t think much of it. However, a few days later, he inquired if I was burning that candle—the one he loathed, Pumpkin Pecan Waffles. It struck him hard when he realized he couldn’t smell it. He couldn’t taste his breakfast either. That moment shook both of us.
The next 24 hours passed in anxiety as he received the confirmation of a positive test result. We were already in quarantine, but now we were left to worry about the potential exposure to others. Although the nurses assured us that testing others wasn’t necessary, we felt compelled to do it, wanting to inform schools and manage our family’s health responsibly.
In the ensuing days, we kept walking, convinced that staying active would protect us. Two of our boys tested positive—one asymptomatic, the other showing cold symptoms. My husband’s condition, however, was worsening. He later confided that he doubted he could make it back home from our last walk. He retreated to his quarantine room, hoping rest would help.
Every day, I asked if he thought we should seek medical attention, and he insisted he was fine and not experiencing breathing issues. But when the fever hit, I knew we needed to go to the hospital. His brother brought over a pulse oximeter, revealing a troubling reading of 85. Following the advice of a nurse friend, we rushed him to the ER that Saturday night.
SATURDAY NIGHT:
As dinner approached, I was anxious. My husband looked weak and fatigued, yet he insisted he was okay and merely needed rest. I often reflect on this moment and wonder if I would have gotten him to the hospital sooner had his brother not called. Convincing him to go proved challenging; he didn’t want me to risk exposure by riding with him. My oldest son took him, leaving me worried and alone.
The pandemic had created a chasm between families; a man who had never spent a night in the hospital was now isolated. I anxiously awaited updates as he was settled into a room.
DAY 1 (Sunday)
My husband was in need of oxygen and was placed on 2 liters via nasal cannula. Doctors discovered pneumonia in both lungs, and he was prescribed antibiotics, Remdesivir, and steroids. The fever persisted, and they estimated he would remain hospitalized for about five days. I felt helpless, unable to advocate for him in person. The guilt weighed heavily on me as I prepared to manage another week of virtual learning without him.
DAY 2 (Monday)
His oxygen increased to 7 liters, and controlling the fever proved difficult. He received blood plasma in the evening, and we managed to do a video chat, a brief comfort in our separation. He struggled with simple conversations, and the taste of food seemed to return, a small victory amidst the chaos.
DAY 3 (Tuesday)
After a rough night, his oxygen rose to 15 liters. The hospital switched him to a bi-pap machine to assist with his breathing. I, too, began showing symptoms and lost my taste and smell. My husband was understandably distressed, and the uncertainty of our situation weighed heavily on both of us.
DAY 4 (Wednesday)
Back on the nasal cannula, he worked to clear his passages. A CT scan showed no clots but revealed widespread inflammation in his lungs. I received confirmation of my positive test, and our youngest child asked when Dad would be home. My heart broke as I reassured him that his father was fighting hard to return.
DAY 5 (Thursday)
Overnight, my husband was moved to the ICU due to worsening conditions. The treatments were not yielding results, and he was placed on a ventilator, a reality I struggled to process. I had to explain to our children that their father would no longer be breathing on his own. The fear and anxiety grew, and while I prayed for his recovery, I had to face the grim possibility of losing him.
As I lay alone in bed, my thoughts raced. The love of my life was in the hospital, reliant on machines to breathe. I felt helpless, yet I clung to hope.
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Summary:
The article recounts a personal experience of a husband’s battle with COVID-19, detailing the progression of his symptoms and their impact on family life. It highlights the emotional turmoil, the isolation caused by hospital protocols, and the struggle for recovery while offering insights into navigating such crises.