As I gazed out the back patio doors, I noticed that the trees had shed their leaves overnight, creating a vibrant carpet of colors. I like to think they delayed their transformation just for him, allowing him to appreciate their beauty one last time. Just days before, he had expressed his admiration for the fall foliage, even getting emotional about its splendor. I watched him relish the crunch of the leaves beneath his feet during our first brief stroll since his return home. Uncertainty loomed over us—would he ever enjoy another autumn? But here we were, feeling the crisp air, our elderly dog trailing behind, neighbors waving as they passed, and birds chirping above.
Our first walk was slow-paced. I carried a folding chair for him to rest if needed, and a sense of worry crept in as I realized I hadn’t checked on his oxygen tank beforehand—I promised myself I wouldn’t forget again. Yet, I was simply grateful for this shared moment.
We are avid walkers. When quarantine commenced in March, we increased our walks to offset the toll of staring at screens all day. During our outings, we solved the world’s problems together. We lamented how the pandemic and mask-wearing had become politicized, but we refrained from judging others for their choices. While we cherished the extra time with our four kids, we were acutely aware of the fleeting moments we had with our teenagers. We planted new rose bushes, nurtured our garden, painted a barn quilt, stained our fence—all as a family. We stayed home, skipping vacations and engaging in minimal activities, motivated by the desire to keep our family safe.
By early August, when school resumed, we felt a false sense of security despite ongoing concerns. The few people we heard of getting sick had mild symptoms, and it seemed distant—until it wasn’t. We understood the virus had claimed lives, but the narratives of doctors baffled by its unpredictable severity made us question its reality in our lives.
It began innocuously enough. In mid-September, allergy season hit, and when he developed a dry cough, it didn’t raise any red flags. But a few days later, he asked if I was burning the Pumpkin Pecan Waffles candle, a scent he despised. It quickly became apparent something was wrong—he couldn’t smell it, nor could he taste his breakfast. I could see he was rattled. That realization shook us both.
Within 24 hours, his positive test result confirmed our fears. We were already quarantined at home, now worrying about who else we might have exposed. We chose to get the kids tested, despite being advised it wasn’t necessary. We wanted clarity on who needed to isolate.
In the following days, we continued to walk, convinced staying active would help us stave off the virus’s grip. Two of our boys tested positive—one asymptomatic, the other with mild cold symptoms. My husband’s condition, however, worsened. He later confessed that during our last walk, he was uncertain he’d make it back home. He retreated to his quarantine room, believing rest would help him recover.
Each day, I asked if he felt we should seek medical attention. He insisted he was fine, claiming no trouble breathing. When the fever struck, I knew it was time to act. His brother brought a pulse oximeter, revealing a concerning oxygen level of 85. A nurse friend urged us to head to the ER, and we did.
That Saturday evening, as dinner approached, I spoke to his brother, fear tightening my chest. He looked frail and fatigued, breathing rapidly. He insisted he was okay, just needing rest. I often replay this moment in my mind. Would I have acted sooner if his brother hadn’t called? His oxygen saturation was alarmingly low. I convinced him to go to the hospital, but he refused to let me accompany him; instead, my eldest son drove him, not wanting to risk exposure.
COVID has ripped families apart. This was a man who had never been hospitalized in 41 years, and now he was alone in a medical facility. We couldn’t be there to offer comfort, hug him, or simply hold his hand. I anxiously awaited updates as he settled into his hospital room.
DAY 1 (Sunday)
He required oxygen and was placed on a nasal cannula with 2 liters of oxygen. It was discovered he had pneumonia in both lungs, leading to treatment with antibiotics, Remdesivir, and steroids. His fever persisted, and the doctors estimated he’d need around five days in the hospital.
It was a long, challenging day. Waiting for news was agonizing. I felt helpless, wishing to be there for my husband. The guilt overwhelmed me. Tomorrow, our kids would continue virtual learning, but this time, Dad wouldn’t be home. I felt the weight of maintaining order at home while being a supportive mom. I had to stay strong.
DAY 2 (Monday)
His oxygen levels were increased to 7 liters, and the fever remained difficult to control. He received blood plasma containing antibodies in the evening. We managed a video call, which provided some comfort. Not being together was harder than I anticipated. I noticed he seemed winded after speaking.
The doctors hadn’t finalized the blood plasma treatment. There was so much uncertainty surrounding the virus and effective treatments, but we hoped this would be beneficial. Our video call was a relief; seeing him was uplifting, even as he struggled to catch his breath. He mentioned that the hospital food tasted awful, which was a good sign—his sense of taste was returning.
DAY 3 (Tuesday)
He had a restless night. I dreaded the evenings as his oxygen increased to 15 liters. The staff decided to switch him to a bi-pap machine. Meanwhile, I lost my taste and smell. I went for a retest, feeling anxious about managing our youngest son, who hadn’t tested positive yet.
I could sense his frustration; he didn’t want to talk much that day. Everything felt stagnant, and I worried about how I would cope if I ended up needing hospitalization. Please don’t let me have the virus, I prayed.
DAY 4 (Wednesday)
He was back on the nasal cannula, as he disliked the bi-pap machine. He managed to clear his nasal passages, allowing him to switch back. They conducted a CT scan to investigate his oxygen saturation issues, which thankfully showed no clots. He reduced his oxygen intake to 13 liters before bed.
I received my positive test result. One of the kids asked why Dad wasn’t home. “I just want Dad to survive,” he said, echoing our deepest fears. I assured him that Dad was fighting hard to return. I retreated to the bathroom, overwhelmed with tears. The children’s clarity illuminated our shared wish: for Dad to come home and for this ordeal to end.
DAY 5 (Thursday)
He was transferred to the ICU after the CT scan revealed widespread inflammation in his lungs. The usual treatments weren’t yielding results. He was placed on the bi-pap machine, which was maxed out. Speaking caused his oxygen levels to plummet; they asked him to refrain from talking. Hours later, he was put on a ventilator—his body could no longer compensate for the low oxygen levels.
Fear washed over me as I received a text from him in the early hours. He was being moved to the ICU but reassured me he was okay. I knew he was trying to be brave, but the reality was stark. The doctor explained that his lungs looked inflamed, and his immune system was in overdrive, leading to an extreme response. It was time for life support. I was stunned and scarcely processed the information before being told the ventilator was necessary.
I had to inform our children. How could I explain that Daddy wasn’t breathing on his own anymore? My eldest asked if he would be okay, and I couldn’t offer certainty. We held hands and prayed for his safety.
My mind raced with anxiety. What if he didn’t wake up? I hesitated to deliver this news to our family via text. I felt an overwhelming sense of fear, anxiety, and prayer. As I drifted off to sleep, I did so alone, while my husband lay in a hospital bed, relying on machinery to breathe for him as we hoped for a miracle.
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Summary:
This narrative details the harrowing experience of a husband succumbing to COVID-19 despite initially being healthy. The author shares a poignant account of their family’s efforts to navigate quarantine, the progression of symptoms, hospital treatment, and the emotional toll of separation during a health crisis. This account serves as a reminder of the unpredictable nature of the virus and the importance of support for families affected by it.
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