The Women COVID Left Behind

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Abstract

gonizingly slow battle with COVID. My Grandfather was the most well-liked, warm, generous, kind soul I have ever met. He was a short man and we called him “Baby Pappy” because of his height and jolly cheeks. He adored my dog Emmy and would routinely ask how she was doing. Emmy, like all of us, adored him right back.He was sick for 8 weeks, starting when he called on Christmas telling us he had a cold. By January 2nd he was hospitalized with COVID. A week later he was on a ventilator, a machine that he would never end up coming off of. My Mom was in charge of all of his medical decisions, an exhausting painful task. When the Doctors decided to put my Grandfather on a ventilator, he called his only daughter. He told my Mom that he was ready to beat it, that she shouldn’t worry, that he’d be better soon. He never said goodbye. My last text to him said“You are so important to me. I love you so much. Give em hell, Baby Pappy.”Two weeks into his ventilation, the Doctors called and told my mom they needed to do a tracheostomy if my Grandfather had any chance at recovering. Did they have my Mom’s permission to do the tracheostomy? My Mom understood that this question meant things were not going well. She said yes. That night I saw my Mom had put a book in our shared Amazon cart. “I’m Dead, Now What?: Important Information About My Belongings, Business Affairs, and Wishes”. An attempt at preventing others from taking on the responsibility COVID had forced on her.Within the next 6 weeks, my Grandfather had had three separate pneumonia infections, blood clots, low blood pressure, and hadn’t become conscious. When the Doctor called my Mom to tell her that his organs were starting to fail, my Mom already looked like a corpse….sickly thin, pale, with dark circles under her eyes. In the past two months my mom has dropped an alarming amount of weight and spirit. The second hand smoke of COVID slowly drained the life out of her as it ravaged the body of her father. That day she had to make the decision to end my Grandfather’s medical care.Now three weeks later she texts me that she is on her way to drop off the medicine and flowers at my Grandmother’s house. Face to face with the virus that murdered her own father not even a month ago. With my one Grandmother ill, it becomes impossible not to think of my other Grandmother. My Dad’s mom, my Grandma Hope. She is no stranger to COVID tragedy. I pick up the phone to call her.I ask my Grandma Hope how she is doing. She tells me she is fine but that this past year has aged her. For the first time in her life, she is feeling old and her memory is starting to weaken. I can understand how this past year has cut her down. Her husband Dennis died from COVID last April, when the virus was rare and mysterious. Dennis was a happy, sweet man who I had known my entire life. He gave hugs that made you feel like the world was surrounding you and always made sure there was Pepsi stocked

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in the fridge. He made sure I got the crunchy part of the potato filling each holiday lunch. He was a good man.He contracted COVID after being moved to a rehabilitation center post-surgery. He was there a matter of days when the social worker called my Grandma to tell her there had been a COVID outbreak on the floor. My Grandmother immediately drove up and brought Dennis home but it was too late. He was hospitalized with COVID shortly after and died within a week. Once it was confirmed she had the antibodies, she donated plasma to help others who had COVID. “Maybe this way someone else doesn’t need to lose their Dennis.”She beat the virus that killed him but couldn’t shake the despair. She quickly packed up a few of her things, sold her house, and moved out to be with her daughter in Pittsburgh. She put almost all of her belongings up for auction at this warehouse behind the community pool. When I walked in the oversized shed, there were hundreds of knick-knacks I had grown up seeing in her house. Clay pottery that sat on her mantle. 70s ceramic dishes she would serve Christmas lunch in. A rotary telephone that I would play with when I was little. Old men were bidding small amounts on the things that made up my Grandmother’s life. I walked up to the Mennonite woman behind one of the desks and asked if Hope was there. I remember realizing the irony of my question as I asked it…. that even if my Grandmother was there, hope could never exist in this auction. “No we haven’t seen her yet. Sometimes family doesn’t come to this. Too sad.” I wrote a note for my Grandmother and left it with the Mennonite woman to give her when she got to the auction. “Hi Grandma, it’s Claire. Please call me as soon as you get this. I haven’t heard from you and haven’t been able to reach you. I am worried. Love, Claire” I drove out to her old house but nobody was there. It was just wood and siding and windows. I learned later that she had already moved out to Pittsburgh before the auction took place, before the house even sold. Sometimes when a hurricane hits a neighborhood, the destruction is so great the residents never return. They know it would be too hard to start over surrounded by devastation. It would be months before I’d hear from my Grandma Hope again.This morning on the phone she tells me she waited 7 and a half hours in 10 degree weather to get her vaccine. She was determined to get the remedy that Dennis would never be able to get. She is 83 years old. She has no complaints about the wait time or the weather. She is grateful and sad. She misses her husband.When I hear people talk about strong women, I want them to meet the women of my family. The women who wear strength as though it’s as natural and necessary as wearing skin. The women who have paid dearly for their survival this past year. The women that the virus didn’t have the strength to kill, only maim. These are the women who raised me. These are the women COVID left behind.</article></body>

The Women COVID Left Behind

This morning I spoke to my Grandma on the phone. COVID has plagued her body for over a week now and I can hear frustration in every hacking cough she dispels between words. My family has lost two people to COVID in the past 10 months. My grandmother is determined to not make it three. We are on the phone for an hour and her tears fill most of the time. She is alone in her house with nobody to care for her. This is the way it has been since her husband unexpectedly died a year and a half ago. A massive heart attack on their living room floor. But my Grandma is strong. Since my grandfather’s passing, she has managed to take care of the apartment buildings he owned. She has learned how to patch walls, fix leaky sinks, and caulk bathtub cracks. A real life G.I. Jane. Having the apartments to take care of has become her meditation, fixing busted pipes has become her yoga. Most days she is able to put her longing for her husband aside, push through the loneliness, doing the work religiously.

But now she has COVID. And she is alone. And she is panicked. The isolation the virus necessitates reminds her just how alone she is. “I miss Dave. I miss him. I am so sick and alone and I miss him.” She cries so hard I swear I can feel droplets of water coming out of my phone, hitting my cheeks, each drop another reminder that I am not with her. I am 2 and a half hours away and every minute of distance feels like selfishness poking me in the ribs, whispering to me “You moved away. You selfish bitch. You let this happen.” She is one of two Grandmothers on my Dad’s side, my Dad’s step mom. I should text my Dad to go over and check in on her. But instead I text my Mom and sister. “Can someone please go check on Grandma? She can’t stop crying on the phone. Can someone bring her DayQuil?” Less than a minute goes by when my Mom answers. “I’ll go in 20 minutes. Just have to get dressed.”

There is no reason other than kindness behind my mom’s offer to check in on my Grandmother. My mom has no blood relation to her and since her and my father divorced when I was 16, she has no relation via marriage either. No familial obligation forces my mom to put herself in the way of COVID to comfort her ex-husband’s step mother. And yet a half hour later my mom sends me a picture of her shopping cart. There is DayQuil Ginger Tea Vegetable Broth My Mom has also added a colorful bouquet of flowers to take along with the medicinal items, something to cheer my Grandmother up.

Recovery isn’t just about healing physical symptoms.

This is something my Mom knows viscerally, instinctively…learned in the hardest way possible. Three weeks ago my Mom’s father passed away after a horrific, agonizingly slow battle with COVID. My Grandfather was the most well-liked, warm, generous, kind soul I have ever met. He was a short man and we called him “Baby Pappy” because of his height and jolly cheeks. He adored my dog Emmy and would routinely ask how she was doing. Emmy, like all of us, adored him right back.

He was sick for 8 weeks, starting when he called on Christmas telling us he had a cold. By January 2nd he was hospitalized with COVID. A week later he was on a ventilator, a machine that he would never end up coming off of. My Mom was in charge of all of his medical decisions, an exhausting painful task. When the Doctors decided to put my Grandfather on a ventilator, he called his only daughter. He told my Mom that he was ready to beat it, that she shouldn’t worry, that he’d be better soon. He never said goodbye. My last text to him said

“You are so important to me. I love you so much. Give em hell, Baby Pappy.”

Two weeks into his ventilation, the Doctors called and told my mom they needed to do a tracheostomy if my Grandfather had any chance at recovering. Did they have my Mom’s permission to do the tracheostomy? My Mom understood that this question meant things were not going well. She said yes. That night I saw my Mom had put a book in our shared Amazon cart. “I’m Dead, Now What?: Important Information About My Belongings, Business Affairs, and Wishes”. An attempt at preventing others from taking on the responsibility COVID had forced on her.

Within the next 6 weeks, my Grandfather had had three separate pneumonia infections, blood clots, low blood pressure, and hadn’t become conscious. When the Doctor called my Mom to tell her that his organs were starting to fail, my Mom already looked like a corpse….sickly thin, pale, with dark circles under her eyes. In the past two months my mom has dropped an alarming amount of weight and spirit. The second hand smoke of COVID slowly drained the life out of her as it ravaged the body of her father. That day she had to make the decision to end my Grandfather’s medical care.

Now three weeks later she texts me that she is on her way to drop off the medicine and flowers at my Grandmother’s house. Face to face with the virus that murdered her own father not even a month ago. With my one Grandmother ill, it becomes impossible not to think of my other Grandmother. My Dad’s mom, my Grandma Hope. She is no stranger to COVID tragedy. I pick up the phone to call her.

I ask my Grandma Hope how she is doing. She tells me she is fine but that this past year has aged her. For the first time in her life, she is feeling old and her memory is starting to weaken. I can understand how this past year has cut her down. Her husband Dennis died from COVID last April, when the virus was rare and mysterious. Dennis was a happy, sweet man who I had known my entire life. He gave hugs that made you feel like the world was surrounding you and always made sure there was Pepsi stocked in the fridge. He made sure I got the crunchy part of the potato filling each holiday lunch. He was a good man.

He contracted COVID after being moved to a rehabilitation center post-surgery. He was there a matter of days when the social worker called my Grandma to tell her there had been a COVID outbreak on the floor. My Grandmother immediately drove up and brought Dennis home but it was too late. He was hospitalized with COVID shortly after and died within a week. Once it was confirmed she had the antibodies, she donated plasma to help others who had COVID. “Maybe this way someone else doesn’t need to lose their Dennis.”

She beat the virus that killed him but couldn’t shake the despair. She quickly packed up a few of her things, sold her house, and moved out to be with her daughter in Pittsburgh. She put almost all of her belongings up for auction at this warehouse behind the community pool. When I walked in the oversized shed, there were hundreds of knick-knacks I had grown up seeing in her house. Clay pottery that sat on her mantle. 70s ceramic dishes she would serve Christmas lunch in. A rotary telephone that I would play with when I was little. Old men were bidding small amounts on the things that made up my Grandmother’s life. I walked up to the Mennonite woman behind one of the desks and asked if Hope was there. I remember realizing the irony of my question as I asked it…. that even if my Grandmother was there, hope could never exist in this auction. “No we haven’t seen her yet. Sometimes family doesn’t come to this. Too sad.” I wrote a note for my Grandmother and left it with the Mennonite woman to give her when she got to the auction. “Hi Grandma, it’s Claire. Please call me as soon as you get this. I haven’t heard from you and haven’t been able to reach you. I am worried. Love, Claire” I drove out to her old house but nobody was there. It was just wood and siding and windows. I learned later that she had already moved out to Pittsburgh before the auction took place, before the house even sold. Sometimes when a hurricane hits a neighborhood, the destruction is so great the residents never return. They know it would be too hard to start over surrounded by devastation. It would be months before I’d hear from my Grandma Hope again.

This morning on the phone she tells me she waited 7 and a half hours in 10 degree weather to get her vaccine. She was determined to get the remedy that Dennis would never be able to get. She is 83 years old. She has no complaints about the wait time or the weather. She is grateful and sad. She misses her husband.

When I hear people talk about strong women, I want them to meet the women of my family. The women who wear strength as though it’s as natural and necessary as wearing skin. The women who have paid dearly for their survival this past year. The women that the virus didn’t have the strength to kill, only maim. These are the women who raised me. These are the women COVID left behind.