What was it like, losing my husband to COVID?
It was being sick alongside him, not having a real understanding of how much worse he was.
"Oh, come on," I grumpily thought, "you can't feel worse than any of us."
I truly didn't get it at first.
It was being incredulous at his breathing issues that were keeping him up and frantically finding a way to get him an antibody infusion on Christmas Day and failing.
It was driving him to the hospital at a moment's notice to get his infusion, completely forgetting that I, too, was feeling poorly.
It was waking up the next day, realizing that I was feeling a little better and hoping that he was, too. Except he wasn't. And his oxygen level was starting to dip.
It was Googling "oxygen tanks near me" to see if I could get him some assistance with his breathing at 6 PM, wondering if I could buy (rent?) one without a doctor's order. And realizing that the closest medical supply store was closed for the day.
It was staying up until 3 AM and realizing he was getting worse, that oxygen finger monitor affixed to his finger all night.
And it was arguing with him to get up so I could take him to the ER. No, I was yelling at him to do as I said as I looked for his shoes and helped him with them. And helping him with his jacket and the ski cap I knitted for him.
It was worriedly helping him down the stairs, noticing how weak he was.
Also? It was strategically thinking, "I shouldn't wake the kids. How could they ever get back to sleep with this?"
And so they never got to say goodbye.
It was feeling irritated because he didn't want to go to the ER, arguing we could wait until daylight.
It was feeling helpless when he started crying in the car.
It was feeling that I had to be his rock as I reached over to hold his hand.
It was letting go of all my irritation and loving him with all I had as I steered the car with one hand and held his cold hand in the other. As I prayed, out loud, for God to help Mike and to heal his body.
It was squeezing his hand before I let him out by the entrance to the ER so that I could park the car and follow him in.
It was not knowing that that was the last time I was going to see him in person. Because I was turned away by the security guard at the ER entrance and told to go home.
Because COVID.
So I went home, where sleep eluded me. And where I waited for 4 hours before getting an update.
Because at this point, Mike's breathing was so labored he couldn't call me on the phone. And even if he had wanted to text, he had left his reading glasses at home.
The next four weeks were a jumbled mess.
It was a lot of waiting for news. Even when I slept, I was waiting.
It was checking his lab and x-ray results online (thank God that Kaiser uploaded everything to his electronic medical record and that I had Mike's password).
It was trying to decipher what they meant.
It was nervously answering every phone call, relieved every time I could speak to Mike. And then worrying that he was tiring himself by trying to speak and making him hang up to rest.
It was driving to the hospital to bring him "essentials": phone charger, reading glasses, and a prayer shawl.
It was returning to the hospital at 1 AM and wandering the campus to find the building he was in so that I could bring him his pillows after receiving a text from him that he was uncomfortable with the flat hospital pillows.
It was doing my best to advocate for him, remotely, when I randomly received texts saying he was anxious, thirsty, felt sticky, or unable to sleep.
It was trying to calm him down when he said he didn't think he'd make it.
It was him sending me a text in the middle of the night. "I need my wife." And later realizing that that was the last thing I was ever going to "hear" from him.
When he was intubated, it was waking a few friends with the news and finally allowing myself to consider the question, "What if he doesn't make it?"
And after my freak-out, it was mustering all the calm that I could find to give us all hope, give my children calm, and make decisions on Mike's behalf when I was asked to make decisions about his care.
It was never having my phone on "do not disturb" mode. And taking phone calls in the shower.
It was frustratingly asking his doctor, "Why do you even need me to tell you to do this if you think it's what's best for him? Why are you wasting time?"
It was riding the rollercoaster of COVID: small improvements one moment, a major setback the next.
It was praying that nothing happened on our daughter's birthday that would taint it for the rest of her life.
It was begging his nurses to talk to him whenever they had the chance, as busy as they were.
It was grabbing at the very few opportunities to video chat with Mike so that we could talk to him, believing he could hear us. Assuring him of our love and great hope in his healing. Singing to him.
It was being horrified by "the talk". The one where a doctor told me of worse- and worst-case scenarios. Of the need for me to "be prepared".
It was being grateful for snippets of hope delivered by another doctor. And mostly, for the way he spoke of Mike with compassion.
It was praying that, if we arrived at that worst-case scenario, I would make a decision that I would not live to regret.
And finally, it was telling him goodbye from afar. Through the phone. Trying to find the words to tell him how much he was loved. And to tell him it was okay to leave us, as much as our hearts were breaking.
The terribleness of no one holding his hand. Of knowing we wouldn't be able to touch his cheek. Or see him again outside the tiny iPhone screen.
I realize as I write this, that I haven't written this narrative before in its entirety, even as I have journaled for all this time.
It has felt too hard to think about in sequence.
But I write it now because, of all the things I have learned to push through, the circumstances of his death have been the hardest to deal with.
Mainly, his isolation from us as he met his end. The impossibility of our situation and our powerlessness to change it.
I write about this now because I think I have to let these things go.
Because I have to accept that this was a time when everyone was doing their best, even if I have felt cheated and wronged.
Everyone was doing their best at an unprecedented time.
And God was with us all, was He not?
God was with me and our children when we felt helpless and in despair. He brought us calm and peace.
He has gotten us out of bed every morning since. And has guided our feet and has slowly, but surely, been mending our hearts.
Also? God was with Mike when His Spirit whispered to me that it was okay to let him go. And as he took his final breath. Even when we couldn't be there for him.
And truly, could there have been a greater comfort for our beloved?
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