As my ER evaluation was concluding, my doctor said, “I want someone, preferably the same person, to check in on you every day.” I replied I had a friend who is a critical care nurse. He smiled and said, “Excellent.” My friend called every day, and when she didn’t like how I sounded, on some days, she found an excuse to call again.
Emil: I barely recall my ER evaluation, except that I was to be admitted for observation and supplemental oxygen. I accepted this with aplomb, knowing I was in good hands and hoping I’d be home soon.
Anne: Because we were in the same ER, I thought I’d be able to see Emil once they decided to admit him. No. They wouldn’t even let me go to him to get his wallet for safekeeping. Instead, it was brought to me in a hazmat bag. Thus began our forced separation for the next 5 weeks.
Emil: I had to wait hours for a bed and was wheeled up late in the evening to a double room with one other patient, also with COVID, I supposed. While I had an oxygen mask on, we were only separated by a curtain. I had no idea I wouldn’t see Anne for weeks.
Anne: I returned “home” to a house I had spent less than 5 days in. We had barely moved in and it only had a bed, a couch, a TV, and a kitchen chair. I didn’t even know my neighbors to wave at, and … I was in quarantine. No one could come to me. Our eldest daughter was alone near Burlington, Vermont (where she had escaped to from New York City when it was the national epicenter for COVID back in March). Our youngest daughter was alone in Los Angeles, and our son, a newly minted First Lieutenant in the Army, was stationed in Afghanistan. “Good for him,” I thought. He could safely interact with his army buddies. It was so ironic; the one in the war zone was the only one of us who was safe from COVID.
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