Inside the window, she battles COVID-19. One long day at a time.

That last phone conversation with my husband. Now I remember! Me coughing and hacking, as he suggested an emergency room visit because I might have coronavirus. Independent me—of course I said no. Until that next day, when I started sucking air like I was breathing through a coffee stir stick. Only then did I drive myself to the hospital. Did I call him when I was admitted?! Everything is such a blur now. What November day was that? How many days have I been here? The news reports describe how COVID-19 progresses from breathing problems to ventilator, and then to death. I am so scared. And tired . . .

Inside the window, she confronts COVID. Alone in her thoughts.

The nurse pointed to my husband, standing outside my ICU (intensive care unit) window. With the sun behind him, I recognized his profile. My personal strong man. I so wish I could see his face. Before this breathing tube kept me from speaking, I remember how he yelled at me from outside the window. I barely heard him through my Darth-Vader-sounding oxygen mask. He yacked on and on about memories of our honeymoon, family trips, and our special trip to California last year. How embarrassing: he was outside practically shouting about our personal life while people walked up the hospital sidewalk! Like they want to hear our litany of family vacations. But he confidently reminds me of our memories and keeps his promise to be there for me. This coronavirus thing, why can’t they let him inside to visit me?!

Inside the window, she faces an unknown battle against COVID.
Outside the window, he stands in his COVID vigil of love.

There he is at the ICU window again. My man. The one who thrilled me on that day so long ago when my friend and I hitchhiked in the city. Me, the small-town girl who planned to see the world. Him, the sun-bleached dude with the big smile. I can’t remember what I said when the guys picked us up, but I gave my usual smart-mouthed comment. The good-looking one didn’t shrink back from my sharp tongue, but was impressed with my humor and took it as a challenge. Like a comedy routine, we bantered back and forth: his heckling to my irreverence, his gentle mocking to my biting sarcasm. How I love his sense of humor! He still won’t stoop to my snarkiness, but he makes me laugh every time. Our secret to forty-plus years of marriage.

Inside the window, nostalgia comforts her in the struggle against COVID.
Outside the window, he stands in his COVID vigil of love.

I am tired and scared. The low whoosh of air flowing and the muffled pump sounds of the ventilator can be soothing, but I startle awake every time it alarms. Someone in head-to-toe blue paper with a clear windshield for eyes comes in to check the alarms. The same generic outfit, but this time it’s the nurse with the high ponytail bump. The tube in my throat keeps me from talking, but not from terror. She gently brushes my arm as she silences the alarm, telling me that she just updated my husband on the phone. Then she hands me the letter board. Of course, I could spell out my million questions, one stupid letter at a time, but that would take all day. How do I get this tube out of my throat? Will I ever breathe on my own again, or will I die connected to this ventilator?

Inside the window, she combats COVID. One ventilator alarm at a time.

There is my husband, outside the window again. What?! Where am I? Oh yeah. Still in the hospital, in the town where I worked, three hours from our home in the city. Still on this ventilator that keeps me alive. Every time they give me a trial to breathe on my own, I panic and can’t continue. Then they medicate me so the ventilator can do my work of breathing. The tall nurse gives me updates, not that I understand it all, but he explains more of what “the team” is doing and why. But no one answers the big questions: will I get better? Do they explain this to my husband?! Will coronavirus kill me? I’m tired. I ache. I need to sleep . . .

Inside the window, she drifts in and out, fighting for breath against COVID. Outside the window, he stands in his COVID vigil of love.

I have to remember . . . through this mental fog . . . past the alarms . . . about the people in blue. Wasn’t that him I saw, dressed head-to-toe in blue paper garb? Or was that a dream? The window was dark, so he wouldn’t be outside. How could he be inside this ICU at night?! Is it only in my hopes and dreams? But I remember his voice, his outline, his presence. So real.

The next day, my “morning numbers” were surprisingly good; the team disconnected me from the ventilator for hours in a breathing trial. Some days later, they pulled the tube out and gave me an oxygen mask. For the first time in months, I talked with my husband on the phone. (Oh, how we used to take our daily phone conversations for granted! Never again.)

I used all my energy to speak, one breathy word at a time. “I . . . am . . . so . . . glad . . . to . . . be . . . alive.”

Inside the window, she finds her voice against COVID.

Lord Jesus, please be with her inside that window and battle the COVID-19 virus for her. In Jesus’ name. Amen.
[Originally posted January 2021]

Outside the window, he stands. Alone in his COVID vigil of love.

The vigil became his new routine: park in the hospital lot, walk across the grass, and take his place at the window. On the other side of the ground-floor window, his wife fights COVID-19 from an ICU bed. She contracted the novel coronavirus after exposure from a friend. The elderly friend recovered after several days of a mild case of COVID.

COVID-19 first made his wife achy and chilled. Working three hours away from their home, she initially complained of fatigue; days later, her breathing changed. He noticed her ragged breathing on their nightly phone call. “Please go in to get checked out. You might have COVID. At least get a test.” By the time she checked into the local emergency department, she could not catch her breath and felt like she was drowning. So began the weeks of hospitalization and isolation. The contagious nature of COVID-19 restricted any and all visitors; only staff in personal protective equipment were allowed in the ICU.

Outside the window, he stands. Alone. A COVID vigil of love.

While she was on oxygen and sitting up in bed, he stood outside the window. He drove three hours each way to visit, promising her that he would come every day. At first, they texted by phone; then the COVID battle left her no energy to hold the phone. He spoke loudly, almost yelling through the window in his attempts to communicate with her directly. People walking to and from the hospital could not help but overhear his words. He spoke of memories, nostalgic recollections of trips from their honeymoon to last year’s California trip. “Remember the goats at the Air B&B?” he reminded her. He smiled at the memory of her instant love for those crazy goats and how that trip sparked her retirement dream to buy a hobby farm with goats.

Outside the window, he stands, keeping his promise to visit daily.

The six-hour daily drive was exhausting, so he rented a nearby place to stay during the week. The doctor’s assessment revealed significant lung damage and a recommendation to place a tube into the lungs. “Putting the tube into her airway and connecting the ventilator will decrease her work of breathing. The ventilator will transport air to her lungs, and save her effort and energy.” But she thought the ventilator was a death sentence, so she refused to be intubated.
After hearing about her mother’s fears, their daughter drove up from Chicago with her two small children. “Mom, please. The doctor says the vent will help your breathing. Please, Mom! My kids need their grandmother!” After his daughter and grandkids joined him at the window during that visit, he returned alone the next day. A week later, his son also made a visit to the window.

Outside the window, he stands. Alone again.

In the bleak November of 2020, the hospital grounds looked as cold and frozen as he felt. Numb to his sacrifice, he visited every day for his window vigil. She was on a ventilator, unable to speak. They had always talked every day. Years ago, he traveled overseas for his job. Regardless of time differences or the high cost of overseas calls, he and his wife spoke daily.

Now on the ventilator, she could not speak. He ached inside, missing that sweet voice, that sharp-witted humor that had initially attracted him to her. He nostalgically remembered that cute 20-something girl, wisps of hair framing her face, her ponytail swiping back and forth as they flirtatiously bantered. That wise woman still bantered with him, her intellect and humor always drawing out his kinder, gentler humor. Like their differing senses of humor, their partnership was a synergy of unique characteristics. From those early days of courtship and through their 43+ years of marriage, he loved her. That love and appreciation for his wife grew as she became mother to their two precious children, now grown. These empty nest years were a chance to savor their time together, just the two of them. How he missed her. The window—and the coronavirus that isolated her—created a painful barrier between them.

Outside the window, he stands, keeping his vows: for better or for worse, in sickness and in health.

During his daily phone conversations with the nursing staff, he reminded them to tell his wife that he was there, standing outside the window, as close as he could get. The staff were hard to tell apart in their identical uniforms of personal protective equipment. Some of the day shift nurses, the most frequent visitors, he learned to distinguish. The kind one had a high ponytail bump under her blue cap; she always greeted his wife with a soft touch on her arm. The tall nurse walked straight to the machines, directing his eyes to the IV (intravenous medications) stands first. Her mask always moving, the older nurse was either singing or talking. He was glad that his wife could listen to something other than alarm bells and pump noises.

Outside the window, he stands alone, supporting his COVID-ravaged wife.

Weather: sunny and 72 degrees. Forty-eight degrees, cloudy with rain. Fifty-four degrees and drizzling. Snow flurries and 37 degrees. The only thing that changed was the Midwest weather. He kept his vigil outside the ICU window while she lay motionless in bed. In the mornings, the nurse let the sedation wear off in preparation for the assessment of spontaneous breathing, or weaning trial. Without sedation, his wife could try breathing on her own with the tube still in place. Sometimes she would wiggle her toes or move her hands.
To see her move, even such a tiny gesture, was a glimpse of hope through the window. She was understanding instructions and her limbs worked. His wife was still there! The medical staff did not offer encouragement about the weaning trials; they continued to speak of fatigue, COVID lung damage, and fluid noted on the chest X-rays. But he had seen her move, and for that sign of life he was grateful.

Outside the window, he stands alone, keeping his COVID vigil of love.

Lord Jesus, please meet him at the window. In Jesus’ name. Amen.
[Originally posted November 2020]