Some closing notes: Here is a first person statement of what it is like, post covid:
Margot Gage Witvliet went from being healthy and active to fearing she was dying almost overnight. An epidemiologist, she dug into the research to understand what's happening to long-haulers like her.
www.pbs.org
And another first person story:
Here is the story: You get a fever, and it's a little hard to breathe, but not that bad. Take some tylenol and go to bed. You wake up in the middle of the night to find yourself gasping for air. You reach over to your wife and get her attention. She rolls over, 'What's wrong honey? It's the middle of the night". It's then she can hear you breathing, or trying too. She turns on the light and sees the panic in your eyes. No matter how much you inhale, it's not enough, it's never enough. That would be bad enough but the fever is spiking, it's hard to focus. Your three kids come into the room, they heard Mom talking loud, trying to get your attention. The little girl, 6 years old, you're the center of her universe. She's a daddy's girl and loves it when you take her places with you. "Is Daddy Okay?" Mom tries to hide her panic "He's fine honey, he'll be okay" She struggles trying to decide if she should drive you to the emergency room or get an ambulance. She decides to drive. You're too out of it to get dressed so she takes you in your pajamas. Once there they admit you. Your wife cannot go in. You're alone. She is sent to the house to quarantine with the rest of your kids. They start to work on you. You're getting tired, your chest hurts from trying to breathe for so long. Your blood pressure is up. They lower your fever a little and put on an oxygen mask. It seems to help a little, but only for an hour or so. Then your lungs begin to fight for air again. They offer to turn you over on your stomach, "sometimes it helps" they say. They roll you over...It does. You look out the door, Doctors are running everywhere. There are patients in the hallways. The ward is full, and everyone is trying to keep up. You hear Code calls, and ventilator machines being rolled up and down the hallway. You notice you cannot smell anything, and you have pain all over. You wonder about your family. Your daughter, the fear in her eyes as her daddy was put into the car. "Why are you leaving Daddy? I'll take care of you..."
Pain...the fight for air. It's back. You press the button. They roll you back over and check you out. The doctor comes up to your bed. Completely covered, face mask, hood, looks a little like an astronaut. "Sir, you're not getting enough oxygen in your blood. We need to put you on a ventilator" You nod in agreement, gasping. "Sir... You won't be able to talk once we do this. Would you like to say anything to your family? We can arrange a facetime with them if you like". As your head tries to wrap itself around this offer, one question comes to mind: "How serious is this?" It takes the doc a while to respond, he's done this hundreds of times, but it never gets easy "Patients that go on a ventilator have a 4 in 10 chance of not recovering. Should we try to reach your family?" You nod...Numb...Your brain can't handle all the info it's getting. The fever, the pain in your chest the struggle for air, it's too much. A nurse comes back in with an iPad... "I have your family online" she tries to say with a smile. You take the iPad. There they are, all three kids and your wife. Your everything. The look on their faces is a look you've seen before. The brave smiles. The look you give when you feel sorrow and pain, but need to cheer up the person you’re talking to. They are not at home...It looks like they are outside. You pull in as much air as you can so you can sound somewhat normal. It does not work. "Hey guys, where are you?" Your wife forces another smile, "We're outside your window honey. They put signs out so we know where you are. They can't let us in. We're not supposed to leave the house but we needed to be close to you" She starts to cry, it's too much for her. That's when it hits you. Clarity, all at once...You're saying "goodbye". The next time you hug your family will either be a few weeks from now, or in the here-after. So this is your last chance to say something. The six year old is shaking, pale with fear. "Hey there nugget...How you doing?" "Daddy... Please come home... Who will read to me? I miss you so much, please get out of bed...I'll do anything you want" You never realized you could cry as hard as you are right now, and it's making the breathing even harder. You know you're scaring her. You cannot stay on much longer. "I'm sorry nugget.. I can't get out of bed right now. You take care of your Mama for me okay? I love your everything" "She looks at you through tear soaked eyes.. "I love your everything too" You can't do it...You can't say goodbye, it's all just too much. The iPad falls in your lap as you struggle to both breathe and cry all at once. An alarm goes off, the Docs surround you and begin to put in the ventilator. Your eyes close for the last time. It's over. It takes years for your family to recover. They lost their rock, and nothing will be the same, ever again... End.
I felt compelled to write this to give a perspective to those of us who are more focused on comfort and "getting back to normal". The above story has played out thousands of times with Mothers, Fathers, Grandparents, and children. Families that will grieve for years to come.
It’s not about how high the numbers go. It's about that one person.. Your "everything".
Please.. Show compassion. Odds are you know someone that endured something like this. We're in a war right now, and we're losing. It's time to step up and make sure these kids keep their parents.
Thank you... Jay A Kelley 11/16/2020
people.com
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profootballtalk.nbcsports.com
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