Thirty-Three Days
Amy Hill
By Alfreda Harris, Flynt, Michigan, U.S.
I am sheltering in place alone, but not lonely. I miss my Mama. She passed on Friday, January 24, 2020, after five weeks in the hospital. Besides being my mother, she was my housemate and best friend. The eldest of her six children (two boys and four girls), I am her next of kin. I am the one everyone looked to when it came to making decisions. I am the facilitator and advocate on behalf of our family. Now, walking through the house we shared and where I grew up, her presence is all around me. I hear her voice and see her everywhere. Mama left me with many wonderful, sunshine memories. As I grieve her, I am sheltering in place alone, but not lonely.
Then, on April 5th, a Sunday afternoon, I get a call from my number two sister, Debbie. Our baby sister, Sherill, has been rushed to the hospital. As her legal guardian, I immediately think to go there. Debbie reminds me, “Freda, we can’t go there.” Right, no one is allowed! The hospital is restricting visitors. Sherill lives in a skilled nursing facility, and we have not seen her since March 11th. She has never gone to the hospital alone, without family. We have always been there to support her in navigating through her healthcare concerns. She has many underlying conditions: diabetes, lupus, missing a spleen, high blood pressure, and blindness (caused by diabetic retinopathy).
Sherill is diagnosed with COVID-19 and placed in an intensive care unit (ICU).
This begins a “new normal” of caring for my sister from afar. First, I fight for 24 hours to change her “do not resuscitate” code status. Her paperwork showing me as her legal guardian has not been sent with her. When she arrives at the hospital “nonresponsive,” she is asked if she wants to be incubated, if necessary. According to the emergency room attendants, she said, “No.” I was livid, yet victory comes when her code status is changed to resuscitate. That same night, I am asked for permission to incubate her. I say, “Yes.” This is the first of many requests I grant on Sherill’s journey towards surviving COVID-19. There’s victory in every step.
My days begin with me calling the hospital for an update report from the night nurse. In the early evening, I call to speak with the day nurse before that shift changes. Then, I text my family members to update them on Sherill. I advocate for her, remembering my promise to Mama that we would take care of Sherill. No matter what the report, I look for something that will encourage my family. As the family matriarch, I resolve to be strong for them. Each day, with every step forward on the journey to healing and restoration, I count as another victory.
I learn so much about different medical terms and procedures. The pulmonologist declares, “Your sister is young. I am not leaving any stone unturned.” The nurses and doctors exemplify the best of care and empathy for patients when their families cannot be with them. The many dedicated healthcare professionals wear multiple hats. We have telephone calls and Zoom meetings with Sherill where we speak life, love, and prayers into her ears. Each day she is still with us we count as a victory.
Finally, on a Friday, May 8th, Sherill leaves the ICU. Within the hospital setting is a long-term facility just 50 feet away. There she will be supported in weening from the ventilator. Thirty-three days later, Sherill is still here. We count it as a victory!