It had been almost three years since the coronavirus hit our country. Coronavirus is a group of viruses that cause a variety of respiratory, gastrointestinal, and neurological diseases in humans and other animals. In 2019, it became a major pandemic. It affected different people in different ways. There were several theories about how it entered the U.S.
A rush was made to create a drug to combat the virus. Several pharmaceutical companies released vaccines to help prevent infection. Like the good, law-abiding citizen I was, I received my two recommended Moderna injections. Most of my friends did the same. Schools shut down, people began working from home, and churches either closed or held parking lot and online services. Hospitals were over capacity and severely understaffed. Families weren't allowed to stay with their loved ones, and many died alone. Funerals were reduced to graveside services with only immediate family present. Restaurants became carryout only, with many closing due to staffing shortages and financial strain. People stayed home, and curbside pickup became the norm for groceries. Zoom and online classes became the default for schools. Masks were mandatory in nearly every situation. When schools reopened, students were required to wear masks, which caused many issues. Even nearly three years later, masks were still required in most hospitals, doctors' offices, and medical facilities.
For the most part, I lived my normal life, though I didn't go out as often. Our monthly Hillcrest get-togethers were put on hold. My sisters and I stopped going out weekly. But by December 2021, life was beginning to feel more normal.
On the Tuesday night before Christmas, I went out to dinner at Shoney's with my sisters June, Phyllis, and Mary, my brother-in-law Stan, and my grandson Jonathan. We had a great time. Everyone felt good; no one was sick. The next day, I had a doctor's appointment to receive an injection for my low hemoglobin. Afterwards, I met Jonathan at El Chico’s for lunch. While eating, Jonathan had to use the restroom twice. Just before we left, I also needed to go. As I was walking back and heading for the door, I suddenly felt flushed and faint. I debated letting Jonathan drive but chose to drive us home myself.
Jonathan left for North Carolina on Thursday, and I began to feel worse. By Sunday, I felt terrible and decided to take a COVID test. It was positive. My condition worsened, so my daughter-in-law took me to a walk-in clinic. I tested positive again and was prescribed two medications. I started taking them but didn’t feel better.
Jennifer came from North Carolina to check on me. I barely remember her visit. She urged me to go to the hospital. It took all my strength just to get to the car. We went to Fort Sanders Hospital. The waiting room was packed. After several hours, I was finally admitted. That was January 4. I would remain there until February 22, when I transferred to North Carolina for rehab. During my stay, I was moved to various rooms and became the second patient admitted to the new Fort Sanders Specialty Select unit. Staff was limited, and many of the nurses were traveling nurses.
Most of my time at Fort Sanders is a blur. I needed oxygen due to difficulty breathing. The only thing that kept me off a ventilator was my history of healthy lungs. I started on a high dose of oxygen and was gradually weaned off. I couldn’t eat. Meal after meal would arrive, but I had no appetite, no taste, and painful sores in my mouth—what they called "COVID mouth."
I had no strength. I couldn’t even roll over in bed. Sitting up was a struggle. Getting into a chair was impossible. I lost control of my bladder and bowels. I had to be cared for like a baby. I later learned that COVID had attacked my only remaining kidney—one had been removed 19 years earlier due to cancer. I’d had no prior issues with the remaining kidney, but COVID targeted it. Some of the medications may have made things worse.
Visitors weren’t allowed, but eventually, Jennifer was granted limited access. She brought food, cleaned my teeth, brushed my hair, massaged my feet, changed my clothes, and kept me hydrated. She filled my diffuser with essential oils. Nurses liked to visit my room because it smelled so pleasant. When they gave up hope, Jennifer did not. Byron also came when Jennifer returned to North Carolina. He brought food and comfort items. Josh couldn’t visit due to Amanda’s compromised immune system, but he stayed in contact. David helped when possible. Jon visited once under clergy credentials. I didn’t talk much on the phone but received many cards. Jennifer and Byron posted frequent Facebook updates. Many people prayed for me—and that’s what pulled me through.
Because I couldn’t eat, a feeding tube was inserted through my nose. It was painful, so they later replaced it with one inserted directly into my stomach. It was better. Then, due to kidney failure, I had to begin dialysis. A venous catheter was surgically placed. I underwent three surgeries: for the nasal feeding tube, the abdominal feeding tube, and the catheter. Dialysis took most of the day and was exhausting. One nurse, Diane Barker, stood out—she became a Facebook friend and still checks in. Sometimes, I would sing just to comfort myself, though my voice is now weak.
I had several doctors, including my nephrologist. One day I admitted I was depressed—understandable, given everything—and a psychologist began visiting. His sessions were brief and filled with Baptist jokes. He was well-compensated for them, according to my insurance statements.
One night, I broke down. I called Jennifer in the middle of the night, begging her to take me home. I wanted to bathe, lie in my bed, and say goodbye to my family. She refused. She said I wasn’t ready to give up. Byron said to let me decide, but Jennifer prevailed. Today, I thank her and Jon for not giving up.
Progress was slow. Blood was drawn nightly, leaving my arms bruised. Injections made my stomach worse. I dreaded nights. Gradually, I began to improve—eating a little, sitting in a chair. But due to poor staffing, I would sit for hours without help to return to bed. Physical and occupational therapy began helping me stand and take a few steps. I saw snow through the window. Then it was Valentine’s Day—Luke’s 16th birthday. Jennifer gave me a Valentine’s throw for my bed.
Eventually, a move to rehab was planned. My former workplace, Beverly Park Place (formerly Hillcrest Nursing Institute), was considered, but I didn’t think their therapy was intense enough. Jennifer advocated for Novant Health Rehab in North Carolina. After many calls, it was arranged. After 50 days in the hospital, Jon helped me into the car on February 22, 2022. We stopped at McDonald's to say goodbye to June and Phyllis. Byron and Mary also came. I ate part of a fish sandwich. It was the first time I’d seen them since December 21. They brought Christmas gifts.
After a four-and-a-half-hour drive, we arrived at Novant Health Rehabilitation, an affiliate of Encompass Health. Therapy was intense. I had to go to Northside Dialysis Center three times a week. The schedule was grueling—early transport, five-hour dialysis, late return, then four hours of therapy. I made some progress. I celebrated my 79th birthday there on February 24 with gifts and flowers. Two weeks later, I was discharged to live with Jennifer and Jon. I continued outpatient therapy and dialysis. Jennifer's church, Freedom Baptist, provided ramps and equipment. A lift chair made standing easier. I used a walker. I began to peel potatoes and prep vegetables. I was finally released from therapy.
I attended church for the first time on April 17. In May, we returned to Tennessee for David’s graduation from Crown College. My nephrologist reduced dialysis from three to one day per week, though attempts to stop entirely failed due to lab issues.
Summer came. I broke beans and canned 21 quarts. I froze okra and helped with tomatoes. I felt useful again. But June’s cancer diagnosis darkened our joy. I had one last outing with her in April. I saw her again later, but she was very ill. She passed on June 15, just shy of 89. That same morning, I learned Ronnie Lee, my nephew, had died unexpectedly at 40, leaving three young daughters. The family traveled back to Tennessee for both funerals.
Life continued. I resumed dialysis. I bought a canopy swing but rarely used it due to heat. I drove again for the first time on July 4. I had setbacks—I dislocated my shoulder and had my catheter replaced three times.
By September, I decided to sell my Tennessee home—a hard choice after 60 years on the same property. It was the only home Josh had ever known. Teri Williams, a family friend and realtor, sold it for top dollar. I closed on October 31. Byron’s family and Jennifer helped clean it out. We donated, discarded, and packed decades of memories. I would never again have my rose from James, nor see Pam’s burlap picture beneath the Christmas tree.
A new chapter began. I moved in with Jennifer and Jon. My nephrologist recommended peritoneal dialysis, which is done nightly at home and is gentler on the body. I needed access to a bathroom and couldn’t sleep well. I looked into independent living.
Just a mile from their home was Arbor Ridge. I toured it and immediately liked it. It had everything I needed—meals, a beauty shop, library, game room, and more. I signed the lease on October 31. Jennifer, Debbie, and the White boys helped furnish and decorate. I even bought a fireplace, just because I wanted one.
Now I’m settled in my new apartment. I’ve made friends and joined activities. Life will never be the same, but I’ve accepted that. I’m looking forward to the new year—and praying that none of us ever has to go through another year like 2022.
