As I gazed out the back patio doors, it seemed like the trees had shed all their leaves overnight. My husband, always eager to experience the beauty of home life, must have seen it too. Just days prior, he had expressed how captivated he was by the vivid autumn colors. I watched him delightfully crunch the fallen leaves during one of our first short walks after he returned home from the hospital. Neither of us knew if he would ever get to enjoy the fall season again. Yet here we were, surrounded by the crisp air, our elderly dog trailing behind, neighbors waving as they drove by, and birds chirping overhead.
On our first walk, we took it slow. I carried a folding chair, just in case he needed to rest. I suddenly realized I hadn’t checked his oxygen tank; I worried we should have changed it before heading out. I promised myself I wouldn’t forget again. I was just thankful for this moment we shared—together.
We had always been walkers. When quarantine began in March and we transitioned to working from home, we increased our walking routines. Staring at a computer screen all day took its toll, and naturally, we solved all of life’s problems during our walks. Both of us felt frustrated that the pandemic and mask-wearing became politicized, but we understood everyone had their own priorities. We cherished the extra time with our four children while also acknowledging the precious moments we had with our teenagers. We planted rose bushes, cultivated our garden, painted a barn quilt, stained our fence, and did everything as a family—all while keeping our outings minimal because we wanted to protect our loved ones.
By early August, as school resumed, we still felt anxious but held onto a false sense of security. We heard of people getting sick, but most had mild colds or flu-like symptoms. Although we knew COVID-19 was serious and had claimed lives, it felt distant. Then it all began so innocently. In mid-September, during allergy season in the Midwest, my husband developed a dry cough, which didn’t raise alarms initially. It wasn’t until he asked if I was burning “that” candle—the Pumpkin Pecan Waffles scent he couldn’t stand—that I sensed something was wrong. He walked into another room, seemingly to start his workday, but later came back to tell me he was getting tested; he could neither smell the candle nor taste his breakfast. The fear was palpable.
Within 24 hours, he received the positive test result we had anticipated. We were already quarantining at home, worrying about who else in our circle might have been exposed. Though the nurses said it wasn’t necessary, we decided to test the entire family to determine who needed to isolate in different rooms and to keep the schools informed.
In the days that followed, we maintained our walks, convinced that staying active would protect us from the virus. Two of our boys tested positive—one completely asymptomatic, the other showing mild cold symptoms—while my husband’s condition worsened. He later confessed he doubted he would make it back from our last walk. Retreating to his quarantine room, he thought rest would help.
I checked in daily, asking if he felt we should seek medical help. He insisted he was fine and didn’t feel short of breath. But when the fever struck, I knew we had to go to the hospital. My brother-in-law brought over a pulse oximeter, revealing an alarming reading of 85. Following a nurse friend’s advice, we headed to the ER that Saturday night.
As we approached dinner time, I was anxious. He looked frail, breathing rapidly. Despite his insistence that he was okay and just needed rest, I couldn’t shake the fear. Reflecting on that moment often makes me wonder: if his brother hadn’t called, would I have gotten him to the hospital in time? Convincing him to go was a challenge, and ultimately, my oldest son drove him, as I hadn’t tested positive yet and he wanted to avoid exposure.
This cruel virus separates families. Here was a man who had never spent a night in the hospital at 41, and now he was alone. I anxiously awaited updates as he settled into his room.
DAY 1 (Sunday)
He needed oxygen and was given a nasal cannula, starting on 2 liters. It was confirmed he had pneumonia in both lungs, and they began treatment with antibiotics, Remdesivir, and steroids. He was still running a fever, with an estimated five-day hospital stay ahead.
The waiting was agonizing. I wanted to be there for him, to advocate for his care, but guilt weighed heavily on me. I couldn’t support him in person, and the kids had to continue virtual learning with dad absent. I felt the anxiety of managing everything at home while trying to be a strong mom.
DAY 2 (Monday)
His oxygen increased to 7 liters, and controlling the fever proved challenging. That evening, he received blood plasma with antibodies. We managed a video chat, which brought us relief. The separation was harder than expected, and I noticed he was winded after speaking.
The medical team was still deliberating on whether to administer the blood plasma. There was so much uncertainty surrounding treatments. We hoped this would be the best chance for his recovery. Seeing him was a comfort, yet it was unsettling to watch him struggle for each breath. He mentioned that the food tasted terrible, which was a good sign—his sense of taste was returning.
DAY 3 (Tuesday)
He had a tough night, and I dreaded the evenings. They increased his oxygen to 15 liters and planned to switch him to a bi-pap machine. Sadly, I had lost my own taste and smell, prompting me to get retested as I developed allergy-like symptoms.
He seemed despondent and didn’t want to talk much. I felt helpless as I imagined how to care for our youngest son, who had tested negative. I worried about the possibility of needing hospital care myself. The thought of being separated from my husband was overwhelming.
DAY 4 (Wednesday)
Back on the nasal cannula, my husband struggled with the bi-pap machine earlier. He managed to breathe better that afternoon. A CT scan ruled out clots, and we received good news that his oxygen levels improved slightly.
I tested positive, and one of the younger kids asked why dad wasn’t home yet, expressing his simple wish: he just wanted Dad to come back. I assured him that his father was fighting hard. Alone in the bathroom, I broke down, realizing how clearly the kids understood the gravity of the situation.
DAY 5 (Thursday)
Overnight, he was moved to the ICU due to widespread inflammation in his lungs. The treatments weren’t working as hoped. He was placed on a fully powered bi-pap machine, and later, a ventilator. I was terrified as the doctors explained that his immune response had gone into overdrive, requiring life support.
I didn’t get a chance to speak with him before the ventilator was inserted. The nurse informed me he was scared, but they offered to pray with him, which he welcomed. Breaking the news to our children was heart-wrenching. I struggled to find the right words, assuring them that their father was very ill but receiving the care he needed.
As I navigated this nightmare alone at home, my thoughts were consumed by fear, anxiety, and prayer. I lay awake at night, while the love of my life lay in a hospital bed, the machine breathing for him, hoping for the slightest sign of improvement.
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Summary:
The author recounts the harrowing 14-day experience of her husband’s battle with COVID-19, detailing the progression of his symptoms and the emotional toll on their family. Initially, the couple enjoyed their time together during the pandemic, but the situation escalated rapidly when he tested positive. As his condition worsened, hospital visits and the uncertainty of his recovery became a source of immense stress. The story highlights the challenges of separation during health crises and the fear that accompanies serious illness.