My mother met Robert Chen at the Willow Grove Senior Center. She was 68, while he was just 67. Having been divorced for a while and struggling financially, my mother lived in the same East Side rent-controlled apartment she had grown up in. Robert, known as Rob to everyone, was retired but had volunteered to teach a class on internet skills. My mother enrolled as his student, and one day he nervously offered her his business card, suggesting she reach out if she needed further assistance.
They made an unlikely pair: he was the youngest of ten siblings, his parents having immigrated from China to settle in a small town. My mother was Jewish, a former child prodigy in figure skating, dancing, and acting, later finding a career as a screenwriter. Despite their differences, they shared a passion for ballet, with Rob holding season tickets. He was charming, thoughtful, and had a great sense of humor. She gifted him books, while he surprised her with a cozy bathrobe. It was love.
Two years later, my mother suffered a stroke, bleeding for hours into her brain. At that moment, I felt Rob was under no obligation to carry the burden of caregiving. After all, he hadn’t signed up for dementia or the accompanying struggles. Yet, there he was, waiting outside her hospital room with red roses and a copy of the New York Times.
We hoped for her recovery, but her condition deteriorated. Rob became a constant presence at her assisted living facility, regularly taking her for hair appointments, buying her fashionable blazers, and treating her to ballets at Lincoln Center. She was still his number one. My mother refused to participate in outings with other residents unless Rob joined her, and she wouldn’t enjoy the live music at dinner unless he sat by her side.
Together, Rob and I managed my mother’s care, even though he also had his hands full looking after his older siblings—handling their taxes, monitoring their well-being, and cleaning their homes. He even helped his neighbors, walking a single mother’s daughter to school each morning. Somewhere along the way, he became my stepfather.
Now, at 81, he fell seriously ill last year due to a spinal infection, losing his ability to speak and swallow for a significant period. I brought him home from the hospital, arranged for a walker, a speech therapist, and protective eyewear because one of his eyelids wouldn’t close. We spent time together in his apartment, surrounded by my mother’s photographs, watching TV. Our relationship is a mix of humor and banter; he thinks I’m too carefree while I see him as a bit of a grouch. We text almost daily.
Currently, he’s back at New York Presbyterian Hospital battling COVID-19 while on a ventilator. Two weeks ago, we exchanged messages when I suggested he ask for apple juice in the ER as he awaited test results. He replied, “Apple juice is a great idea. Feel better.” Just an hour later, he sent another message: “I have this coronavirus.”
At that time, 339 cases had been confirmed in Manhattan. After his transfer to a room, I sent him pictures of my daughter, Sophie, who he adores and spoils. He mentioned that his room was sealed, and he spent hours alone except for temperature checks. He seemed to be holding up for a grumpy old man in the hospital.
Then I received a call from Dr. Anderson. They were placing Rob on a ventilator. A ventilator? I had just spoken with him, and he sounded fine. But that’s how COVID-19 operates—sudden, unpredictable changes.
By February, Rob returned to his ballet seats after a long recovery from the effects of his varicella infection. We attended a performance of Swan Lake on a frigid night. I remarked how the theatergoers rushing in their coats reminded me of a famous New Yorker cover, “Night at the Opera.” “Well, you know about that,” he replied. I held onto his arm during the third act’s Black Swan variation. Rob’s favorite ballerina is Sara Mearns, but that night we both found ourselves captivated by Ashley Bouder. We felt my mother’s presence, her radiant smile and insightful commentary enveloped us.
Neither of us spoke of her, but I knew we were both thinking of her.
I now communicate with the medical team at New York Presbyterian twice daily. They remain calm and supportive, even as the hospital grapples with the surge of COVID-19 and dwindling supplies. They constantly assess Rob’s needs. Due to his varicella condition, his throat remains swollen, complicating extubation. They face a dilemma: wait for his throat to heal or perform a tracheotomy, which poses risks of infection for the surgical team. Cutting into his throat would potentially release aerosolized virus particles, a dangerous situation for everyone involved.
I struggle to view Rob as a danger. However, the medical staff treats him with care, using his name and telling me he occasionally responds to commands. Perhaps he longs to see the latest photo of Sophie. Does he realize he’s been sedated for two weeks? Is he anxious while on the ventilator? The doctors are unsure but monitor him closely for distress signs. Once, when they reduced his sedation for a “breathing trial,” he pulled out his own tube, needing it replaced as he continued to struggle for air. They know he cannot remain on the ventilator indefinitely; long-term use presents significant risks. They are trying to maneuver through this precarious situation.
So we wait. When he eventually leaves the hospital, I won’t simply be able to pick him up and put him in a cab. I’ll have to arrange for everything to be delivered. There’s no substitute for seeing your daughter arranging flowers from the local store on your coffee table, but this time, I won’t be able to provide that comfort. Yet, I believe he knows what he has to do to get through this. “I love you,” I told him the day before he was intubated. I had never expressed that before. “I love you too,” he replied. Many things have been fractured by this virus, but the bond we share has only strengthened day by day.
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In summary, the journey of caring for loved ones is filled with challenges, yet it also fosters deep connections and affection. As I navigate my stepfather’s health struggles, the bond we share has only strengthened, reminding us that love persists even in the toughest of times.