Its Weird Now

September 5th, 2020
The last thing I said to him was, “I’ll be back in November to fish with you.” Already looking
forward to coming back to go fishing, I hugged my Papa, kissed my Grandma on the cheek
good-bye and drove the four hours back to Stillwater. That day was the last time I would hug my
Papa. The last time he and I would ever discuss how to grow chrysanthemums and the best ways
to manage his greenhouses. The last time I would handpick from the greenhouses with him my
bedding plants I now had packed into my car for the drive back. I get back to normal week, or as
normal as a week can be in the middle of a pandemic as a full-time student at an university. I go
to work, I go to my one class on campus, I mostly avoid people, I study and I sleep.

September 17, 2020
My Grandma sends my family a text in our groupchat; Charley has a dry, raspy cough this
morning. He’s on his way to be tested now. Won’t know for 48 hours. No temperature.
My heart plummets. We won’t know for 48 hours. It might not be anything. Papa is never sick.
My family discussed the possibilities if he tests positive. We tell Grandma to quarantine, she has
a history of lung issues. Papa shares an office with his son, Jason, who is high risk for infection.
We’re more worried about Jason and Grandma. If they test positive and get sick, they may
actually die. Papa will be fine. He’s never sick. We get daily check-ins with Grandma. No worse.
No better. He says he doesn’t feel like he has a temperature. 48 hours pass.

September 19, 2020
Grandma texts us again. Charley tested positive.
I think through every place I went before I visited them. Everyone I saw without wearing a mask.
Everywhere we went when we were together. I always wore a mask. So did Grandma and him,
when we were in public. I didn’t bring this virus to them? I couldn’t have. Mom asks how his
pulse oxygen is. Grandma checks. Pulse ox is okay. He says he is feeling better. Maybe it’s one
of the less severe cases. Grandma says that his symptoms started last Wednesday. Fourteen days
and Papa will be good.
Sunday passes. No worse. No better.
Monday, my mom texts my sister’s and I. Papa is being admitted to the hospital. He has some
spots on his lungs so they are just gonna keep him there to start treatments and keep an eye on
him.
Tuesday, my aunt’s fiance, Nas, asks Grandma how she’s feeling. Halfway decent. She’s starting
to show symptoms, too. She goes to get tested. We’ll know in 48 hours.
Wednesday, Uncle Jason is negative. We all take a breath of relief. Grandma tests positive. Mom
consoles me, it's nothing major; Grandma doesn’t even have a cough.
Thursday morning, Grandma goes to pick up Papa from the hospital. She gets him home. He’s
home for about 2 hours. He starts to have trouble breathing. Grandma calls an ambulance.
Mom texts me. Ambulance left 30 mins ago. Pulse ox at 88. Up from 83. Should be closer to 100.
Dad is being admitted. Needs oxygen but doesn’t look like covid “decomposition.”

Friday, September 25th, 2020,
I drive to Tulsa. My dad and stepmom are hosting an “homemade Apple Festival” the next day
since the one we go to annually in Prairie Grove, Arkansas got cancelled. On my drive back
home I am constantly checking my messages for updates on Papa in the hospital. My aunt is a
doctor and knows the doctor caring for Papa. She gets ahold of the nurse who is able to give us
specific updates.
My aunt texts us. Daddy is on 4L oxygen but doing ok...
2 hours later I get another message from mom. I just spoke to dad but he was out of breath and
said he wasn’t feeling well.

Saturday, September 26th 2020.
My sister, Clara, a senior in high school, had a cross country race. I’m with my dad and my
stepmom, Amy. Clara’s race is at 9am. We get there around 8:30am. My sister’s aren’t in the
group chat I am in with my Grandma and aunt so don’t know I’ve been getting updates since
6am. My aunt has flown to Arkansas from her home in Florida.
I see my mom at Clara’s race. She looks more disheveled than usual. She needs me, so I go over
to her. I tell her I’m hopeful. Papa’s stubborn. He would never settle to die in a hospital bed. We
laugh about the return of his picky eating and terrible diet. He’s returning to normal. That’s
good. Even while being hopeful, my mom tells me to be prepared to drop everything to drive to
Arkansas if he worsens. Between Clara’s 2nd and 3rd mile, Mom reminds me Papa could still
die. Clara passes us. We cheer. She made 6th place. Minutes later my aunt sends a picture of her
suiting up in a bright blue protective suit to go visit Papa in the Covid unit.
Saturday afternoon as my sisters and I are setting up for our homemade Apple Festival at Dad’s
house, I get a call from Mom. Papa is declining fast and we have to drive to Arkansas. Every
hopeful optimistic thought I’ve been grasping to vanishes. He’s declining and I don’t even want
to see him because my last memory of him, I was promised a fishing trip in November. I console
Anna who I find hiding under her bed in tears. I console Clara, who’s sitting silently in her
bedroom. I’m taking a seperate car. I don’t want them to see me fall apart. Two hours later I’m
on the road to Arkansas. Going about 85 mph, I drive the familiar route. I pass fields and fields
of golden grass. The Ozark forest greeting me as I pass the state line into Arkansas. Passed worn
houses and dogs that always seem to be in the same chair I turn into my Grandma’s driveway. .
Originally I was told to meet my mom and aunt at the hospital but an hour in I get a call from my
mom to meet them at Grandma’s house. Mom texts me. Don’t go into Grandma’s house and
don’t hug anyone.
I get there and everyone is sitting down in a spread out circle on the back porch. They inform me
that Papa is doing better. I’m skeptical. I eat their cold Slim Chicken leftovers as we wait for my
sister’s to arrive. Small talk is scattered about as we avoid the inevitable reason we were all
sitting in the circle. My grandma remembers a candle I left and goes in to get it. It drips with a
filmy layer of Lysol when my aunt passes it to me. I don’t remember the original smell of the
candle anymore. All I can smell is Lysol. My sisters arrive finally and we discuss a game plan
for the evening. A decision is made for my sisters to go look inside the window of Papa’s
hospital room to see him. They can’t go in. I opt to drive back to Stillwater instead. I wave
goodbye and blow a kiss to my grandma. Still can’t hug anyone, not even my mom since she had
gone in to see Papa earlier that day. I get in my car and drive the four hours back to Stillwater.

Sunday, September 27, 2020.
Mom texts the group chat. Dad is looking better... Still on both vapotherm and non rebreather
with oxygen saturation around 98% and breathing a little less fast than earlier. My aunt sends
an update. Dr. Bayo called to say he also thinks dad is doing better.
The good news continues into Monday. Papa is grumpy and demands jello. He tolerates being
off the rebreather for longer periods of time. He’s answering phone calls and taking short
conversations.

Tuesday, September 29, 2020.
Mom updates us agin. Dad had a decent night but O2 dropped to the lowest of 88%... Bayo
wants to place him on bpap to see if that helps him... He did have a hard time naming the year
and previous president. A normal oxygen level is 95-100%.
Delirium is common for older people in the ICU, I’m later informed. The only way to combat
delirium is to constantly engage with them. We can’t do that in the Covid wing for obvious
reasons. Bayo sends us the plan of care for Papa. It includes lots of large words I don’t
understand and a plan if he needs to be intubated. After researching I found out tracheal
intubation is where a tube is put into the trachea to help the patient breathe, and is common for
many Covid patients.
Papa continues to hold steady on Wednesday. Still answering phone calls and still demanding
jello. Grandma is feeling achy from her symptoms with Covid. Other than that, she’s still up and
fine.

Thursday, October 1, 2020.
Dad is doing ok. Has a slight cough so his O2 plummets to mid 80s when he coughs and slowly
climbs back up to low 90s. They were gonna give him cough meds to help. Later on, Mom sends
us another update- anxiety medicine helped him calm down a little.
9:30pm,
Mom texts my sisters and I: Papa is not doing so good.

Friday, October 2, 2020.
9:35am
Mom texts me. Call me asap. You need to find a way to AR asap. Be prepared to stay a few days
until the funeral. He hasn’t passed yet but he is worse and we are putting him on comfort care
only.
I’m sitting across from my boyfriend when I hear this. He watches me crumble as she continues
talking, explaining what’s happening. Mom and my sister’s are already headed to Arkansas. Papa
is tired of fighting and has asked to be taken off oxygen. Once she hangs up, I break. Losing
control of any emotion I was holding onto; all hope I was holding collapses as reality settles in.
My boyfriend drives me back to my apartment and helps me pack. My sight is blurry as I throw
clothing in a suitcase and toss my toiletries in a smaller bag and zip them together. Grabbing my
backpack, my boyfriend helps me load my car. About two hours after mom called me, I was on
the old trek back to Van Buren, Arkansas.
When I get to the shopping mall I’m meeting them at, mom and my sisters greet me in the
parking lot. My hands are shaking but I keep my face composed. I follow them back to where the
rest of my family is sitting at a picnic table. Grandma is there, with my aunt and her fiance.
We’re all in masks and everyone’s eyes look hollow. It’s quiet at our table, and the chatter
around us seems insignificant. I hug everyone and sit down. We’re waiting. For news, a signal to
go back to the hospital for Papa’s last breaths. I pull out my laptop to pretend to do homework,
as to avoid looking at everyone else. A few minutes after I arrived, I heard my mom’s brother,
his crutches against the concrete, walk over to us. He asks how Papa is doing and gets the update
we all got before joining us at the table.
Everytime I get restless, I go inside the coffee shop behind us to get another drink. My fourth
Americano, my aunt gets a phone call. It’s from Papa’s doctor. My aunt nods and everyone
begins packing up our things. It’s time to go to the hospital. We pull in and I’m told we can’t go
inside. We’re waiting in the parking lot. My aunt, mom and Grandma walk up to the door closest
to the ICU. The rest of us watch as they enter. We sit on the curb next to the cars.
No one says much more than “how’s school” and “it’s weird.” Covid doesn’t need to be
explained. Everyone understands why it’s weird. It’s why we’re sitting in the parking lot of a
hospital. Hours seem to pass and I just remember laying down on the hood of my car, watching
the clouds. The silence we held was comforting but somehow still frigid with the anticipation of
any news.
Mom comes back out. My aunt stays in. Mom explains that my sisters can't go in but since I
haven’t seen him yet, I can if I want to. I don’t want to. Mom offers the same to her brother. He
opts not to, since he’s high risk. You can tell this decision is painful to make. He can’t even say
good-bye to his dad.
My grandma, I’m told, is the only one allowed inside his room since she’s just over Covid
herself. She can’t touch him, but she can sit there and talk to him. Everytime he hears a familiar
voice his levels go up, but not enough for him to have a chance. I offer to stay there and talk to
him for as long as it takes for him to regain the strength to fight. Everyone gives a small laugh as
if I was joking. I haven’t even seen him yet. Why would I be joking?
6:40pm
What’s his levels? Mom asks Grandma in our chat.
Grandma texts us from the hospital room. BP 86/50, O2 42, heart rate ? 121
I don’t know what any of this means but everyone else nods, as if they understand the message. I
don’t ask for a clarification. I’m assuming it’s bad. Later on I look up normal levels which are
BP 120/70 O2 98-100 Pulse rate 90.
7:03pm
BP 74/40, pulse rate 125, O2 is still 42
My sister’s and I are sent to the house we’re staying at. My mom’s second cousin, Leigh Ann, is
letting us sleep at her place, since Grandma’s isn’t clean yet. We leave the hospital and I begin
the 30 minute drive to Leigh Ann’s.
7:36pm
BP 51/34, heart rate 125, O2 47. The nurse is upping the morphine another mg. Lowered oxygen
to 90%.
We get to Leigh Ann’s. More “how’s school.” We nod. It’s weird.
8:16pm
Papa passed about 15 min ago. He is wearing his hat and looks very peaceful.
Clara sits down on the couch and cries. Anna disappears. I assume she is crying too. I go to Clara
and hug her as she cries. Anna reappears and we all embrace. I swallow back my tears. They
can’t see me lose it.
Leigh Ann lets us be. She bakes dinner as they cry and the smell of fried okra and cornbread fills
the air as I hold my sisters.
I go to shower. That’s where I cry. I clean my face and change to pajamas. Dinner is ready. Mom
arrives. We hug. They cry and I go to bed. I’m not hungry.
2:30am
I wake up crying and text my boyfriend. He helps. I’m still sad though. I’m going back to
Stillwater in the afternoon since Papa doesn’t want a service. We’re cremating him and dumping
his ashes around his pecan orchard. The orchard that he planted for my sisters and I.
I’ve stopped going to parties. Large crowds give me panic attacks. I don’t want to be the
variable that kills anyone else I love. Covid-19 is very real to my family, to my Papa.
I wish I was going fishing tomorrow, but it’s weird without him.