Renewed

Patrick’s family and I went with him to the hospital. They left, and I waited in the parking lot, determined to take him home as soon as he was done. But I eventually needed to use the restroom, and since visitors weren’t allowed inside, I texted him to let him know I was heading home and to call me when he was ready. The time was 11:17 PM. I took a screenshot. When I got home, Patrick called to say the doctor recommended that he stay overnight for monitoring. He told me everyone thought it was for the best… everyone but me… I was furious.

We had, hypothetically, talked about our views on the Covid protocols many times before, and we had made a pact—we promised one another that if either of us got sick from COVID, we would fight it at home, we would use natural remedies, we would tough it out. We had agreed that we wouldn’t, under any circumstances, check into a hospital.

Yet there he was, inside, and I on the outside, without him, spiraling over what I knew was to come.

Over the next six days, his condition deteriorated. Doctors gave him steroid after steroid, antibiotic after antibiotic, and his oxygen levels plummeted. By the sixth day, he was moved to the ICU and placed on high-flow heated oxygen at its maximum setting: 60 liters per minute.

On January 17, I told him, “Today is an important day.” I felt it in my bones. I prayed it would be a turning point for the better, but that night, I was jolted awake by a call from the ICU. Patrick wasn’t maintaining acceptable blood oxygen levels. The doctors recommended intubation. Patrick asked if it was too late to go home with an in-home oxygen tank… It was.

A few hours later, Patrick agreed to be intubated. Amidst my text message protest, I made sure to tell him how much I loved him and that I would complete all that he had been helping me with in life. I told him I would make him proud… he said, “Not to worry, because this wasn’t goodbye.” We ended the Group FaceTime. He was placed in a medically induced coma, intubated, and ventilated.

For the next 20 days, his mother, siblings, and I spent every possible moment on the hospital's FaceTime with his lifeless body. We sang to him, prayed for him, and meticulously monitored his oxygen levels. We called his medical team daily and asked questions of every medical employee who came into the room, clinging to the belief that this strong, healthy 35-year-old man—with no pre-existing conditions—would make it through.

However, February 6 was different…

That morning, I received a call from Patrick’s brother, Tim. Patrick’s blood pressure was 26 over unreadable. The doctors and nurses were gathering in his room, preparing for his heart to stop and to begin resuscitation efforts. I think I went into denial because instead of driving straight to the hospital, I drove my then 11-year-old daughter to cheer practice 40 minutes away. I think I told myself that if I didn’t go, this couldn’t really be happening. Maybe he would code, but it was okay; they’d do the CPR, resuscitate him, and all would work itself out. By the time I reached the cheer gym, I came to my senses. I dropped her off and immediately drove back to the hospital.

When I stepped off the elevator at 11:17 AM, I knew that time was Patrick’s message to me. He was making a decision—to fight or to let go. I gathered myself, took a deep breath, and walked down the hall of the COVID ICU. When I arrived at his room, his mother and siblings were gathered around his bed, trying to be strong, but, oddly, there was not one medical professional. They had all left. Despite his blood pressure being virtually nonexistent, Patrick’s heartbeat remained strong. I knew then that he had been waiting for me! I leaned my forehead against his and whispered, “I love you,” two lonely tears falling from my eyes and baptizing his face.

Within minutes of my arrival, his heart stopped. I watched in horror as the team of doctors and nurses rushed in to perform CPR. Patrick did not leave the hospital alive that day.

This is where the reframing of my entire life began…