COVID-19 took my husband’s life. Other than being 67 and taking medicine for slightly high blood pressure, he was extremely healthy. Mike was very physically active and had been constructing a duplex for our two special needs adult kids with his own two hands and rarely had anyone help him with that huge project. He was strong. He was also a professor and a musician, so he had very good lungs and didn’t smoke or drink.

I have not been able to wrap my head around why he got so sick and died in the summer of 2021 from this virus. The only thing he hadn’t done was get the vaccine. He was waiting until he finished the last part of the project (approx. one month away) before he did it, in case he had side effects or just couldn’t work on the duplex for a couple of days if it made his arm too sore. And what also bothers me is that, by this time, there were monoclonal antibody infusions available (but most of us didn’t hear about them yet), yet he was not ever offered that option. Yet, the very next week after he was admitted to the hospital, my daughter (who’d caught COVID from him), was given that antibody treatment at the very same hospital. Was ageism involved? Is that why they didn’t even mention the antibodies to my husband?

All these questions still haunt me. I know of only one other person in my entire county (pop. about 21,000) who died from this virus during the entire pandemic. What did I do wrong (took him to the wrong hospital? waited too long? trusted our clinic which gave only one instruction – “stay home and treat it like the flu”?) or what did he do wrong? These questions still haunt me as I see the 4th anniversary season coming up a few months from now.

In addition to the lack of support from our PCP and clinic, such as giving us some indication of what warning signs to watch for while he “stayed home and treated it like the flu”, I also have had to deal with living in a “red” state where people still scoff and act like this was not even a real illness and on social media, shortly after he died, I had total strangers saying such hurtful and hateful things to me. For instance, I’d responded to a post by our health department about vaccinations to encourage people to get them because if he’d had his, my husband might have lived, only to have someone reply to me, a newly widowed grieving wife, that “They paid you to say that!”. Another person, on a different post, had the gall to tell me that “the only reason he died was because you took him to the hospital!” I engaged with that person and asked him to consider what he would have done in my shoes … would he have “just let his loved one get worse and worse on the couch until they died at home?!?” Eventually, this aggressive person with his unfounded very strong opinion, got the point and backed off. No one talks about that kind of trauma for the surviving family members. I still see it today, as neighbors talk derisively about the pandemic, in front of me… people who know me, knew Mike, and know what killed him. And our very own country! No National Memorial! No kindness or caring like other victims of natural or violent acts receive. It has been painful and isolating. No one ever demands to know if a cancer patient or a person killed in a car accident had “any pre-existing” conditions, do they?

If it were not for a special “COVID-19 Loss Support for Families and Friends” Facebook group I found, and a few other grassroots resources like WhoWeLost.org that have helped those of us who went through (and still go through) this very traumatic experience a safe place to share with and support each other, I’m not sure how we COVID-19 widows/widowers, parents, children, and friends who lost people during the pandemic would have made it this far. I am so grateful for the people I’ve met who truly understand. Because America doesn’t understand or doesn’t care to. I so wish our nation could do something significant to honor the 1.22 million fellow Americans we lost in such an awful way.

The steady stream of screeching sirens has subsided. The man across the street who blasted “New York, New York” on his boombox from his fire escape, every night at 7pm, has gone silent. The pots and pans we all banged on to accompany him sit silently in their storage places. Even so. I still remember.

It’s been almost 1,800 days since I last heard your voice. My last living memory is you, waving the ASL sign for “I love you,” as the EMTs loaded you into the back of the “bus” as they call the ambulance in police dramas on TV. In retrospect, the back of the “bus” seems to be appropriate given how those infected by the novel coronavirus were then, and even now are, ignored, forgotten, and considered second class citizens.

ER doctors deliver dire news. Frantic phone calls to family far away widen the circle of pain. I can’t be with you, to comfort you, to touch you. I’m so scared. You must be, too, caught up in this whirlwind of unfamiliar faces, voices and constantly beeping machinery. I cannot sleep. I stare at the phone daring it to ring. I win that first battle as I drift off to a restless sleep.

A late morning update. A drug has given you the chance to breathe a little better. It’s too much to hope for. By sunset, you struggle again, gasping for life-giving air. New medications are ordered.

Another night on the roller coaster of hope and despair. Signs of improvement, soon followed by the descent into disappointment. I want to see you. Through the wonder of technology, you appear on the screen of my phone as a nurse holds her phone, sealed in a plastic bag, close to you. I can barely see your face covered with an oxygen mask; tubes splayed all around you. I say hello and take the raising of your eyebrows as a sign that you recognize my voice. I tell you how much I love you and that I’m praying for you to come home to me. I dissolve into tears and the nurse ends the call.

Saturday afternoon brings the news that there are no more miracles. The hospital wants to move you to end-of-life hospice care. They need me to sign the authorization papers. Their plans do not seem to include me. Sunday morning rolls around and the end is near. The doctors ask if I want to see you. What a question! Of course, I do.

The normally raucous hospital is silent, all the doors locked. I wave at a security guard who comes and lets me in. They dress me up in a moon suit and lead me to where you lie peacefully, breathing ever so gently. You are not conscious, but the nurses tell me that hearing is the last sense to go. So, I hold your hand and talk to you, remembering and retelling our shared history. Soon, I have to leave. Others need their time to say goodbye to their loved ones. I kiss you one last time on the forehead. The heart monitor jumps a bit. I’m sure you know it’s me. Back home, just thirty minutes later, a final call from the hospital. You have broken free from the bounds of earth, released to enjoy the rewards of paradise.

I know you are well. I see you when you come to visit. Your ethereal spirit standing guard at the side of the bed as I lay sleeping. I am grateful for your presence.

I’m now part of a horde of unexpected mourners. Alone, at first. Isolated. Confused. Dazed. But slowly, I unite my grief with that of others as we tend to each other and carry ourselves forward along a path where no one knows will lead. The journey is still ongoing. We travel together, a family of choice, accompanied by our loved ones, in their stories we have shared and continue to tell.

The world wants to move on from COVID-19, to pretend it never wreaked havoc in lives across the globe. But, for millions of Americans, the pall of sickness and death still shrouds them in sadness and fear and, yes, anger. Despite the vulgar crassness of so many, we survivors continue to proclaim the legacy of those we lost. They will always be remembered.

In America: Remember

White flag impressions:
Internet screen images,
white flag fields impress
pandemic magnitude, slams
my vision field in screen square.

Green fields turned death white.
Washington Monument white
sentry standing proud
protector of memories
captured in tiny white space:

Gave her heart to all.
He was the love of my life.
Loved square dancing and hunting.
Loving wonderful mother.
I know he was scared.

I miss her so much!
I love him so much!
He was rough on the outside
but he had the biggest heart.
So alone without you now.

He was my best friend.
He would make handmade milkshakes.
Offensive line coach.
He never met a stranger.
Void he left is gut wrenching.

We miss her big hugs.
Generous and loving person.
Glue to our family.
She left behind three children.
A bright light dulled too early.

A beautiful soul.
Loved making our daughter laugh.
Loving grandmother.
Believed in second chances.
A giant hole in our hearts.

A blank flag for Dad.
What words capture his essence?
Cathedral bells tolled
each hundred thousand milestone,
bourdon to each thousand gone.

Hours of bourdon bells,
names covering chapel walls…
It is not enough.
I wanted a goodbye hug.
He shouldn’t have died alone.

In America:
Remember our lost loved ones
with respect and care
now rare, memorial projects
keep the once living alive.

We and these efforts
stand as proud sentries,
protectors of memories
captured in our broken hearts
holding our lost loves alive.

Shelley Chambers
2/10/2025
With gratitude to Suzanne Brennan Firstenberg and the Washington National Cathedral

This morning there was no moving slowly, sitting quietly while I take my time drinking my coffee. My husband taking the morning to just be. My dogs stretched out on the sofa enjoying having us home together. I had somewhere I had to go and on my own.

If Dad were here and able to, he would have gone with me. He would have understood the importance. My family knows, it’s just not what they want to do on a Sunday morning. So, I went to meet a friend and co-worker. We had a rally to go to for the Post Office, our way of life is at stake. Our future, our pensions, our retirements are being threatened. More importantly those we serve every day, the ones who depend on us to deliver their medicine, their tax and Social Security checks need us to speak up. Our older customers who we’ve known for years that wait for us six days a week, even if it’s just for a bill in their mailbox.

Oh, how I wish my dad could have gone with me. This was so easy for him. He represented his co-workers with ease, knowing all the rules and having the self-confidence to stand up and speak out. Dad wasn’t worried about the consequences; he just did what had to be done. He was something to watch when he was younger, ready to help make sure people were treated right. Me? It’s not so easy. My parents had strong personalities and were at ease interacting with people. I on the other hand prefer the path of least resistance. My mother says I am always thinking six steps ahead of everyone else. I have already worked out the possible outcomes of any action I take.

It was overcast and grey when I left the house. Rain and cold winds had been forecasted, so I dressed accordingly. As I drove, I thought about dad and the times he did this kind of thing all those years ago. He always seemed to have his voice. It took me forty-five years to find mine and it became stronger the older I got. I met my friend, and we walked where the others were waiting. More people came and mingled around until it was time. Most everyone had on a shirt with the chosen slogan and carried signs that carried similar messages.

There I was surrounded by people, but still alone. I held my sign up just like dad would have done. He never strayed far from my thoughts. The rain started coming down and the wind was cold and blowing hard. At first it was just a few drops but quickly changed over to heavier rain. I pulled up the hood on my jacket to stave off the wind as the strong gusts stung my cheeks. My hands were cold and the sign I held became difficult to hold as the water drops soaked into the cardboard causing it to fall apart in my hands. It was time to go home. As I walked to the car and my friend went her separate way, I thought about that sign. I still carried that wet crumpled up cardboard. I’m not sure why.

Pieces of that sign just kind of disappeared. The parts of my world where my dad lived are slipping away on me. So much of his belongings had already been thinned out before he got sick with Covid. When he passed there weren’t many material things left. The time-share we enjoyed as a family most of my life, was damaged by Hurricane Ian and it’s slipping away too. The cost is too much to keep. It was the last thing I had of my dad. It was where we were all together and happy.

The tattoo I got after dad passed, still has the dragonfly that travels between heaven and earth. The watercolors are still vibrant and full of life. I can still read the “Love you” in mom’s handwriting. However, the “love you more” written in dad’s handwriting is becoming harder to read. The letters are merging together, losing their crispness. Little by little, I’m losing my dad. I’m trying to hold on to him but he’s slipping away from me. The world outside of my heart and my head is erasing him. He’s here in my heart and I keep rerunning the memories in my head trying to keep him here but …

If my Bubbe was still alive, she’d say, “Five schmive! Where were they for years 2, 3, 4? I say, who will remember them in years 6, 15, 20? We will. We must …