As a writer, often I read and comment on the work of other writers. Recently I commented on an impassioned piece from another writer on Medium.com
She told the story of a woman, a nurse and mother of three. The woman had COVID. Her husband had it, too.
She didn’t want to go to the hospital, but finally she knew it had to happen. Her husband had to drop her off at the ER, but could not go in with her. Understandable, but still heartbreaking.
She waited 21 hours for a hospital bed to open up. Alone. Breathless. Unable to advocate for herself, nor have anyone with her to do the advocating.
Several days later they intubated her. They turned her on her stomach, hoping it would help her breathing. It worked for a while, but then it didn’t.
She was 61-years old. A year older than me. The last text she sent her husband said she was scared.
She died yesterday.
As of today, November 3, 2020, two hundred thirty seven thousand, three hundred and eleven people have died from this virusin the United States. Each one of these people were alive at this time last year. They lived life, loved, struggled, worked. Did wonderful things and stupid things. They were humans. Like us. Like the ones we love.
Statistics only mean something if you look beyond the numbers. This was another beloved face. Though I have never met her, or even this writer who wrote about her, it breaks my heart.
Can we do better?