This article is the first of a two part story detailing how Karina’s father died due to Covid leading to hard lessons on estate planning. For Part 2, click here.
It’s interesting when people say “he left without saying goodbye,” as if folx usually recite an organized farewell before passing. I’ve only had one close passing in my life—my father. When he died, he left without saying goodbye. The loved ones of family and friends that I’ve known, much less closely, also passed without official goodbyes. I assumed that part was typical when my dad died. The piercing pain that hit after he passed, I could never have been prepared for. I also never remotely imagined the stress of administering an estate, while grieving, while working, while care-giving in the midst of a fucking pandemic.
I knew this coronavirus thing was going to be some shit March 11th, 2020. It was a trifecta of odd news confirming the start of something horrible. Tom Hanks and Rita Wilson both tested positive for this weird virus. Former president Trump announced the suspension of travel from Europe to the US. The NBA put its season on hold until further notice. I don’t remember the order of learning about these developments. What I do remember is dipping out of the living room with my husband, away from the children, to have a moment.
“What the fuck is happening…?” We had already watched the chaos unfold in Italy online. You’ll remember, their experience was like teleporting a few weeks into our own future for a while, and it didn’t look good. Images of empty shelves and long lines at grocery stores, overwhelmed and panicked hospitals and finally, the actual loss of lives were horrifying and it seemed now the virus would ravage the United States next.
My Worst Fear After Moving From Home Was My Parents Getting Sick
Living in Los Angeles, 2000+ miles away from our families on the east coast, we called them to confirm they were aware of how grave this all was. “We’re going to have to take this seriously, we don’t know how bad it could be if one of us gets sick.” They all comforted and assured us they would keep safe.
My parents specifically promised me they would stay home by the end of that week (March 11th was a Wednesday). I was relieved. A crisis like this was always worse in heavily populated areas—especially those populated with people of color, like Queens NY. While staying home was easy for my retired mother who preferred the warm comfort inside her house on most days anyway, it was not the same for my father. He said he would stay home, and I truly believe he meant it on that call with me. I suspected this might be difficult for him so when I called in the next day to check in, mom answered.
“Tú ya sabes cómo es tu papá.” (You already know how your dad is).
My Father, The Covid Essential Worker
By the next morning he went back to work. My father and I fought over the phone that entire week, leading into the following week. His boss told him he shouldn’t be paranoid because “the virus only affected the elderly, anyway.” It was an interesting point since my father, in his 60’s, was no spring chicken. He promised me he just needed a few more days, every single day. The company needed him, he said. The company declared his work “essential” so he needed to go. I scared him by threatening to call in a bomb threat to his office.
He told mom I was crazy and that I didn’t understand the pressure he was under. I tried to understand, but I knew his blind and noble dedication to his job might literally kill him this time. Tuesday, March 17th, 2020 was my father’s last day at work, ever. That’s the day he finally gave into my threats and used his time off.
Every day, more news emerged of the virus that was already wreaking havoc in our community, and each day the news was worse. Why would he risk his life for work? My father was the epitome of a dedicated, loyal worker. Like other immigrants who came to this country for a better life, he wholeheartedly believed in the American dream and sacrificed so much to make it happen. To make it all possible and to keep it all going, he wasn’t allowed days off. That was the mindset it took to survive.
My father was the epitome of a dedicated, loyal worker. Like other immigrants who came to this country for a better life, he wholeheartedly believed in the American dream and sacrificed so much to make it happen. To make it all possible and to keep it all going, he wasn’t allowed days off.
He also didn’t have the type of job where he could just plug-in and work from home–which he reminded me of repeatedly, since this was a luxury and privilege that I was able to have from working in tech at the time. As a foreman for a construction company, he needed to be on location to effectively perform his duties.
Too Little, Too Late
It was fantastic when he finally decided to stay home, but it was already too late. Only a few days after his last day at work, fever and cold symptoms, an upset stomach and a slight cough emerged. With the symptoms persisting for a few more days, I scheduled my father a virtual doctor’s appointment. He obliged, reluctantly, because he hated seeing the doctor. On the call, the doctor assured him he simply had a stomach flu and he definitely did not have Covid. We all believed him because why wouldn’t we? He was so confident in his diagnosis and a doctor, after all.
When my father’s symptoms persisted days later, and his cough became more prominent, we called for another virtual doctor appointment. This time the doctor, a new doctor, had a drastic change in tone. He not only suspected my father had Covid, but urged us to get him tested immediately. “He’s high-risk. This could end dangerously.”
We called 311 (city services for New York City) and an automated message said there were no tests in all of NYC. We then called CityMD Urgent Care at the recommendation of a friend, which to our surprise, actually did have tests available and could see him that day. Why would 311 say tests were unavailable, yet there are actually tests at some places? There was no time to think through the nonsense, as we needed to move.
My father was tested and his results were promised in 7-10 days. He was diagnosed with pneumonia, hypoxia, shortness of breath, and influenza-like symptoms. He was provided several meds, including an inhaler, and told to try to get better at home as there wasn’t any space in the hospitals. By late March and early April 2020 in Queens, the bodies were laid outside of the hospitals because they were over capacity. That’s what we were up against.
Our Last Moments were Virtual
After a few days of taking meds as instructed, my father seemingly improved and even mentioned he felt a little better. My mom called us on Facetime so we could see him because “ya no tiene fievre (he no longer has fever).” As she said this to us, she coughed a bit herself. She looked worried. I felt worried. Neither of us said anything. We couldn’t fathom her being sick without my dad being at 100% health first. She passed the phone over to my father. He laid in bed pale, working hard on every breath. This was far from the tough and proud man I knew. It was weird to think this was him looking better.
I showed him the grandbabies, and they said hi to papa excitedly, completely ignorant to the chaos that had occurred over the last couple weeks. He smiled back at them and his eyes teared up. “It’s okay, dad. You’re getting better. You are going to get through this.” I said with tears filling my eyes, trying to give him the hope I truly felt. I just knew in my soul he would get better because he always did. “Wow, this has never happened before. First time for everything.” He sighed softly.
“Wow, this has never happened before. First time for everything.” He sighed softly.
I wasn’t there in person so as the story goes, the next morning, my dad was disoriented & not responding normally. My mother panicked and called an ambulance. The records say he went into cardiac arrest in his home and was declared dead in the hospital. My mother tells me he begged to stay home and not go to the hospital, so I like to believe he passed in the safety, comfort and love of my mother’s arms, in the home he owned and loved. When she was able to soften the screams and sobs enough to call me, she did. I couldn’t decipher the words she was saying but I understood.
Rest in Power, daddy.
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