The Corona Diaries: Day Twenty-Two

January. It begins with a newspaper story. My uncle and I discuss the virus, as I take him to a doctor’s appointment. I don’t think much of it; as usual, I have lots of other things to think about. Don’t we all?

Next it becomes part of our daily news. My husband talks about it, and the numbers of Chinese citizens in quarantine. Still I am unconcerned. My attitude, deeply flawed I know, is that I will deal with this if and when I need to.

Then it reaches our daughter’s college campus in Dublin. There is one case, which shuts down a department. Her classes proceed. At least for this week.

Now her seminars are cancelled, and there is no reason for her to stay. The arduous process of getting her home begins.

The end of March. We are all home for days, and my uncle, who I speak with almost every day, has not returned my phone call. “I’m at Lenox Hill,” he says, when I reach him on a Thursday evening. “I have symptoms.”

Admitted to the ICU, he fought mightily, though with a leaky heart valve, anemia and an ulcer, the odds were most certainly against him. I was sure he would not make it through the weekend. And yet, he somehow managed to pull through the week, dropping his temperature, and returning to normal vital signs. Could it be possible? Might he survive this? Was he really Superman?

Last night I received the news. He was on morphine. Ultimately, he was not able to come out of the sedation that a week of being placed on a ventilator requires.

Reuben Gutoff. August 6th, 1927 – April 6th, 2020