I remember exactly where I was when Covid 19 became a world pandemic. It was the last day at school before spring break. I got up to go to school just like any other day but something just didn’t feel right. As I walked into the building right in the cafeteria I saw one of our German foreign exchange students, Jana, she was surrounded by classmates as she cried. She looked so hurt, like her best friend just died or something and I didn’t really understand what was going on. Throughout the morning in our tiny school of 360 people from 7th-12th grade the word got around quite fast and I was told the big news in the world. All our exchange students were to be sent home because of this illness going around. At the time I did not understand what the big deal was “it's just like a cold, how bad could it be '' with that thought and the awful feeling I had all day long it finally hit me; Covid is going to make it very hard to live. Softball practice was cut short, and I was sent home early. I remember receiving the texts “we are extending spring break to be 2 weeks” and thinking “wow this could be great!” until suddenly it wasn’t. 

Covid wasn’t all bad, I learned many life lessons during this time in life and I couldn’t be more thankful for those but I can’t deny the fact that it was very difficult to continue on. Watching my mom and dad struggle during this time was the worst of it. We had already been struggling with finances as my dad had already been out of the job for 2 years beforehand and now he couldn’t even look for one. The worst part about the pandemic was thinking about how lonely I felt in a world full of people who felt the exact same way I did.

Once we could finally go back to public school part time I was even more stressed than before. It was almost a whole year since it started before we could go back again and I was catching up on school, was in softball and in a musical. One day I came home after practice in my little taxi cab that my grandfather used to drive and as I drove up my long driveway that was far off into the countryside, to a little brown house that was pulled in on a trailer a long time ago. I parked my taxi by the porch and walked up the narrow steps approaching the white door. I walked in and put all my stuff away before I finally talked to my family and at this time I realized that I was not sure where my father was.

“Hey mom, where is dad? Is he in the garage?”

My Mother turned to me and her pale face and thin lips moved together as she took a deep breath and broke the news to me. “Your dad is in the hospital.” She had waited all day to tell me.

My mother has always been kind and loving. She had short brown hair but you could see quite a bit of grey peaking through as she was reaching her 50s. She had many smile lines but as she spoke in this moment she looked stressed and hurt. Although I understand why she waited all day to tell me I remember feeling so angry that she didn’t pull me out of school for something that was so important to our family. I went to musical practice later that night and told my teacher the news, just so she would be prepared for any kind of family emergency that may come up that may prevent me from attending rehearsals. As I looked at my choir teacher Mrs Fischer in the choir room by the piano, with tears in my eyes I choked on my own words and told her “my dad had a stroke early this morning.” She started apologizing like it was her fault, and I didn’t know how to respond to what she was saying.

  I was almost angry with all the apologies that would be offered to me for the next 3 weeks. I didn’t even know how to feel about my dad having a stroke in the first place; obviously I was sad about it but with everything that had already happened in the past year it was just another inconvenience in life and while I cried a little I almost felt completely numb to it at the time. My mother was never home anymore as she was always in Wichita with my Dad in the hospital. Due to Covid, my dad was only allowed one visitor a day which was always my mother, so my siblings and I did not see my father while he was in the hospital.

After 3 weeks my father came home and he had to use a walker to get around. His face looked tired and pale and almost droopy as it was always in a frown, although sometimes, his eyes still lit up with joy. He was a very happy kindhearted man. He was always wearing sweatpants and stood tall at 6’2 but then his slouch from leaning over his walker made him look quite short. When my father came home I was happy but nervous because I was afraid that he would be different and not be what I remembered. My father was always strong and could do anything he put his mind to. He was always smiling and making jokes with everyone he came in contact with. After 5 days of getting used to him being around the house, late Sunday night something awful happened.

I remember sitting in the living room on my navy blue couch watching tv while my brother sat in the corner at the table with his computer. The walls were brown and the light coming in from the 4 windows was fading. I heard my mother scream.

“Atlanta! Atlanta!”

Atlanta is my older sister, she was short, 5’3 and had broad shoulders. She has blonde hair and a kind smile that people were just so attracted to. 

“Atlanta is not here! She is outside.” I said.

“Brin! Brin, come here!” My mother screamed.

She sounded distressed and scared like she didn’t know what she was doing. As I rushed into my mother’s room, I see my mother standing there hunched over with a man on her back. She was holding my father with all the power she could muster to keep him up. My mother is a strong woman but there was no way she could hold him up for too long.

At first I simply thought that my father had fallen since he must use a walker but looking into my mothers eye’s it was much more serious than that.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Your dad is having another stroke,” she said.

I rushed to her side and I took my father from her. It was no easy task. My father’s tall, heavy, limp body was laying across my back as I held onto both of his arms. I could feel his stomach taking deep breaths against my back as I walked with heavy steps towards the giant bed in the middle of the bedroom. Once I reached the bed my brother entered the bedroom and ran to my side. My brother is blonde and lanky, but stronger than he looks. He helped me lay my father down on the bed. My father ends up lying down on his stomach and we take the time to roll him over onto his back to open up his airways. I remember his arm was out to the side right before we rolled him over.

“D’alan! Stop! You’ll break his arm.” I yelled at my brother.

I adjusted my father’s arm so we could safely roll him over onto his back and we counted down from three to reassure my father since he was still responsive and could hear us perfectly fine.

“3...2...1” we count together and roll him over on his back successfully as I heard my mom in the living room talking on the phone. She was speaking calmly but you could still hear the fear in her voice.

“Yes my husband just had another stroke and we need someone to come get him please.”

With those words, they were on their way. I sat there watching my father, just watching. I wasn’t sure he was going to be okay and I was scared. I didn’t cry. In the moment, I didn’t realize how serious what all this would mean to me in the future. Three months would pass until I could see my father again.

Looking back, everything during those three months was a blur. I was in a musical and was the main character and it hurt to perform knowing my Dad couldn’t watch it. I was playing softball and eventually had to quit because it was just too much stress for me. I went to prom and my dad never saw me in my beautiful gown. He missed my graduation. He missed all of it. I wasn’t mad that he couldn’t go, but I was sad, and more than anything I missed my family—my whole family.

Finally after 3 months of being in the hospital, he could finally come home. I felt awkward around my dad when he came back because it was difficult seeing him in his wheelchair. His hair was messy. He could no longer speak or eat and had a tube poking through his stomach so we could feed him. He used a tablet to speak to us and for some reason the thought of him being around would make me nervous and I didn’t understand why.

Eventually I moved to college away from my family and I felt so down that I felt the need to finally get help. As I spoke to the doctor she broke the news to me in the doctor's office.

“You have scored very high on the depression scale and you also have PTSD,” she said.

I started therapy and medication. All of this experience with my father and family brought me to my lowest point so it could bring me to this spot.

But after all the trauma and heartbreak and loneliness, the awkwardness I felt around my Dad seemed insignificant compared to something more powerful. Love.

My father was the same. He still made jokes. He still laughed. He was loving and caring towards me and my family and I couldn’t ask for a better Dad in my life.