It was close to midnight on December 31st of 2021 as I lay on my parent’s bed with twelve grapes and a cup of apple cider. My dad sat next to the bed in a blue cushioned chair, occasionally sneezing and sniffling. My mother lay beside me with a grin on her face and a box of tissues on her lap. There were only thirty seconds left before we entered the year 2022.
Weeks ago, my parents had gone to a work party. A few days later, my sinus burned and I couldn’t stop coughing. We tested ourselves and found the whole family caught covid. A coworker went to the party knowingly sick. Because of this person’s careless mistake, our lives were turned upside-down.
My parents laughed as I enthusiastically counted down the last 10 seconds. The ball drops, and we scream and share a group hug before I quickly start eating the grapes. A Hispanic legend that states the faster you eat the grapes the higher the chance your New Year’s wish comes true. My parents, exhausted from staying up so late, wished me goodnight as I jumped into bed.
A few weeks before New Years, I begged my dad to watch the movie Encanto with me. We often watched new movies and shows together. Every few minutes I paused the movie, waiting patiently as he went into coughing fits.
I remember arguing with my dad, calling him dramatic and scolding him when he didn’t finish his food. My mom would yell at me, yet my father smiled softly. He apologized for worrying me.
The day before New Years, my dad was hot to the touch, and his chest stuttered with every breath taken. Upon seeing how high his temperature was, my mom told me to call an ambulance. My dad protested, telling my mother he’s fine and didn’t want to go to the hospital. I was desperate to see him back to normal, so I ignored his pleas. After a few minutes, my mother and I watched from the front door as he weakly walked over to the ambulance.
Two hours later I heard a knock on the door and saw my dad with a grin on his face. He told us they prescribed him medication and let him go home. My mother was unsatisfied, upset that they didn’t even let him stay the night. Yet I was glad, hopeful that this nightmare would be over soon.
Just two days after New Years, my father tells us he can’t breathe. The ambulance arrived, with medics storming into our home and connecting my dad to an oxygen tank. My eyes watered as they helped him into the ambulance and drove away.
He didn’t come home that night.
I called him often. He was in a hospital bed, with tubes attached to his arms and one across his nose allowing him to breathe. He told me to visit and bring snacks. I went to the nearest store and Facetimed him, showing the drinks on display. Suddenly, he looked up in concern and I heard the beeping of his heart rate monitor quicken. He shifted and I no longer saw his face. My eyes were glued to the screen as I stood in between the store’s aisles waiting. I heard a doctor tell my dad his oxygen levels were rapidly decreasing. My heart dropped, before I could say anything he hung up.
We got a call from the hospital that told us he needed to be intubated and they’d call before the procedure started. My eyes were blurry from tears, throat raw and nose stuffed. My mom begged me to stay strong, her own eyes watering as she whispered to me, “por tu papá, mantente fuerte.” An hour later my phone rang.
My dad looked pale, his eyes barely open and speech slurred. He told us with a weak voice to take care of things for him. My eyes threatened to water, my mom grabbed my hand and whispered again, “mantente fuerte.” I swallowed back my tears and smiled, telling him everything will be okay. He nodded and we said goodbye.
I felt numb. My chest felt hollow and my body weak. On days I couldn’t get up from bed I would imagine his smiling face to get me through. After a week of being intubated, the doctors woke him up.
He couldn’t walk or eat solid food and needed to go to a rehabilitation center. After weeks of being unable to see him, I was practically bouncing off the walls. I took a deep breath before I stepped into his hospital room. There he was, laying on his bed staring at the ceiling. He was skinnier than I last saw him, cheeks hollow and limbs scrawny. The light in his eyes dimmed as if his hope had been taken along with his strength.
When he saw me, he smiled softly and told me to come closer. I ran to his side and hugged him, probably tighter than I should have, as if he would slip from my grasp the moment I let go. We spent the day in silence. Every once in a while I’d catch him staring into the distance with a look of longing.
Over the weeks he seemed to regain his senses. We played Mario Kart on my switch and assembled puzzles. I helped shave and washed his face. After a month he was able to walk again. I was proud of him, his strength and courage. He faced death and won.
He left the hospital in April. While my dad has regained his happy-go-lucky attitude on life, there seems to be a dark shadow that looms over our small family. I catch him sometimes with the same look I saw on his face when he laid on that hospital bed. I may be the one who notices the vague looming shadow, yet he is the one who stares into it without flinching.
