Mate for Life

The crisp, March air, caught his fiery breath, forming white puffs around his somber face as he picked up his pace. His breathing and heart rate settled as he found his rhythm, at about the quarter mile mark. His nightly five mile run quickly became a passion, especially since her unexpected passing. The nights dragged on, long and cold. The haunted shriek of the barn owl reminded him again of his deep sorrow. They mate for life, he pondered sadly. He thought he had as well, until the scourge of this plague tore her from him. She fell sick, suffered intensely, declined rapidly, then succumbed to the fierce grip of this hellish disease. How could this happen? How could she leave him so abruptly like this? She had been vaccinated. She was careful. She wore her mask, avoided crowds, any close, unnecessary contact. She even worked from home. She had isolated herself from the rest of the world for a year. He couldn’t help but wonder, had he brought this upon her? He, a kind hearted family physician, devoted himself to easing the suffering of others; had he, unknowingly, somehow exposed her? He had been exposed countless times, but always donned the proper gear, an N95, faithfully. He’d managed somehow to escape Covid, had never felt a trace of sickness, had never exhibited the slightest of symptoms. He, too, had been vaccinated. But he had treated thousands of patients. He couldn’t help but feel the sting of guilt, possible culpability of being, perhaps, the culprit, the smoldering vector, unwittingly bringing the deadly pestilence into their home. No amount of bargaining with God could turn the inevitable tide. It started suddenly with a striking fever, then racked her body with horrific pain, terrible headaches, relentless diarrhea, dripping nose, drenching sweats, a choking, horrible cough. Then, almost as suddenly is it began, her symptoms seemed to abate. She felt better. And, as she was finally recovering, she suddenly started to decline again. They couldn’t understand it. Wasn’t she getting better? Her fever had resolved. Her headaches improved. The crushing body aches even seemed to fade. Then, the explosive cough returned with a vengeance; the wheezing, the desperate air hunger settled in. Nothing seem to help, not the antibiotics, the inhaler, even the steroids. Her oxygen levels quickly plummeted. He bundled her up, took her to the hospital, waited endlessly with the huddled masses, until, finally, it was her turn. But they wouldn’t keep her because her oxygen levels were not consistently low enough. They had her take deep breaths and the levels rose a little. Just enough to keep her from being admitted. He wondered if it was just because the census was high. There was literally, “No room at the Inn”. He reluctantly bundled her back up and gently tucked her into the car. His soul cringed with uncertainty. He had a pulse ox to monitor her sats. They seemed to be low but holding. He measured out the cough syrup, beckoned her to try the soup. The hacking made it difficult to even sip water. Her chest was on fire and her core ached from the coughing fits. Both, exhausted from the long ordeal and sleepless night at the ER, finally fell into bed. He’d sponged her off and slipped a fresh, flocked gown on her and brushed out her long silky hair. They settled in and soon fell fast asleep. He was relieved her cough had finally quieted. But his relief proved to be short lived. He awakened with a start to her desperate gasps. Grabbing the pulse ox he shuddered to read 77! He called EMS. He contemplated scooping her up and into the car to make the trek to the hospital, but he knew her chances would be better if he held out for EMS. They would have the oxygen she desperately needed. Agonizing fear gripped him. He knew exactly what was happening to her from experience of caring for patients with the same symptoms. The “honeymoon” phase was over. The cytokine storm had begun to wreak havoc. Her body was reacting to the virus. He knew that her lungs were deeply affected. He knew what they X-rays were sure to reveal before the were ever taken: whited out lung fields similar to ARDS, usually seen in the sickest of ICU patients, those on the verge of a catastrophic event. Now, the hospital would keep her. Now they would make all the heroic efforts to keep the life from seeping from her. They would pump her full of antibodies and antivirals. They would run a respiratory panel, start oxygen, then BIPAP, and ultimately, “tube” her, placing her on a ventilator. It all happened so fast. He can’t stop seeing the panic in her eyes. He held her hand and kissed it, his tears spilling onto her warm skin, to the soft rhythmic drone of the ventilator. The orderly, colorful lines on the monitors belied the chaos taking place in the delicate frame next to him. She struggled, fought valiantly, then just stopped fighting, yielding to the behemoth storm within her. The code team swarmed the room, edged him out as they made the final heroic efforts to intervene, to save her. To no avail. She was lost. He stared blankly, in disbelief as the doctor, her doctor, withdrew from her room, with his head low, approaching him to deliver the savage news. The doc placed a hand on his now trembling shoulder. He didn’t say anything. He didn’t need to. Hot tears came, unbidden. He stifled a sob as he entered the room. They’d extubated her. Pulled all the lines. Turned off the monitors. Dimmed the lights. Team members, some his own colleagues and friends, offered muffled, heart felt condolences. He was one of their own. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Yet it did. He felt shell shocked. Emptiness enveloped him. Then, overwhelming loneliness. Pain in the pit of his stomach. He lowered his head over the railing and wept. His knees felt weak as he leaned forward to kiss her gently on the lips; then, holding her face in his hands, he kissed her cheeks and her forehead. He stayed as long as they permitted; then, he sadly shuffled from the room, down the lonely corridor and out of the hospital. He was barely aware of the ride home. As he strode up the walk, he ached at the owl’s long cry. He caught his somber gaze, as the velvety, soft white head slowly lobbed back and forth, then a full circle, seeming to acknowledge his loss, the loss of his mate, his mate for life.