Gratitude and Peace in a World of Chaos and Coronavirus

Before reading this essay, I offer a word of caution. In the following, I share my recent experiences with my father, who is sick. For some readers, it may trigger reminders of personal trauma. 

Today is February 18th, 2021. It’s 11:05 am, and I’m sitting in my car, hands over the dashboard vent, cranking the heater to stay warm. I’m reminded not to get “too warm.” I’ll need to pass a temperature screening before I enter the building, and I don’t want it to appear that I have a fever.

This has been my routine for 13 days visiting my father in a rehabilitation facility.

About a month ago, he fell and fractured his neck. He was living in assisted care. At that moment, he went from being independent to needing full care. I heard the chaos of the fall. I was on the phone when it happened, or at least in the seconds immediately following the accident. Instead of his voice, I heard the nurse instructing others to bring towels and call for an ambulance. I listened to my father, weak in the background, say, “it hurts.” 

I quickly called my sister. Thankfully she lives nearby. For two days, she stood at his bedside, reassuring him. I packed and drove to Tennessee, not knowing if my visit would last days or weeks.

He was allowed only one visitor at a time in the hospital. With my geriatric care background, it seemed sensible that I take “point.”

When I first visited my dad, I tried to mask my concern when he asked why I was there. It had been almost eight months since we had been this close to each other, coronavirus having limited our visits. I was unsure if his heart could handle the stress. Regardless of what the scans and doctors tell me, his brain is different. We discussed the Steeler game, their loss, and the upcoming Superbowl just weeks earlier, and now he struggles to use a fork. 

After a week in the hospital, he transferred to a rehabilitation center: another fall, more late-night calls, and hard decisions. No one in my family sleeps anymore.

I’m writing this to clear my head. The truth is I’m struggling. I love my father; however, there’s a part of me that doesn’t want to enter the building. I never know if he’ll remember my name or that I was here yesterday. He rarely eats and spends much of the time asleep. 

The facility granted us “compassionate access.” We hope that our encouragement will somehow help him turn the corner. 

My ego believes if I could love him enough, encourage him, find the motivation he needs, problem-solve his MANY roadblocks, or take him home with me, he’d heal and be the dad I remember.

The reality is that his improvement isn’t “linear.” It may not be consistent enough to justify continued visitation. We’ve been warned that we should accept his new baseline. 

I know my situation isn’t unique. Over the past year, hundreds of thousands of families faced emotionally charged health crises. It seems everything in life is SO DAMN COMPLICATED. The pandemic (by the way, f*ck coronavirus) has changed the rules, and families now face seemingly insurmountable obstacles supporting their loved ones unless that loved one’s situation is dire. Even then, they may be denied. 

When you face the added burden of traveling, the logistics are daunting. Every decision, from where I sleep and eat and whom I speak with, every action requires me to be more cautious. My greatest fear is that I’ll accidentally inflict more suffering than is already present. Yet, I consider myself fortunate; travel-health IS my business. I know how to travel healthy and safely even during a pandemic. Many don’t. 

Life on the road for an extended time takes its toll, and I’m conscious of the threats. Being my father’s advocate requires me to be at the top of my game. I know that maintaining my health and well-being is essential. Therefore, I squeeze in moments to decompress: to take walks, breathe, work, and spend time with my family.

As heavy as this situation feels, having learned previously from my mother's passing, there will be life-lessons and grace. I remind myself to be his daughter instead of his clinician, to remain present as I hold his hand while reminiscing. I know that there will be sadness, but there will also be moments of laughter, love, and community. I am grateful for my family's support and how we rally together in tough times. 

As one not usually comfortable sharing personal experiences, I feel strangely at ease writing this. Maybe the act of writing and editing is a practice of gratitude. I know that much of what lies ahead is out of my control. Yet, that realization brings an awareness that this situation is not all “bad.” We had time to say what needs to be said. My dad knows how much we love him. I will continue to advocate and maintain his dignity. And while uncertainty is ever-present, I’ll love my dad unconditionally beyond the end. For now, that is enough.

Dr. Andrea L. Leschak, PharmD, is a board-certified geriatric pharmacist, a diver, sailor, and a travel-health maven. After helping her aging parents overcome the challenges of traveling healthy, she launched Wayfinder Advantage. A travel-health consultant and lifestyle coach, Dr. Andrea inspires clients to say YES to travel experiences they once thought beyond their reach. Connect with Dr. Andrea at www.wayfinderadvantage.com to learn how she empowers travelers to travel safely, stress-free, and confident-daring to see what’s possible.