Ann Farabee

By Ann Farabee

Day 11.  Charles tested for COVID.

Day 12.  Results were positive.

Another 10-day isolation began.

Our 14-day quarantine was extended to 21 days.

Return to school would have to wait.

Return to church would have to wait.

Return to grocery stores would have to wait.

Return to normal was nowhere in sight.

This felt like one of the saddest times of our lives just knowing the seriousness of the virus and how the unknown seemed to overtake our thinking.

The phone calls from the COVID line had restarted. Isolation and quarantine were hard — and difficult to fulfill as a family, but we were determined to do it. We were thinking of you and your loved ones — we would never want to be the cause of someone else having to go through what we had been going through with COVID.

Day 13

9 p.m.

My 16-year-old stepped into my room and said, “Good night.” He hesitated for a second in the dimly lit bedroom, and then softly said, “I always thought you and Papaw would be here with us until we grew up.”

This moment overtook all the other moments of this journey as being the most heartbreaking.

He walked out of the room immediately. I tried to call out to him, “Don’t worry! We will be!” but no words came out of my mouth. There were only tears falling down my cheeks.

Being isolated from our grandsons in our home was hard. We do not think of them as grandsons — we think of them as sons, for they had been with us since they were very young. Sure, it had crossed our minds at times that we may not live to see them grow up, but only for a fleeting second. Never had it truly seemed to be a possibility, but knowing the thought had seeped its way into my 16-year-old son’s mind crushed me.

Three weeks of quarantine and isolation in our home was not only hard on us — but it was hard on them.

Days 14-15. Improvement was beginning to come for me. My taste came back! Mental fog had taken its place, but I thought it was an excellent trade-off. I began to realize there was still a world out there — and not just this evil virus that had robbed us of our normal lives.

Day 16.  I got up. I walked downstairs to get my own coffee for the first time in over two weeks. I noticed the violets in my windowsill that a friend had brought to me right before I was diagnosed with COVID.

I took a closer look. I felt the dirt in the pot. It was as dry as a desert.

I was sure it had not been watered in at least 16 days.

Upon closer inspection, I realized there was minimal browning of the leaves, and the purple flowers were still beautiful.

Not only had the violets survived — but they had thrived!

They had grown and flourished — in spite of me.

As I began to shower them with water — and love — I received reassurance.

I thought of my two teenage boys still sleeping upstairs and how my greatest fear since they were toddlers had been, “What would my family do if something happened to me?”

I had received the answer to that question. Out of our adversity had come stronger young men. They had survived and thrived — in spite of me.

On my first trip downstairs since COVID, the word of God had spoken — through the violets in my windowsill.

Luke 12:28 says, “And if God cares so wonderfully for flowers that are here today and gone tomorrow, won’t He more surely care for you?”

I knew the answer:

Yes.

By Ann Farabee

After the overnight emergency room visit ended, we headed home with hope. I was starting to believe I may recover from COVID.

But days 9-10 took a surprising and unexpected turn that left me with the most powerful emotions of my journey.

Isolation would continue. Isolation means to be alone or apart from others. That pretty much summed it up. The days were hard. They lasted forever.

Day 9

I got home from the hospital and back to bed. A morning cup of coffee and a yogurt were delivered by family to my bedroom door at 9 a.m.  I was spending my morning with the expectation of improvement on the horizon, mostly due to having an antibiotic. I would just wait and see.

Then came the surprise. I took a sip of my coffee. I could not taste it. I ate a spoonful of  yogurt. I could not taste it. How yogurt and coffee both felt like cardboard in my mouth, I really could not understand. It scared me. What if my taste never came back? I knew if I had to live like this, I would never survive. Never have I experienced such a moment. It was shocking. It felt hopeless. Eating cardboard? Why even bother? I could feel the warmth of the coffee, but that was all. I sent it away.

Later, I tried water. Surely that would seem normal. Again — cardboard.

At that point, I was not willing to eat without tasting it, but did try to keep drinking a little water. Napping and watching TV took up most of my day, but as evening fell I began to realize that another symptom had shown up. My vision had become blurry. My eyes were watery. Losing my ability to taste and see hit me hard. Fear of not getting better began to control my thoughts — again.

Hopelessness was still there.

There was no end in sight.

I was starting to wonder if it would end.

Tears came easily on this night, as I prayed alone for my taste and my ability to see clearly to return. I thought about Charles, sleeping again on the floor in another room. He had been working so diligently to care for the family — all of us. It was then that I connected his favorite Bible verse with my very difficult day. Psalm 34:8 says, “Oh taste and see that the Lord is good. Blessed is the man who trusts in him.”

I gotta say — I wasn’t feeling it.

Day 10

Double digits. I had lived to see another day. Surely, this day would be the peak and my symptoms would begin to subside. They did. It was the peak for some of the earlier symptoms — no more fever, headache or cough, and breathing improved slightly. It was now mostly achy, fatigued, and the inability to taste and see. Those symptoms were horrible. I tried to feel encouraged, for we were only a few days away from the end of our quarantine, going out of our yard, our children getting back to school, grocery store trips, and church. And I was feeling somewhat better. Our lives would return to normal.

Then came the unexpected.

At 4 p.m., Charles walked in the bedroom, with his mask on as always, looked me in the eyes, and said, “I’m sick.”

We both knew.

Return to normal would have to wait.

By Ann Farabee

Day 8

6:45 p.m.

Perhaps there has never been a more defining evening in my life. COVID-19 seemed to be getting the upper hand. The waters felt deep and rough. I knew I needed to go to the ER, but checked in with the COVID line first, where it was recommended I go to an urgent care for a chest x-ray. They let them know we were on our way.

As I stepped out of the car, an employee quickly got to me, and said, “You really need to go to the ER, since we would probably have to send you there anyway and duplicate services.”

It stung a bit, for I had done what I was told.

I felt a little hopeless.

Maybe a tad unwanted.

But, I understood.

7:12 p.m.

Charles dropped me off at the ER entrance. A police officer met him, told him to go home, and that after they admitted me, I would call him.

I think it broke his heart.

He told me later that his first thought as he watched me walk in the hospital was, “I may never see her again.”

It seemed as if everything was moving in fast motion at first, as they tried to get me exactly where they needed for me to be. Apparently, where they felt I needed to be was waiting in a cold hallway in a plastic chair with a metal frame. At that point, everything switched to super slow motion. Waiting in that chair had to be the longest three hours and 43 minutes of my COVID journey.

After my vitals were checked, I was told I had to wait for a room with a door.

I guess I looked confused, for she repeated, “You have to wait for a room with a door.”

It took me a second, but I understood.

The door mattered. It would protect me. It would protect others.

I was freezing. I leaned my head against the wall and waited. I tried to find one second of comfort. It did not come.

I understood.

Everyone’s pandemic experience is different — whether sick, or working, or just living their lives. We must be patient, tolerant, respectful and supportive of each other as we handle the crisis. We are all in this together, albeit in different roles. But even going through something together can feel very alone.

Arms folded, legs outstretched, and head against the wall, I knew it had gotten dark outside by now, but the darkness I felt in this cold hallway was all I could think about.

I believe those hours in the ‘waiting room’ were when God began taking me from a place of pleading for healing — to a place of leaning on his promises for healing.

I reached down for my notepad in my purse where I had scribbled these words earlier that day: Don’t be afraid for the terror by night — the fears that come when all is quiet. Nor for the pestilence — the fatal epidemic disease — that walks in darkness when you least expect it. Nor for the destruction at noonday — the bold enemy assaults. Call on me. I will answer. I will be with you in trouble.

The words from Psalm 91 reminded me I should be feeling more hopeful than I was.

I was hearing God’s voice, but I was not believing God’s word for my victory.

10:55 p.m. Bianca walked up. I will never forget her name. She took me to the room that had been prepared just for me. It had a door. I never once glanced back at that plastic chair in the metal frame.

What had felt like a hospital visit up to this point now began to feel more like a spiritual visitation.

I wish I could express it in words, so that you could feel it with me.

For the first time in my COVID journey, I gave up. Yes, I gave myself up completely. I let them take care of me. They called me by my name. They covered me with a heated blanket, helped me into a bed with the whitest sheets and most comfortable mattress ever. The lights in the room were bright, white and warm. They took away the darkness that had tried to settle in my heart. It felt as if I was in a different place than I had ever been before. I remember thinking that it felt like heaven.

Day 9

12 a.m.

They comforted me. Comfort was followed by compassion.

Compassion was followed by complete and competent care.

Bloodwork. X-rays. EKG. CT scan.

Potential blood clots and bacterial pneumonia in the setting of my COVID diagnosis.

A plan put in place for recovery at home — that would give me hope and a future.

2:46 a.m. I was discharged to go home. It seemed so strange. No wheelchair. No assistance. My ER angels closed the door behind them. They left the room. It was time for me to go.

I felt weak as I reached out to open the door. It looked heavy, and I expected it to be. But — when I grabbed the handle — the door was not heavy at all. It was light.

As I walked out, I noticed the cubicles surrounding the other parts of the ER. They had plastic curtains — and no door.

I was so glad I had been taken to the room with the door.

It was worth the wait.

The door. It had felt so light.

2 Corinthians 4:17 says, “For our light affliction, which is but for a moment, works for us a far more exceeding and eternal weight of glory.”

The door. It had been so important.

Jesus said in John 10:9, “I am the door. If any man enters in, he will be saved. He will go in — and out — and will find pasture.”

Without a doubt, Jesus had been the door they had continually referred to that long night. And the wonderful people who took care of me in the ‘room with the door’ were angels in human form sent straight from heaven. Thank you!

2:56 a.m. I called Charles to come get me.

I guess he would be seeing me again, after all.

Join me next week, as I continue sharing my COVID journey.

Contact me at annfarabee@gmail.com.

By Ann Farabee

A journey can be defined as a long and difficult process of change that you travel through. To travel through means you go in on one side and come out on the other side.

I was on a journey.

I was in a process of change.

I was determined to travel through — and come out on the other side — of COVID.

From the very beginning of my journey, it was as if an enemy was attacking my body, trying to take away who I was by keeping my focus on my sickness.

The timeline:

Day 1 — Temp 99.0. Headache. Achy. Breathing problems.

Day 2 — Completely normal.

Day 3 — Temp 100.5. Headache. Achy. Weak. Breathing problems.

Day 4 — COVID test taken. Twelve hours later, results: POSITIVE.

My first words as I saw the results, “Oh no.”

Day 5 — A 10-day isolation order and a family quarantine order of 14 days began. Our grandchildren could not go to school. Charles and my son made sure all precautions were taken for our family, so they would not get the virus. But, my son got the virus on this day, but was well four days later.

With the restrictions, people we knew realized that getting needed items — food, groceries, medical, household, personal — would be difficult. God sent angels in human form to minister to our family during this time. We accepted it.

Day 6. There were daily calls, emails, or texts from the Get Well Loop, health alliance, or doctor’s office. Otherwise, I would have spent those long hours worrying if I needed a question answered. I was able to rest at home, had resources to do so at that point, and the ability to stay connected with medical professionals. They were my lifeline.

Day 7. The symptoms that had already arrived still remained — and new ones continued to join them — a rash, a cough, sore throat, and I know it may sound weird — but vivid dreams.

Day 8. Medically, every avenue possible at this time had been set in place for me to get well while isolated at home, and using what I had been told to use: Robitussin, Mucinex, alternate acetaminophen and ibuprofen, along with two types of inhalers that I had begun a month earlier, due to breathing problems.

Oh how my heart longed for getting well while at home. But it was getting to be too much on me — and on my family.

The emotional, spiritual and mental all began to join in with the physical. I was starting to feel as if I was losing myself to my sickness. I was no longer watching TV while lying in my bed. I had stopped reading and paid little attention to my phone.

Blurry vision and watery eyes had joined the other symptoms and were making everything more difficult — and more scary.

It seemed as if the only prayer I could pray was, “Lord, heal me.”

Late that evening, Charles peeked around the door of our bedroom to check on me, thinking I may be asleep. As always, he was wearing his mask, but all I could see when we made eye contact were the tears in his eyes. It broke my heart.

I took a deep breath.

I closed my eyes.

Okay, Lord, I hear you.

I am not getting well.

I need to go to the ER.

We went.

COVID-19 was our enemy.

JESUS-2020 would be our deliverer.

Next week, I will be continuing to share my COVID-19 story. Thank you for reading or viewing it. If you have questions or comments, I would love to hear from you at annfarabee@gmail.com or annfarabee.com