Life in the Times of Coronavirus: Lockdown Day 14

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When I first met María, my mother-in-law, back in October 2012, she wasn’t exactly enthusiastic about the fact that her son had fallen in love with another man. I’d broken my ankle a few months earlier, and I was still using a crutch. I hadn’t been dating Franky for that long at that point, but as he still lived at home then, he invited me over to his house to meet his mother.

That autumn evening, after exchanging kisses on both cheeks as is the tradition here, María would later tell me that she was surprised by the fact that I sat on the couch next to her instead of shutting myself up in the room with Franky. The two other paramours that he’d introduced her to had apparently murmured a greeting and offered anemic kisses before disappearing into the room. I couldn’t possibly imagine simply shutting myself up behind a closed door without making polite conversation at the very least, so I sat on the couch next to her and talked about what she was watching. It was a rerun of The Tudors, in terribly dubbed Spanish. I said how much I loved history and reading in general, and she then proceeded to list off the kings and queens of the British monarch from Henry VIII to our present day. It was the beginning of a beautiful friendship that has lasted until today.  

You will understand why, against the backdrop of the bleak situation in Spain (as of today, we have 64,000 confirmed cases, with nearly 13,000 in Catalonia), Franky and I felt a stab of fear when, on March 17, María, aged 71, said that she had a slight fever. Only 1 or 2 degrees. At first, she chalked it up to a slight flu, said it was nothing major, and remained in her characteristic high spirits. At that point, María said that her only complaint was the fact that she could not drink her noontime beer due to the fact that she was ill.

The days started going by. Wednesday became Thursday which was replaced by Friday. Her fever didn’t get worse, but it didn’t go away either. She started complaining about headaches. No other symptoms though: just a fever that wouldn’t go away.

Finally, on Saturday morning, we decided to call medical services out of an abundance of caution given María’s age. She’s in great health – she does not have any underlying conditions, barely uses glasses – but in this age of the coronavirus pandemic, where any slight symptom is suspect, we didn’t want to take any chances.

I wasn’t prepared for the frustration – and, frankly, anxiety – that our experience with the Catalan health service would be.

Franky called the designated, publicly-funded COVID-19 hotline on Saturday morning, around 11. We figured there would be a lot of people calling, but we didn’t imagine that we’d have difficulties getting through.

Finally, after about 40 minutes (which feels like forever in these circumstances) trying to get through, a nurse practitioner picked up. Franky explained María’s symptoms and the woman said that though she couldn’t be sure without a test (they’re scarce here too), she was nearly certain that my mother-in-law had most likely contracted the coronavirus.

The nurse pointed to the fever that had persisted at that point for nearly four days. She said that hopefully María would only experience light symptoms and discomfort, but also said that people tend to have symptoms that last from anywhere from three to ten days on average. She said that my mother-in-law should stay hydrated and take paracetamol for the fever, and that a doctor would call her that evening. And that, of course, she should stay in quarantine. That was Saturday, March 21.

This, of course, posed a different problem. How could we care for someone that is elderly and ill without being able to see her in person? We could not risk our own health in entering her home, preparing her meals, taking her temperature, reminding her to take her medicine. How were we supposed to help her heal from COVID-19 (if she is indeed ill with it) if we cannot see her in person?

We did the best we could. We’d already brought her groceries earlier that week, but on Saturday Franky took her another bag full of medicine, Kleenex, Gatorade, bananas, rice, and other foodstuffs that one consumes when one is ill. My husband slipped on his gloves and face mask and braved the rainy evening to leave his mother provisions on her doorstep. Clearly, he couldn’t come close, couldn’t check to see if she needed anything else, couldn’t even talk to her lest he breathe in an infected droplet. Instead, he left the bag on her doorstep, rang the bell, and only when he heard the lock turn did he turn around and leave.

The doctor never called. When we rang the hotline again the next day, they told us the same thing: hydration, paracetamol. If she developed a cough or had trouble breathing, we should call and they would immediately send an ambulance. They would do their best to send a doctor, but “we can’t be sure when that will be possible.” When we hung up, I looked at Franky and said what he perhaps was thinking: let us pray that her symptoms are manageable and that she recovers on her own, because it seems that we’ll be on our own.

Evidently, I cannot be angry with the healthcare system, as I know everyone is doing their best in these circumstances. We are lucky to enjoy universal healthcare here in Spain, as is the case with most other European countries. I am grateful and appreciative of their efforts as well as all workers that are on the front line. I am also aware that María, thankfully, seems to have very light symptoms compared to more serious cases. But the abstract crumbles, and the stark reality of the situation hits home when you see just how understaffed the system is here. And we haven’t yet reached the peak of infection in Spain. I hope that wherever you are, your healthcare infrastructure withstands the coming deluge.

It’s now Friday, March 27, and her symptoms have remained constant without any noticeable improvement. There is, though, another factor to take into place: after being practically bedridden for 10 days, María has slipped into a depression. It is hard to describe the spark that seems to have faded from her gaze whenever we videochat. She holds the phone lazily so that we can only see one eye at a time, and when she does hold it correctly, María sticks out her tongue so that we can see how white it is becoming, probably because of the lack of proper nutrition. (She’s barely eating, consuming only a banana and a few sips of Gatorade a day.)

And, perhaps most alarming, her spirit is one of defeat. Vanished, at least for now, is that headstrong woman who sings tanguillos after lunch and with whom I’ve shared more than one beer. In her stead there is a woman who just this morning spoke openly of her imminent death and made sure that Franky knew how he and his brothers were supposed to split the inheritance.

This, as you can imagine, is heart wrenching. And this is of course one of the cruelest aspects of COVID-19: the isolation that it demands. We are all experiencing this to some degree, but it is difficult for me to fathom just how painful it must be to be cooped up by yourself for 10 days without seeing anyone else, and without there being anyone around to take care of you. This, I think, is what makes this insidious virus especially vicious. If it doesn’t destroy your body, it assuages your spirit. This, regrettably, is happening with seniors all over Spain, and all over the world. Being ill is already hard enough, but having to get better all on your own just seems downright harsh.

We’ve been following up with her every day and just tonight, Franky called the COVID-19 hotline again to again request a doctor. They said they’d send one tonight, but again, we’re not sure if someone will actually make the house call. Luckily, I also have friends in the medical community who might also lend a helping hand. At times like this, if plan A doesn’t work out, we have to find plans B, C, and D. We can’t depend on the healthcare system at this point.

María will pull through. We suspect she’s probably healthier than she lets on and might be feeling like a victim (which is completely understandable) and she thus might be feeling worse than she actually is. But again, without a medical review (the doctor never came) we cannot be sure.

We also haven’t yet told her that, once she recovers, she will still have to remain in quarantine for at least two weeks, according to our local health authorities. But right now, the focus is on monitoring her symptoms, encouraging her spirit, and letting her know that she is loved. And as I told her this evening when I spoke to her, when this is all over, we’ll toast to our collective health, remembering those few dark weeks of 2020 when it all seemed lost but when we were in fact beginning another chapter of our deep friendship.