The Gift Pam Brown
The Gift Pam Brown - © 1909 - 2023 The Poetry Society and their respective authors • Site via Surface Impression Editor's Note: Pamela Brown is CNN's senior White House correspondent. The opinion expressed to him is his own. Read more CNN reviews. It was the day after Thanksgiving. I was alone in the studio, sitting in front of a live national television camera, when the tears started to fall.
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I listened to Hina Patel, a pharmacist who wrote a heartbreaking post on Twitter about her family's experience with Covid-19. His story is all too familiar: he had just said goodbye to his father, who died of Covid-19 that week. Her story is raw, real and heartbreaking, taking me back to six months before I said my final goodbye to my mother.
Hina and I both lost a parent this year due to different circumstances, but we share the pain of Covid. Hina described how helpless she felt as she lay alone in her ICU bed, telling him on FaceTime about her fears. Because he was restricted to his own bed, his father had to give permission over the phone to be intubated.
He said family members came in one by one to say their final goodbyes. And he talked about not being able to plan a proper funeral - in fact, it was a funeral where he suspected he had the virus in the first place. All of these sufferings correspond to my experience of the pandemic, even though my mother's story begins before the pandemic.
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My mother, Phyllis George, anchored the CBS morning news, flying on weekends from New York to Kentucky where my brother and I lived. He was under God's control for many hours and soon he had a headache and dizziness. he was treated and 35 years ago, the official diagnosis came: polycythemia vera - a rare cancer that makes your blood very thick.
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One of her most vivid memories growing up is how she would lie in bed backwards with her swollen legs elevated after a long day to help her blood flow. It was hard for me to reconcile the fact that my mother, who was a dynamo in every sense of the word, lived for decades with a blood disorder that slowed her down a lot, especially in recent years.
In March, the doctor explained that it was time for a difficult procedure that we hoped would prolong the mother's life. At the same time, after the birth of my second child, we found out that my mother's nanny chose to quarantine me forever because her husband was still working.
The next thing I knew, my older brother Lincoln, my newborn son, and I were loaded into the car on our way to Kentucky to help Mom while my husband and little that son remained in Virginia. I didn't know then that I wouldn't be coming home for three months.
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It was a strange and scary feeling as my brother and I tried to juggle taking care of our mother and making sure we didn't give her Covid-19. The doctor warned us that he was one of his most vulnerable patients and that he would have to be closely watched to make sure he didn't get infected.
When we arrived, he saw his grandson from afar for the first time - but never held him. I wanted to stay the night to help him feel safe, but we were too afraid of danger. It feels like an emotional pain to limit the time we spend with him - my heart wants to be with him every second I can, but my mind knows I need to follow doctor's orders and focus
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of what is needed. She was sad that she no longer had a child - one day she cried and said, "You are my life and I feel like I can't be with you anymore." A week later, we took him to the hospital for his surgery.
He didn't hide that he really wanted me and my brother by his side, but his courage to enter alone, was admirable. When Lincoln took her to the hospital to hand her over to the doctors, I reminded her of her professionalism and how much we love her.
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A few hours later, his worst nightmare came true: his blood pressure dropped without the doctor noticing. The doctors told us over the phone that they are doing what they can. My brother and I spent the night in the car outside the hospital, staying up until sunrise, waiting for news while my friend stayed home with my son.
It is like a kind of torture without our dear mother by our side and not knowing what is happening. Staring at the phone endlessly waiting for news. All the time I thought: Covid-19 may be invisible but I have never felt that I have a bigger enemy to fight.
She is my only mother in life, and how did this virus take me away from her during this difficult time? Finally, around 5 in the morning, the doctor sent a text that the bleeding had stopped and mom was stable. It was a time of joy and tears.
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Again, my mom has defied the odds like life, and even though we can't celebrate with her, it's nice to know she's not far from us. But the celebration didn't last long. A day later he lost all the shock in his body, was transferred to another hospital and remained there until his last breath.
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That month was filled with emotional FaceTime conversations on the doctor's phone, telling him to keep fighting; an early morning wake-up call from a nurse saying he was low on oxygen; and the terrible time in between, waiting for the call from the doctor or calling the hospital for information.
Today, as in those weeks, I am amazed by the courage of the doctors and nurses I saw in the hospital. We were lucky to finally see Mom and say our last goodbyes, crying our eyes out while singing “You Are My Sunshine” – her favorite song and she sang it to my son.
There is no sorrow through comforting hugs from our loved ones after our death. All our sorrows stopped six feet away. My story and Hina's story are unique now, months into this pandemic, but they highlight the impact it has on families - at a time when warnings can be impactful.
Sat-Sun, Nov 14-15 - we see Dad every day on WebEx. It broke my heart to see Dad admitted. He is not a person. Before all this, dad was working 100%. He can walk miles without a problem. Dad accompanied me to the Himalayas less than a year ago.
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