A family’s long year, brushed by COVID-19.

Photo by Jon Tyson on Unsplash

On February 23, 2020, three days before a flight to Israel to speak at a nursing conference, I received a message from the host that the ministry of health had issued a restriction to stop all conferences and meetings in the health care system because of the coronavirus. I had other business scheduled, so I boarded the flight. While in Israel, I followed the global health news, and returned home a week later fully aware that COVID-19 was an emerging pandemic. But when I landed and entered the international arrivals terminal at Newark Airport, business was as usual and only a handful of us in line wore masks going through customs.

It’s been a hard year since that time. My son, a healthy 27-year-old, had COVID in late March, during the worst surge of positive cases and deaths in New York City. Testing wasn’t available. He lived a subway ride away. For 10 days, I monitored his symptoms by texts, along with his primary care provider. He fully recovered. My 95-year-old mother died in April in a  New York State assisted living facility. We don’t believe her death was COVID related. Restrictions prevented my visiting her for seven weeks prior to her death. We were given permission to hold a 10-minute graveside burial, limited to 10 people, while we stood six feet apart. My older brother, with underlying health issues, contracted COVID-19 in late December. He has fully recovered.

In July, we learned that our daughter was pregnant with her second child. This good news was met with reports that pregnant people were found to be at increased risk for preterm labor and severe illness or death from COVID-19. We are a three-generation household; our family pod maintained very strict public health guidelines. The new grandbaby arrived on January 29, 2021. Both mother and child are healthy and thriving.

With a first vaccine shot came sadness, joy, relief, and a sense of shared reverence.

I got my first dose of the Pfizer COVID vaccine at the Javits Center in New York City on February 17, three weeks later.

I wore my sparkly T-shirt, nice pants, and a favorite lipstick hidden under my three-layered mask. The lipstick was for me.

I stopped at an artisanal chocolate shop in my neighborhood and bought three gift-wrapped boxes of chocolates. At the registration desk, after completing my registration, I asked the young woman if she was allowed to accept a small gift. She said she thought so. She accepted it with a bright smile.

The next stop was getting the vaccine. When asked how I felt, I started to cry. They were tears of relief mixed with sadness for the deaths of 500,000 people from COVID-19. The woman confirming my information cried with me and told me she understood. I shared how grateful I was to be there to get this vaccine. The nurse was from Florida and had come up to work during COVID. I told them I was a public health nurse, but at that moment a citizen patient. They were also asked if they could accept a small gift. They got the other two boxes of chocolates.

I sat in this cavernous space with many others, masks on, chairs placed at the recommended physical distance apart, waiting out the 15 minutes to be sure we were post-vaccine okay. The National Guard members circulated and asked us how we were. They stopped to chat with some folks who clearly loved the socially engaged, safe, human-to-human conversation. It wasn’t a party atmosphere; it felt reverent. Not medical, not sterile. Human.

It was a well-run operation. Every staff person was professional, kind, and helpful—I was so moved by the attentiveness of the National Guard members assisting elders in wheelchairs out of cars into the facility.

My second dose is scheduled for March 10th. I’m thinking about what my outfit should be—something glamorous? sequins? a hat with a flower on it? I will definitely be wearing red lipstick under my mask.

Barbara Glickstein, MPH, MS, RN is the principal of Barbara Glickstein Strategies, a media training and strategic communications company.