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My Mother Tested Negative Twice. The Isolation of COVID-19 Killed Her.

A year later, I remember our final visit and my feelings of helplessness

By Bonnie Goodman

The last five years of my mother's life, she lived in a New Jersey nursing home that was less than a mile from my apartment and I could get there in less than five minutes by car.

On March 12, 2020, when the coronavirus hit, I was told that for the foreseeable future I would no longer be allowed to visit my 91-year-old mother. Effective immediately. I couldn't explain to Mom why she wouldn't see me the next day, or the next or the one after that. She would have been frightened. My daily visits served as anchors, connecting her to life.

An old photo of a mother holding two children. Mother, end of life, Next Avenue
Bonnie Goodman's mom, Ruth, with Bonnie and her sister  |  Credit: courtesy of Bonnie Goodman

Instead, under the state's new pandemic health directives, she would be required to live within the four walls of her small airless room. Alone. Without the human contact that was like oxygen to her. 

Worse still, I was unable to reach her by phone on days without sufficient staff for someone to hold the phone for her. Multiple sclerosis prevented her from doing so herself. Before COVID-19, there had usually been 10 or so aides on the floor. Now, most days, most of them called in sick or were too scared to come in, terrified of catching the virus.

The prospect of seeing my mother close to death after two months of not seeing her at all overwhelmed me.

One day, there was only one aide to take care of 60 needy residents. My mom and everyone else unable to walk were confined to beds, like prisoners. Marianne, one of only two nurses on the floor – – was so exhausted from working double shifts that she left before her replacement arrived. One nurse was left to provide medical coverage for all the remaining residents.

I got two emails with good news. My mother tested negative for Covid in early April, then again in early May.

When my phone rang on May 15 and the caller ID read with the name of the nursing home, my heart sank. "Bonnie, your Mom's face has lost all its color and looks gray," Marianne told me. "She isn't eating or drinking. Her blood pressure is dangerously low and so is her oxygen level, but it isn't Covid. She sleeps most of the day. You can come visit her now." 

The 'End of Life' Visit

I knew what that meant: I was being allowed to see my mother for what the New Jersey Department of Health called an "end of life" visit.

The prospect of seeing my mother close to death after two months of not seeing her at all overwhelmed me. Instantly, I understood how deeply she had suffered in isolation. Her whole world had been taken from her, forcing her to live in solitary confinement – and for what crime?

My body started to shake. Panic attack. Needing a tranquilizer if I was to drive to see her, I took one, but couldn't wait for it to kick in. I had to leave. Immediately. 

Donna, the nursing home's social worker, met me at the front door. She helped me suit up because I was still shaking, then accompanied me, per regulations, to the door of my mother's room.

I wasn't sure if Mom would know me with a mask hiding my face, my red hair covered in a plastic shower cap, my clothes concealed by a surgical gown. Despite social distancing rules, I took off my surgical gloves, sat near her bed and took her hand.

"Mom? It's me, it's Bonnie," I said, lowering my mask briefly so she could see my face.

She stared at me a minute then said, "I'm thirsty."

An older woman and her middle aged daughter smiling. Mother, end of life, Next Avenue
Bonnie and her mom, Ruth, in later years  |  Credit: courtesy of Bonnie Goodman

Thirsty? That surprised and delighted me. She hadn't wanted anything to drink for two months, becoming so dehydrated that she was placed on IV fluids.

I poured her favorite cranberry drink onto a spoon and into her open mouth. Mom couldn't swallow from a glass or a straw anymore. As soon as I stopped, she asked for more. Her eyes looked vibrant. 

I was beginning to think she knew it was me. Again, I lowered my mask and offered a big smile. "Want more to drink, Mom?" I asked. "Yes," she answered, smiling back at me. Red color was returning to her cheeks. 

A Moment of Strength

Donna came in wearing what looked like a surrealist Halloween costume consisting of a sheet with openings for her eyes and ears, her face covered by a plastic shield. My mother looked at her, confused. "Hi Ruth," Donna said to my mom, who didn't respond but stared at her blankly.

"Mom looks much better today," Donna said. She watched for a while and told me that my mother looked stronger and more energetic than she had in weeks.

"You can visit again on Monday. Don't put Mom on hospice yet," she said.

Maybe they were wrong and Mom isn't dying, I thought.  

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Relieved and growing more relaxed, I realized how hot I was in my vinyl gown. State health rules had banned the use of air conditioners in nursing homes for fear they might blow the virus around.

"Mom, are you hot?" I asked. She nodded. "Let's take this sheet off of you," I said, wishing I could do more to make it cooler in her suffocatingly humid room. "I'll open your window wider," I said, even though there was no breeze. 

Her voice, which had grown raspy the preceding year, had suddenly lost that hoarse quality and come out sounding thick and warm like maple syrup,

I took off my mask and sat down on her bed. I wanted her to see how much I loved caring for her, that comforting her was the greatest blessing in my life, that I had always discovered my best self in loving and helping her.

But the only words I could think of were, "I love you, Mom." She was glowing. "I love you too, dahling" she answered, her Boston accent sounding sweet as home.

'Be With Me'

We sat together in silence until I noticed her eyes closing. "Mom, maybe I should leave and let you get some rest," I said quietly. 

She looked at me intently, and then said, "Be with me."

The sound of her voice went through me like the first time I heard a Beethoven symphony. Her voice, which had grown raspy the preceding year, had suddenly lost that hoarse quality and came out sounding thick and warm like maple syrup, like the burnt orange hue of autumn, like Billie Holiday sounded in her last recordings.

It was as though her soul itself were talking. I wish I had found the words to reply, but the ache and longing in her voice were so profound I was rendered speechless. 

I held Mom's hands in mine until Donna came in and told me I had to leave. "No!" my heart screamed. But I was a prisoner, too, and had to follow orders. I let go of my mother's hands and stood. Her eyes closed again. 

I told her what I always told her at the end of our visits: "I'll see you tomorrow, Mom." But I knew I wouldn't because Donna didn't work on weekends, and without her, no visitors were allowed. 

Donna took my arm and led me out into the hallway. Taking one last look at my mom, I wanted to run back in and tell her that my heart was broken like hers because she had to die this way. But all I could do was stand there and stare at her lying in her bed. Alone. Without the human contact that was like oxygen to her. 

"Bonnie, come on," Donna said impatiently. "I have to leave."

I see now that during those few hours we had together, my mother had taken every bit of energy left inside her and gifted it to me, a present wrapped in her rosy cheeks, the dark amber molasses of her voice, and her abiding love. She burned brightly like a flame for me, like autumn leaves do before they fall. The next day she died.

COVID-19 killed my mom as surely as if she had contracted the virus. Her anchor's connection severed by merciless pandemic protocols, she drifted out far beyond the reach of those she loved.

But she is free now.

As the first anniversary of her death approaches, I find her most often when I am surrounded by trees. Listening to the sound of the wind through the leaves, I hear her voice murmuring deep and low, "Be with me."

And, now, having finally found the words, I answer, "I'll always be with you, Mom."

Bonnie Goodman is an essayist, musician, and music educator. Currently, her writing is focused on the experience of having been the family caregiver to her mother, who died at the height of the pandemic. She hails from Boston, which will always feel like home, and now lives in New Jersey with her husband. Read More
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