When the pandemic first hit, my parents were understandably anxious. They curtailed their social engagements and minimized attendance at all but the most significant family gatherings. As time went on, however, they began to adapt. They ventured to the grocery store and attended a few of their grandkids’ little league games, always wearing masks when they stepped outside.
Then, a member of their church small group was placed in hospice care for a non-COVID illness. This long-standing group, which had met monthly for 35 years, felt compelled to visit their friend. With case numbers and hospitalizations declining, and no one in their circle having suffered severe consequences from the virus, they decided it was acceptable to host a dinner gathering. They prepared their new home, having recently downsized after nearly four decades in their previous residence. This would be their first opportunity to entertain in their new space.
My brother, a lawyer, voiced concerns about the dinner, but his objections were soon dismissed as overly cautious. I personally saw no harm in their friends coming over, nor did my youngest brother.
The evening unfolded like many before it—a dinner party and Bible study with cherished friends. Masks were a challenge to maintain during the meal, especially after months apart. One friend, though gravely ill, was able to join them. Everyone felt a sense of comfort, believing they were safe among familiar faces. Hugs were exchanged, and masks were set aside.
But the situation wasn’t as safe as they believed. One attendee unknowingly carried the virus. A church worker who felt perfectly fine that evening began to experience symptoms the following day. After testing positive for COVID-19, she immediately informed all attendees of the dinner.
I remember receiving a call from my dad while dining out with my family. He mentioned that he and my mom had been exposed, but I wasn’t overly concerned. Although my dad had underlying health conditions, I thought he’d be alright. The next day, however, he tested positive. Initially, my mom received a negative result, but soon lost her sense of taste and smell. A subsequent test confirmed she was also infected.
I sent them a pulse oximeter and consulted with our family physician and other medical professionals, leveraging my dad’s extensive network from his years in accounting for doctors. On the third day post-diagnosis, Dad reported only mild symptoms—a slight cough and low fever. He told me, “If it stays like this, I’ll be fine.” But it didn’t stay mild.
A week after his exposure, Dad had to call for an ambulance when his oxygen levels plummeted. I had just left his house after helping with yard work when I returned to see him being loaded into the ambulance. It was the last time I saw him conscious.
We expected him to return home shortly after receiving oxygen, but the hospital was overwhelmed. It took nearly two days for him to secure a bed. At first, we could communicate with him while he waited in the ER. They wanted him to lie on his stomach, but his previous hip replacement complicated that. His condition began to deteriorate as chest X-rays revealed pneumonia caused by the virus, and he struggled to speak.
After a week in the hospital, no treatment was proving effective. His lungs had sustained damage, and he was moved to the ICU, where he could hardly text and struggled to speak without severe drops in oxygen levels. We were unable to visit him. Just as they were preparing to place him on a ventilator—a procedure that carried a slim chance of survival—we were forced to say our goodbyes over the phone. It was one of the hardest moments of my life.
My mom was allowed a brief visit, and for one day, Dad showed signs of improvement. He was able to text the grandkids, and we all expressed our love and encouragement. But the next day, I received a call from a doctor I hadn’t spoken to before. He informed me that Dad’s condition had worsened overnight. I asked for time to bring my mom back, but he insisted they had to act immediately.
We hurried to the hospital, but by the time we arrived, it was too late for Mom to see him again. We found him in a state of distress, looking ghostly among the chaos of medical personnel. They were able to stabilize him briefly after inserting chest tubes, but we had to leave the hospital and wait for news.
Later that evening, a call came through—the hospital reported that Dad had lost all blood pressure. I rushed to get my mom, who was distraught. Upon arriving, my brother delivered the devastating news: Dad was gone.
As you plan your Thanksgiving celebrations this year, keep this story in mind. I wouldn’t presume to dictate how others should gather, but this year, it will just be my mom and me. Because that dinner party took my father’s life.
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Summary:
This deeply personal account recounts how a seemingly innocent dinner party turned fatal for the author’s father, who contracted COVID-19 from an asymptomatic guest. Despite initial precautions, the family faced devastating consequences, highlighting the risks associated with gatherings during the pandemic.