There are many victims of Covid-19: those who contract the virus and their family, friends, and even acquaintances.

In the aftermath of trying to recover from the ravages of Covid, all of my relationships have been altered in some way—sometimes for the better and other times not. I am trying to come to terms with those changes: extreme fatigue, an annoying cough, a now raspy voice, in addition to the loss of feeling in my feet and changes in my vision. I find it difficult to carry on a conversation because of the raspiness of my voice. I also am suffering from PTSD. I often think about what I went through, dredging up memories of the many difficulties, and even the little triumphs. I’ve written about some of my challenges, including having to re-learn to sit up, walk and swallow. Recovering these simple bodily functions was a long and arduous process.

 But I wasn’t Covid’s only victim.

Of all of the people who were affected in some way by my battle, there is one person, in particular, who it deeply touched: my daughter Brenda. She was my chief advocate, making difficult decisions about my treatment and hoping that I would recover. I had at least three occasions when my family was advised that I probably would not make it through the night. My daughter and I talked about the first such occasion recently. April 4^th of this year was the one year observance of the first time my family was told that I was near death. When we talked about that night, she related how she sent me healing messages, encouraging me to cling to life, telling me that I was strong enough to survive. She lifted me up with her loving thoughts and her strength from the other side of the country where she lives. And she admitted to a sleepless night full of anxiety.

When I had problems with a CNA treating me harshly, Brenda called the nursing supervisor of the hospital. And that rough treatment ended promptly. Brenda also conferred with my doctors and nurses on a daily basis. Because of the Covid crisis, she was advised against traveling to be with me by my care team. There was literally nothing she could do—including seeing me. As I started to recover, she and I had frequent telephone calls.  She did all this even though she is the Director of the Honors College at a University in Portland, Oregon, a position which carries with it huge responsibilities. And of course, at that time, the University was developing on-line classes, a change that my daughter had to guide her staff and faculty through.

Through all this, Brenda was supported by her wife, my family, and two dear friends.

Many people in my community knew about my battle from my brother Brian’s Facebook posts which he wrote after conferring with my daughter about what information should be shared.  Eventually, I was able to text and tell him what I wanted people to know. I always included a message about wearing masks and social distancing.

Those posts had a deep effect on people who read them—some of whom are acquaintances as well as friends. I‘ve met many people who tell me that they prayed for me, or were concerned about me because they followed these posts on Facebook. A few have even teared up when they see me.

When I think about the many people who were affected by my struggle, I am humbled by their love and concern and grateful for the outpouring of prayer and support I received which overflowed to my family, especially Brenda.

I owe them my thanks and so much more. I try to honor the concern and love shown me by not taking unnecessary chances and by practicing safe protocols like wearing a mask and limiting my exposure to other people, even though I’m fully vaccinated. I have a responsibility to the other victims of my Covid battle.

My experience with Covid wasn’t just about me. Without this extensive community of caring people, especially my daughter, I know I wouldn’t have survived.