My father died a year ago. Our loss is more than a COVID-19 ‘statistic.’ | Opinion

When COVID-19 left my father on a ventilator and unconscious last April, I told wild lies just so he’d wake up and say, “Are you kidding me?”

I said Mike Trout, his favorite baseball player, was leaving California to play for the Yankees. That Robert DeNiro called seeking a consultant for a Frank Sinatra biopic. That the World Series of Poker organizers were desperate to have him play.

When someone you love is dying, you’ll do whatever it takes to encourage them to keep fighting.

I’ll never know if Dad heard any of my tall tales. He died on May 4, killed by the coronavirus exactly one month after he’d entered the hospital. Since then, more than 550,000 other Americans have died, their families joining ours in mourning.

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Much of the country just wants to move on. That’s impossible for families like mine. When I hear about California anti-vaxxers blocking access to the vaccine and Spring Breakers gathering en masse and maskless, I think: You have no idea.

Death in the time of coronavirus is unique. When you take your loved one to the hospital, you’re immediately pulled apart. You’re told you cannot stay; if you choose to sit in the waiting room, no one will be coming out to talk to you. You watch your father being taken away by wheelchair. He waves. From five yards away, you shout that you’ll see him soon.

Days later, he’s in critical care, on a ventilator and hooked to a dialysis machine. You talk to his still form via FaceTime or on speaker phone, telling favorite stories and making future plans. One of the nurses takes the time to shave your father’s face and comb his hair before a phone call. You’re incredibly thankful.

After weeks of ups and downs, the doctors are optimistic. Keep talking to him. Encourage him to wake up. You increase your calls — and tell the lies you hope will wake him up — as you try to goad him into consciousness.

Then one night, his eyes are open! But he’s not really awake. His eyeballs dart back and forth. He seems to be panting. He looks small and alone, surrounded by machines, covered in wires, the only noise the low drone of machinery. You try not to cry, repeatedly saying: “It’s OK. You’re fine. Don’t worry. You’ll be home soon.”

Seeing his eyes, his fear, makes things worse.

And one afternoon, you’re helping your niece with her schoolwork when the phone call comes. It’s time. You rush to the hospital, parking illegally. Reunited at his bedside, you play his favorite songs, including “I Got You Under My Skin,” his wedding song, telling him he’ll be reunited with his wife soon. You call family and friends so they can say good-bye. Your aunt can’t figure out FaceTime.

You know you’re lucky because, unlike so many others, you are there when he dies, your hand on his arm. You don’t feel lucky when a nurse shines a light into his eyes and there is no response.

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Death amid coronavirus is limbo and loneliness. My family can’t host a funeral and are cheated out of the moments that make these rituals important. At my mother’s funeral in 2014, a tearful woman tightly embraced my sister. My sister asked, “Do I know you?” The woman replied, “I work at the gas station near your father’s office.” That mattered.

And still one year later, people call COVID-19 a hoax. Friends, even family, gripe about covering their noses and mouths with fabric. My sister and I were at a UPS store when a man walked in with his mask around his neck. He became angry when asked to pull it up. His hands were full of boxes! This mask infringed upon his rights! I said, “Our dad’s dead.” He didn’t hear me.

Our father was a virus skeptic. We knew he wasn’t taking the precautions my physician brother-in-law advised: Stay home. Avoid contact with people, even friends with the best intentions. Lou Pompilio was happiest surrounded by friends and family and food, holding court. My sister and I agreed that I should stay with him.

That’s when Dad began to take COVID-19 seriously. I was en route to his home when he left what would become his last voice mail to me. He sounds rushed. “Nan, listen. You don’t have to come down here, honey. I don’t want you going outside. They don’t want nobody to go outside, OK? You don’t. I’ll stay in the house. Believe me. OK, honey? Do not, do not come here. I do not want you outside. All right? Call me. All right, honey? Ciao.”

Of course that’s when he cared. He was worried about me.

Within days, Dad went from calling me crazy for Lysol-ing every inch of his house to being mystified by his rising fever, asking, “Am I really sick, honey?” When his temperature hit 104, my husband and I took him to the hospital, first driving by my sister’s house so my nieces could wave and wish their Papa good luck. I took photos.

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You know the rest.

Our story has become sadly common, so I cannot understand how, with more than 500,000 Americans dead and a possible end in sight, so many people want to rush back to “normal,” refusing to do a few simple things a few months longer. Think of the quote “One death is a tragedy; one million is a statistic.” To them, my father is a statistic and our pain something to get over so they can eat out, go to a movie, take a vacation.

You can’t know how this feels until you live it. You have no idea. I hope you never do.

Natalie Pompilio is a Philadelphia freelance writer. She and her sister, photographer Tricia Pompilio, recently collaborated on “This Used To Be Philadelphia,” published by Reedy Press this month and dedicated to their father.