In December of 2020, my known normal, came to a screeching halt. My father, a healthy 51-year-old-male, contracted Covid-19. During the first couple of days of isolation, he slowly deteriorated, his oxygen saturation dropping to 87 and light-hearted personality faded to a somber-gray. My mother drove 20 miles in 18 minutes to the Hospital to admit my father to the Emergency Room, little did we know that would be the last time we saw him walking, talking, and upright for weeks to come.

After being admitted to the ER, my father was transferred to the Intensive Care Unit and placed on high-flow oxygen. The days blurred and soon he was told that the only way to survive would be intubation, he agreed and we shared a heartbreaking text message of ‘daddy loves you’ as a see-you-soon. Less than 24 hours later, he was placed on ECMO due to Covid-19 pneumonia that led to an ARDS diagnosis.

During his 60 days ECMO my father was given a tracheostomy, and provided a grim chance of survival, 18% to be exact. His team of doctors, palliative care, case workers and nurses told us to expect the worst, make preparations, and be ready to say goodbye.

I did the exact opposite. My family and I advocated for my father every minute of his hospitalization. Over the next three months, the following took place; calls to both his night and days nurses, emails to his case manager, journal entries, zoom calls, creating playlists and recordings, baking treats for the nursing staff, and advocating for him every step of the way.

Giving up was never an option. As difficult as it was seeing my father laying in bed, connected to life support machinery and struggling to survive, I knew in my heart he would make it through because I was willing to advocate for him – no matter what.