An Unforgettable Man

Before I tell the story of my husband’s death, I want to share a short story of his life.

Juan De La Cruz was an amazing man. Strong. Handsome. Loving. Honorable. Godly.

He came from Mexico just before his 18^th birthday, not knowing a word of English.  He did the usual, manual labor…picking strawberries in the field, construction jobs, etc., and finally found work at a pizza restaurant.  He didn’t speak more than a few words of English by then (“I want to work”), and the owner didn’t speak more than a few words of Spanish, but they figured it out. Three years later, by the time I met him, he knew a few more words. (“I love you. What’s your phone number? I want to marry with you.”)   He was the most handsome (and tallest!) Mexican I’d ever seen.  Everyone loved him – employees, customers…my grandma, mom and dad.  He was a tour de force, all wrapped up in a 6’2” package (with Elvis hair and a big smile).

We were married in November 1989, and welcomed our daughter in November 1990.

We were just babies, but – WOW — did we love each other. We went through the usual hardships, but our love of God and each other kept us strong, and we pushed through, celebrating our 30^th anniversary in front of the church.

When our daughter was 4, my husband went to college to earn his woodworking certification.  He was the top of his class and was hired immediately out of school.   For 25 years, he went to work happy.  He loved what he did his employers loved him.  He never complained, was always happy, and strove to help everyone.

He was my superman, but when he died, I learned he was everyone ELSE’S superman too.  It’s no wonder he was always tired!  Everyone in the neighborhood had a “Juan” story when he died, and everyone agreed that there’d never be another “Juan” to replace him.

I could tell you about his beautiful family (9 kids and hundreds of cousins, aunts and uncles), but that would fill too much space for this page.  I’ll just repeat what I was told the night he died: Grief is love that has nowhere to go.  It was true then, and it’s true now.  I loved my husband and was loved deeply by him.  When he left, he took the best of me with him – but I will spend every day fighting to be the woman he loved so that his memory will never die.

We adored and respected one another, never left anything unsaid or undone, and had no regrets. If there’s a silver lining to this horror, it’s the fact that we had it all – and knew it.

Now, for the story:

I showed symptoms of COVID on Thursday, October 21.  My husband felt unwell when he came home from work on Friday, October 22, but went to work quite early Saturday, October 23.  I told him not to go, but he went anyway, as that’s the kind of man he was.  We never imagined we had COVID until I lost my sense of smell that day.  I called and told him to come home.  He felt so sick, he didn’t think he’d make it home – but he did and went straight to bed with chills and overall body aches.

We immediately started the FLCC (Front Line Doctor Protocol), using Ivermectin, Quercetin, Vitamin D3, Bromelain, etc. We’d obtained the Ivermectin on our trip to Mexico in August 2021, but weren’t able to get the Hydroxychloroquine.  I’d set up the protocol with labels and instructions on the boxes, and rubber-banded everything together.  For some reason, I figured that we’d be okay.  My daughter and I were, but my husband wasn’t.

We all stayed on “lockdown” for a week, and then began to feel better. I’d gotten steroids and a cough suppressant Wednesday, October 27.  By Friday, October 30, my husband began complaining that he was struggling to breathe.  I listened to his lungs, thinking that I’d hear some sort of “rattle” in his lungs, if it were pneumonia.  I heard nothing and kept asking him if he “just couldn’t get enough air” because he was hesitant to breathe deeply because of the COVID cough.  He couldn’t explain the problem, but wouldn’t lie down, as he couldn’t breathe.

October 31, we all slept together in the living room; my daughter on the floor, I in one reclining couch, and my husband next.  We worried about him and couldn’t sleep.  The next day, my daughter rushed to get an OXIMETER and it registered 82% on my husband.  I really didn’t understand how bad it was, but knew it wasn’t good.

My husband asked what they’d do if he had to go to the hospital.  I responded that they’d kill him. But then, I felt a wave of guilt, thinking that I’d be keeping him from getting the care he needed. He was suffering, and my husband NEVER COMPLAINED.  Only later did I learn how severely he’d been suffering – not wanting to panic us.

I prayed and asked God for a sign.  “If he’s supposed to go to the hospital, please let it is show an 86….”  I said.  And it did.  I didn’t realize I was asking God for an improvement, but that’s what happened.

I called 911. Of course they wouldn’t come into the “sick house” so my husband was “seen” on the lawn chair swing (without cushions, because the wind had been blowing and we’d removed them.)  I remember him sitting on the metal frame, wearing his mask (while he couldn’t breathe) and watching them take his vitals.  They never offered oxygen, but just said they’d take him to the local hospital. We weren’t allowed kiss goodbye – not without the masks – but they assured me that they “saw this all the time.”  I remember them asking, ‘What is this…day 9…10?  Yeah, this happens a lot.  He’ll be fine.”  And that was the last time I saw him.

They wouldn’t let me be with him or talk to him. I have broken text messages, asking for things like his insurance card, etc.  I keep asking if they’ve started oxygen and were they admitting him. No, they weren’t because he was a Kaiser patient, but there was no room as Kaiser, so he’d have to stay in the COVID section in the ER at Los Alamitos Regional.

At about midnight, they moved him to Kaiser Permanente.

I tried constantly to get information, but didn’t want to hinder his care or “be a pest.”  I believed the gaslighting and believed that if I was just a good spouse and let them do their thing, it would be better.  No need to panic him, right?

I tried desperately to talk to a doctor and finally spoke to him on November 2.  He told me not to worry; my husband would be fine.  He had no co-morbidities, and he said that “he’s not the type of patient where we have to call the family to say he’s not going to make it.”  He would be home in no time. He said he was on a cannula and they were giving him steroids and the moncolodal antibodies, which we were just beginning to hear about.  We thought this was a good sign.

By Wednesday, I spoke to a female doctor who FINALLY told me they’d given him 3 doses of REMDESIVIR.  I was shocked and yelled, “What?! No!!  We were never told this and don’t want it. Stop!”  She said, “He only has 2 more doses and it’s the best thing for him.  It’s helping.  He needs it.”

I didn’t want to second-guess a doctor and hadn’t heard enough about it yet.  Heck, Donald Trump had said great things about it, and I trusted him.

Every day, I was promised that he’d get better and every day he didn’t.  I can’t remember all of the numbers and percentages of oxygen – just that they’d maxed out on the cannula and finally put him on the full mask.  The doctor believed he could breathe without it, but thought that my husband was just “panicked” and afraid to try on his own.  I couldn’t be sure because I couldn’t be with him or talk to him.  Of course he was afraid.  He didn’t know as much as I did about his rights…plus, he was oxygen deprived, sleep deprived, and of course – unable to eat solid food, because you can’t breathe and chew, right?

About Thursday, when I learned he “wasn’t eating” I told them to give him protein shakes and things he could drink.  I honestly don’t know what happened from here because, to be honest, I was still recovering from COVID and was in a complete panic.  People on all sides were telling me he’d be fine.  Others were saying, “He had the vaccine, right?” or “Whatever you do, don’t let them give him that poison Remdesivir.”  What a nightmare. I couldn’t stop the trainwreck that was already happening and started to fall apart.  I wasn’t sleeping or eating and felt like I was losing my mind.

My husband was the love of my life. He was in the hospital on our 33^rd wedding anniversary. I couldn’t talk to him.  I just wanted him to get well, and not worry about me.  I figured that if he didn’t call, it’s because he didn’t feel well enough to talk.  He told me not to tell anyone in his family that he was in the hospital because he didn’t want to worry them.  I told the nurse to please wish him a happy anniversary and tell him how much I loved him.

They tried to put him on a ventilator that first Saturday.  I screamed absolutely not and demanded that they speak to the original doctor who was trying NOT to follow the protocol.  This is my secret belief about him.  I can’t verify it, but he kept saying that he didn’t want to do what the hospital was saying to do, but he didn’t work on the weekend.  By Monday, after a horrible weekend for my poor husband, the doctor said he wanted to try a more aggressive treatment by doubling-up on the steroids.  He said it carried with it a risk of damage to kidneys and diabetes, so he’d closely monitor insulin levels. The long and the short of it is…he didn’t get better, it didn’t help, and by Saturday, November 13, they said it was time to put him on the ventilator.  He had AARD – Acute Adult Respiratory Disease – something incurable and untreatable.  It was now up to his body to recover.

I have spent the last 22 months beating myself up over the decision to send him to the hospital, even though I know that I’d have beaten myself up if he hadn’t gone and died at home.  Of course, we’ll never know.

There is so much more I have to say here, but I can’t.  It should never have happened.  It must never happen to anyone ever again.  The evil that was done in the name of medicine is beyond cruel and inhumane.  I gave the doctors and nurses a pass, believing that they were doing their best…believing that they didn’t want to see people die every day and were heroes for showing up. Cognitive dissonance or banality of evil? You pick.

My husband died alone on our daughter’s 31^st birthday.  She managed to get to his bedside (by offering donuts to the security guard downstairs and the nurse’s staff in CCU).  Of course, he was unconscious, and maybe that’s a gift from God.  Doesn’t everyone want to die in their sleep?

I, on the other hand, was in a mental hospital, on a 5150 hold.  It’s a long, humiliating story, but I was taken away in handcuffs “for my own good” even though I never, ever said I wanted to hurt myself.

I heard my husband die in the middle of the hallway on a payphone in the crazy ward.  My daughter met me outside, in the middle of a grassy area of the hospital.  We were put in hazmat suits and told not to touch each other.  We hugged, but only because a “compassionate” nurse turned around so he wouldn’t witness the transgression.

The toll on our family is unimaginable and unforgiveable…though I try to forgive and I try to accept.

I’m writing this story so others will know they are not alone, they are not crazy, and they have the power to fight back against evil.

I know that he’ll never come back, but I hope that my story will at least keep his memory alive.  He was my superman…my hero…my love and my life.  Now that he’s gone, I will do everything I can to make him proud of me.