44 Days: A COVID-19 Experiencez. Jesús G. Rodríguez
By: Dr. Jesús G. Rodríguez
Tags: Death And Dying, Memories, United States, Family, Covid-19

Jesús “Chuy” Calderón.

He was my grandfather, mi Papa Chuy, and I am his namesake.

On December 21, 2020, at 3:45 AM on the winter solstice, marked by the conjunction of Jupiter and Saturn, he passed away in his home surrounded by his wife and children.

Papa Chuy had 4 brothers and 4 sisters, and he is survived by 5 of them.

My mother is the eldest of his nine children and I am the 6th-born of his 32 grandchildren. Papa Chuy also had 31 great-grandchildren including my son, Cosme, who is the namesake of Papa Chuy’s great uncle.

My grandfather came from a line of ancestors who lived very long lives, his mother lived to be 95 and his father lived to be 97 years old. His paternal grandparents lived to be 97 and 99, respectively, so his untimely passing, indeed, came to us as a surprise. He and I had many conversations about our family tree over the last several years and he confided in me and others, many times, that he intended to live to be 100 years old.

I am writing this to honor him and to celebrate his efforts toward 100 but also to desahogarme. In English, desahogar is expressed as “venting” however, ahogar means to drown, so desahogar means to undrown, which is a much better expression for my current feelings and objective in writing this.

I have a lot of great memories of my grandfather that keep returning to me. He was generally a quiet man, but I remember having many long conversations with him that were mostly shaped by my questions then listening to him respond. Particularly, as we ventured to Miguel Auza, Zacatecas, Mexico together when I was a teenager. The trip is approximately 1,300 miles each way and we would drive straight, sometimes just the two of us, multiple times a year.

He told me about his life growing up, his pride in being born in Sombrerete, sharing that in common with Thomas Alva Edison, allegedly, and his journey to the United States. During some of our breaks from a conversation, he listened to hip-hop while I drove and I listened to rancheras while he drove, funnily enough, he preferred the passenger experience, and he would stay awake the entire time.

There were two main routes we would take on our way down to Miguel Auza; one was through El Paso/Juarez and the other was through Presidio/Ojinaga. The latter was the route we usually took, and he would time our departure from Colorado to ensure that we would arrive in either Roswell or Carlsbad, New Mexico in time for dinner at the Golden Corral which was an 8- or 9-hour drive for us.

He loved Golden Corral. I think he appreciated two things about the buffet chain which were, 1. he could virtually eat whatever he was craving and, 2. he did not need to communicate what that was to anyone. Papa Chuy lived in the United States for most of his life, but he held tight to his Mexican culture and I don’t recall a single time ever hearing him utter a word in English.

While growing up, I remember Papa Chuy somehow timing all of his doctor’s appointments to coincide with our spring, summer, and winter breaks. He would call our home, let us know to be ready, and a few minutes later he would honk his horn as he was right outside. I remember being his translator and confidently trying to communicate his needs to his doctor and then trying to do the same from his doctor to him. In hindsight, there were a ton of words in English and Spanish that I was unfamiliar with at the time and I had to improvise using the understanding I did have and my developing linguistic repertoire to make sense of it all, twice. He was flattered when the medical staff thought he was my father because it made him feel younger.

Recently, I joined family FaceTime calls while Papa Chuy was hospitalized and it reminded me of all those times I accompanied him on those doctor’s appointments when I was a child, this time my vocabulary was more expansive in both English and Spanish. But this time, there was less communication from him. Our last exchange was something along these lines, which was similar to the way we greeted each other for most of my life:

Me: Quiúbo, Pa’ Chuy?!

Papa Chuy: Quiúbo

Me: Si me escucha?!

Papa Chuy: Aye

Quiúbo is a derivative of “que hubo,” which means, “what happened” but is better expressed as an informal greeting meaning, “hello” or “what’s up?” or “what’s happening?”

The last time I exchanged “quiúbos” with my grandfather in person was a few weeks before the pandemic. On March 16, 2020, in Colorado, the governor announced the closure of restaurants, the largest school district in the state announced an extended spring break, and we began our pandemic quarantine. Cosme was born on April 12, 2020, which was right in the middle of the first pandemic wave. Papa Chuy met Cosme vía FaceTime many times when he was well but due to the pandemic, even though we only lived 27 minutes away from each other, they never met in person.

My grandfather tested positive for COVID-19 and as a result of complications caused by the virus, he experienced a series of significant strokes. He spent 25 days in the hospital where his lungs began to recover miraculously, followed by a transfer to a rehabilitation clinic for 15 days, then he was taken home. He spent 4 days at home but was unable to recover from the strokes and continued to lose the function of many of his organs.

I felt anger because of the lack of response from the wealthiest country in the world. A country my grandfather loved so much and had made his home. He had come to the United States to work, save money, and return to his family in Mexico. But instead, he became a naturalized citizen and planted deep roots here for future generations of Coloradoans.

Throughout the pandemic, my grandfather never left his house. But his family, which is comprised of working-class brown people who do not have the option to work from home, and cared for him and my grandmother, would enter and exit my grandparents’ home between going to and from work themselves, albeit taking necessary precautions. But someone still got sick. And my grandparents got sick. And my grandfather passed away.

The pain of losing my grandfather is great. I am closer in age to my mother’s youngest sibling than she is, and I grew up in their house. My grandfather babysat me until I went off to kindergarten. And I am so grateful for all of the memories and experiences I was able to create with him for almost 4 decades.

The pain is compounded by the vicarious emotions my mother, aunts, and uncles have expressed. And again, I am angry because I wholeheartedly believe that a better response from the wealthiest country in the world could have avoided this, not just for our family but for the families of the 323,000 others who have died in the United States to date.

I was fortunate to have met 3 of my 8 great-grandparents and I was so hopeful that Cosme would have the opportunity to get to know mi Papa Chuy, too. I am comforted that my grandfather is no longer suffering from any pain, but I will miss him until I can say, “quiúbo,” again.