February was a blur. My parents and I caught Influenza A after attending an event together. It left me pretty much unscathed, save for feeling extra run down and uncomfortable for a few days. But my parents got sick. Really sick. Call-an-ambulance-at-four-in-the-morning-because-you-cannot-catch-your-breath sick. Diagnosed with respiratory distress, both were hospitalized in adjoining rooms. There they celebrated their twentieth wedding anniversary on Feb. 5.
Dad came home after a few days, Mom a few days after that. After Mom was home for about a week, however, I found myself following an ambulance over the hill from Whitehall to St. James in Butte for the third time. She stayed for two weeks. I visited her every day, much of which she does not remember.
In February, I got used to wearing a mask and gloves. There was a big sign on Mom’s hospital room door warning everyone to put one on before entering. It felt odd at first to wear a mask and to interact with other people wearing masks. It was hard to read facial expressions and know when someone was being sarcastic or serious.
