Ann Serafin, Chicago, Freelance TV News Producer, Six-time Emmy Award Winner

We were driving across the country, returning home to Chicago after an unexpected extra three months in Arizona under early-Covid quarantine. Those were the days before there were vaccines, before there were any known treatments, and before the airborne nature of infection was understood. We were in that “vulnerable” population in age and circumstance, afraid if we touched the wrong doorknob, death might be around the corner.

We had to travel by car because we were accompanied by a senior dog. We had packed a cooler, but by Day Three there was little food left and we had to make pit stops for food and drink, and to let the dog out. Every time we stopped at a gas station or fast-food joint, we were donning our HazMat gear: mask, gloves, extra layer of shirt that we would immediately take off upon returning to the car.

As we rolled toward Oklahoma City, Thom first mentioned a pain in his gut. He had held off as long as he could, as we both knew he was at risk for diverticulitis which could be a serious problem. I took over driving for the last few hours before we arrived at our hotel, to allow him to stretch and turn in the passenger seat.

Hoping it was a harmless case of indigestion, he passed on eating dinner and we watched TV in the hotel room, eventually turning out the lights on what would be a sleepless, terrifying night. By 3 a.m., it was clear we were going to have to find a hospital emergency room. The hotel front desk clerk was no help. We frantically searched the internet on our phones to find the closest medical center.

We had a dog with us in the hotel room. It was Covid and I would not be allowed into the hospital with Thom, nor could I risk entering a hospital myself with the exposure that would entail. So, in agony, petrified and trying to read his navigation app through an unfamiliar city, Thom drove himself to the Emergency Room.