San Diego Union-Tribune (Sunday)
I’LL ALWAYS GRIEVE AND WONDER IF A VACCINE WOULD’VE HELPED
Igo through the motions, day to day, with a heavy, queasy, sad and almost inconsolable feeling inside my soul. As people all over the world started getting sick during this pandemic, I worried about friends and family in San Diego and Mexico and also about my loved ones in my home state of Illinois, especially those with underlying health conditions. But in every phone call, they promised they were staying safe.
Things can change so quickly. In August, I learned that my dad, Ignacio, and my stepmother, Josefina, tested positive for the coronavirus that causes COVID-19. Both have underlying health conditions. For three weeks, I heard my father’s voice grow weaker and weaker. At night, I had only silent tears and prayer to cling to.
My stepmother, or La Senora as we affectionately call her, prepared home remedies like hot cinnamon tea and garlic. By the grace of God, they both survived.
While they were slowly recovering, I found out that a friend in Chicago, a former photojournalist, Eugene Stanback, was hospitalized with COVID-19 and already on a ventilator. I sobbed uncontrollably. I could not picture my amigo, who always had a wide grin on his face, lying there, alone.
Eugene’s daughter promised to read a text I sent. It said, “Fight. That’s what you’d say to me if the tables were turned. And don’t lose your faith.” But on Sept. 13, Eugene took his last breath. I never had a chance to squeeze his hand or say goodbye.
As the months passed, the number of infections and deaths continued to soar. Then, more bad news.
In January, eight members of my family who live in Sterling, Illinois, became infected. Among them, my tío Venustiano “John” Castañeda, 93, the patriarch of our family. For a week, he was asymptomatic. I called him, but he didn’t pick up. A few days later my tío was taken to the hospital
Castañeda is the community opinion editor at The San Diego Union-tribune. She lives in Chula Vista.
saying he couldn’t breathe.
Just days after that, his sister Ascensíon “Fina” Castañeda, 88, our matriarch, started feeling sick too. She told me she had visited her brother twice for less than 10 minutes, to show him how to use his microwave after his diagnosis. The siblings were tight and lived down the hall from each other in senior citizen housing.
My tía was admitted to the same hospital as her brother. Meanwhile, all of us held vigil coast to coast. But it was too late. On Feb. 3, my uncle succumbed to the virus. This left our gigantic family, more than 200 of us, in shock and disbelief. My tío was 93, but in my family, that didn’t make him old. My great-grandmother Juanita lived to be 105. My grandma Beatriz was 96 when she died. I selfishly expected my tía and tío to become centenarians, too.
Instead, I sat in front of a computer screen 2,000 miles away, weeping, and watching his funeral Mass alone.
Meantime, my tía’s condition was taking a turn for the worse. She was transferred to a Chicago area hospital, but she was not improving. On Valentine’s Day, my tía Fina’s life came to an end. A compassionate doctor let my cousin Mari, an only child, say goodbye to her mother. She Facetimed with my dad during her visit so he could tell his closest sibling how much he loved her.
For me, it was another long-distance streaming funeral Mass, grieving alone.
It’s often said, “It’s not the way you die but the way you live that really matters.” And I will think of my tío and tía every time I see a Scrabble board because they were both avid players. They loved the casino. My tío
John was a prankster. He was happy and silly. He had a sense of adventure and a passion for music. He told his five children, 9 grandchildren, and 14 greatgrandchildren how he’d serenaded his bride of nearly 70 years with a guitar. He danced at every family reunion, even in his 90s! And in 2016, he got to witness his beloved Chicago Cubs win the World Series.
My tía Fina starting waitressing at the tender age of 13, handing over her checks to my grandma, a single mother raising nine kids. She worked in a factory most of her life, but still bought her own little house, which I cherish because of childhood memories. My tía
adored her family. She was a great cook who overfed us all. I will always hear her voice in the Spanish choir at church where she sang hymns loud and proud.
I checked with the Whiteside County Health Department and learned officials there began vaccinating seniors 65 and over on Jan. 26, just days before my tío and tía died. I’ll never stop wondering if a vaccine would have saved them. I regret I didn’t call or visit them all more often. Now there is no going back. For me, this heartache will last a lifetime. Que en paz descansen. Rest in peace.