I have just received an urn with
the ashes of one of my beautiful fur babies. He would have
been 12 years old, along with his brother and sister, on December
21. He was a bit of an oaf of a dog: Large and clumsy,
he always managed to bruise my toes when it was dinner time, with
his funny little tap dance and silly song.
But this is not a tribute to my boy. This is a plea to put
the health of others before your own convenience and comfort. This
may seem disjointed and irrelevant, but please follow along, and
all will be revealed.
In 1988, I was madly in love with a local rock star that I’d known
for a bit over a year. I was seventeen and believed that God
wanted me to save myself for marriage. I was reasonably successful
in school and planned to go to college. Dave, 21, at the time,
wanted me to move in with him after I graduated high school.
I told him that I couldn’t do that - it would set a bad example.
He suggested that we get married so it would be ok. At
seventeen, and in 1988, that was as romantic a proposal as I had
come to expect.
I had imagined waiting until after college to get married, but I
was young and crazy in love and had never seen a successful
relationship in my life, so what did I know?
Dave and I had been together a year when he got his own apartment.
Within a month or so, I was no longer a virgin. We didn’t use a
condom, because…boys. But we took precautions to avoid
pregnancy, and I trusted that certainly this man who loves me
would protect me if he knew or even thought he might have
something.
Within a month or so, I began to have symptoms. I didn’t know what
it was. Burning. Itching. Pain. My mom suggested it might be a
yeast infection, but it would be several more months and a wedding
before I learned that I had gotten Herpes Simplex 1, commonly
referred to as “oral herpes,” and I had gotten it genitally from
my husband, Dave, my very first lover.
When I told him that I had herpes, he blamed a past partner. He
told me that he knew he’d “had something, but what’s the big deal,
right?”
Well…
In the years since Dave and I divorced (married for eight,
together for ten), I have come close to death no less than three
times because of that virus. The first was in 2000, when the scar
tissue left behind by outbreaks caused my one and only pregnancy
to be ectopic. It ruptured and I bled internally for several
days before we caught it. I now have a scar from ovary to ovary
because they had to search for the rupture, and no children of my
own.
The second time I almost died was in 2014. I had a
tubo-ovarian abscess, part of the pelvic inflammatory disease
family that is caused by STD. At the time, I had yet to be
diagnosed with CVID, which I’ll discuss shortly, but when I first
went to the ER on my doctor’s advice, the CT showed a mass on my
ovary and a variety of enflamed lymph nodes. Their diagnosis
was cancer.
I incubated that abscess for six weeks, while doctors sorted out
how they intended to treat it. That was six weeks of triple
digit fevers, chills, aching, vomiting, and general misery.
There came a day in which I woke with strep in addition to all
those other symptoms. For the first time in my life, I
didn’t want to be alive anymore.
The good news is that it wasn’t cancer. It was this episode
that finally led to my diagnosis of CVID, which is Common Variable
Immune Deficiency. CVID is a condition in which my body does
not produce immunoglobulin G, which is responsible for creating
antibodies to bacteria and viruses. I had been having
chronic bronchitis and pneumonia for years. It had even cost
me a job.
No one knows what causes CVID, but there are those in the research
community who believe that it can be triggered by traumatic bodily
injury… like that ectopic pregnancy that I had that had required a
blood transfusion. That ectopic pregnancy that was likely
caused by scarring from that herpes virus that was No Big Deal.
The treatments for CVID are varied, but most involve infusions of
immunoglobulin G. I have to have them weekly. It takes
me about three hours to administer them, myself. I jab four
needles into my belly fat, connect myself to a pump and sit there
for a couple of hours as other people’s blood plasma gets pumped
into my body.
The third time that I almost died, came upon moving to a state
that refused to participate in the ACA subsidy. I went from
paying $55/mo on the exchange for health insurance in California,
to paying $600/mo on the exchange in North Carolina. It took
several months for me to reestablish my infusions, because at that
time, I was having to go into infusion clinics for IV infusions.
I was preparing to go home for Christmas, my fist visit since I’d
moved. On December 11, 2017, my now fiancé woke to find me
in the throws of a grand mal seizure. He was told that I had
encephalitis and that I’d suffered some strokes. He was told
that I would likely not survive.
I was in a coma for three weeks. I missed my visit
home. I missed Christmas. My fiancé has been diagnosed
with PTSD due to the event, but I have survived. My doctors
say that I am a walking miracle.
They should say, “a barely walking miracle.” The chronic
lung infections have caused Interstitial Lung Disease. I
require the use of a mobility scooter for anything involving
walking or standing for extended periods. I used to travel
the world. I’ve hiked all over this country and through
Canada, Germany and Italy. I had planned to someday make my
way to the British Isles, Japan, Mexico, Egypt and anywhere else I
could get to.
Now most housework will require a nap.
Even worse than my reduced stamina is the brain damage caused by
the strokes. I have to take seizure medication and sleep
with oxygen to prevent more seizures. I have short term
memory issues, and I experience confusion in stressful
situations. It doesn’t even have to be bad stress.
Tutoring my friend online in college algebra, a subject I taught
for 17 years, was an adventure. I love algebra and I love my
friend. She understands my issues, but it’s still quite
humbling to have her correct my mistakes while I’m trying to teach
her.
And this brings me to these ashes.
Due to my chronic health issues, my fiancé and I decided it would
be better to live closer to family and friends since his job has
become a work from home position. We left North
Carolina on July 9 with my beautiful babies in my van, Opie,
Chunk, and Despereaux. They were all from the same litter
and tumbled into my life completely unexpectedly. Their mom
had been rescued, and I was the lucky one to get to bring her
home. None of us realized that she came with a bonus.
Those three dogs were born into my hands. I have always felt
that they were the Universe’s way of allowing me the experience of
raising newborns. There had been seven puppies, but these
three were the only survivors. I realized right away that I
could not give them up.
As we left NC, Opie, Chunk, and Despereaux were excited to get in
the van and go bye-bye. Only Opie and Despereaux would make
it to our new home.
On the first morning after staying in a motel, I got up to take
the dogs out to go potty and eat. My fiancé was sleeping a
little late. After they all did their business, we headed
back to the room. They were so excited to get into the van
and go that I just went ahead and put them in. I’d be out in
a moment and we could leave.
When I got back into the room, I realized that Fiancé was still
sleeping. I prodded him to get him moving. I
communicated with the friends who’d flown to NC to help us drive
back and I was gathering up my stuff.
By the time we were ready to go, it was still morning, but it was
July. I had no idea how long it had been. It seemed
like only moments. When we opened the van, my worst fears
were realized.
I let my babies suffer in a hot, closed-up car because my brain
was damaged. Pre-encephalitis Jenna would never have left
them in a closed-up car for even a moment.
The image of my precious babies panting, and gasping will haunt me
forever. Chunk had seizures while I tried to get him to
drink Pedialyte. He peed on me. I knew he was gone.
I’m trying to make something positive of this whole
experience. I hope to someday start a non-profit called “For
the Love of Chunk” to help transport animals for people in need,
help with vet expenses, etc.
In the meantime, I can’t help but think that this is also a
valuable and timely lesson for others. Dave, my ex-husband
was asymptomatic. He assumed that since he had no symptoms,
he could not transmit that virus to me. He was not a bad
person. He genuinely loved me. And he made a choice to
put his comfort ahead of my health and safety.
Herpes rarely has the kinds of effects it has had on me. But
they do happen. If I had died from any of those events I shared,
cause-of-death would not have indicated herpes.
So when you hear about Covid-19 having a 3 or 4% death rate, that
number may seem low to you (though I fail to see how 160,000+
deaths since March is a low number). Keep in mind that we
don’t know what other lasting issues it may cause. How many
people will die from the aftereffects? What other suffering
might it cause? We have no way of knowing.
I may be no one to you, but I have become the adopted mama of a
couple of young people who have found themselves in need of
one. I’m an auntie, a sister, a daughter, and
bride-to-be. I’m a teacher, though my classroom has changed
shape. I am a mentor, and I am a writer with important
stories to tell.
I matter. I make a difference in this world. I
did nothing to deserve the pain and anguish that the herpes virus
has brought upon me and those who love me. I believe that if
Dave were alive to know the effects his choice has had on me; he’d
never forgive himself.
All this heartache and suffering comes down to a single
choice. He chose to think of his comfort. It’s ironic
to me that in both the case of herpes and the case of Covid-19 the
choice is the same: to wear protection or not.
Dave could and should have worn a condom.
You can and should wear a mask.
It's not just about you.