This week, in our final Stories of COVID-19 series, we bring you stories about managing the fear the pandemic introduced into our lives.

Part 1: A disagreement about COVID-19 precautions drives a wedge between Archy Jamjun and his partner.

Archy Jamjun is the curator of Outspoken LGBTQ Stories at Sidetrack. He is a two time winner of The Moth Grand Slam, a guncle, and has been published by BarrelHouse and The Coachella Review.

Part 2: Julie Grace Immink tries to hide her fear from her young son when her husband is hospitalized for COVID-19.

Julie Grace Immink is a photojournalist based in Milwaukee. She works on documentary projects about the human condition. Her working-class upbringing has inspired her work to focus on the socio-economic landscape of subcultures and communities. You can also find her kayaking the wilds of the Midwest or talking to strangers (the stranger the better). See her work at: juliegracephotography.com or on Instagram @FORMandGROOVE

Episode Transcript

Part 1: Archy Jamjun

It's 8:45 on a Friday night in July. The Zoom fundraiser I was part of had been cut short and I have a decision to make. Should I stay home or stop by our roommate Char's birthday party to have a quick drink on a patio and pick up my fiancé Jer? I have every reason to stay home.

I'm a server working 12-hour days in the summer sun and on the concrete. But I'm not only a tired server, because it's 2020, corona time. Thus I am also the mask police. I can now eagle-eye six feet with the accuracy of a tape measure.

I am a daily statistics checker and a public reference to the safety guidelines that need to be implemented and followed and thus I'm aware my roommate's party at a shutdown indoor bar is totally illegal, and I fucking hate it.

When he first mentioned the idea weeks ago. I didn't give it much thought because it was weeks off. And at this point, one week is ambitious long-term planning. Two days before, though, on Wednesday, I'd asked Jer, my partner through life's trials, if we could skip the party and buy him dinner on a patio instead.

“So Char's b’day, I don't think it's going to be a small party. And it's inside. Can we just skip it?”

“I have to go. I promised him.”

I knew we would fight over Char's party. Jealousy is part of our love language. He is Puerto Rican, I am a Thai ladyboy. Maybe those aren't the reasons but we both, at times, adore our jealous tendencies. And though we have done a lot of work to undo the dangerous parts, I was not raised to hear my fiancé make a promise over me to another man.

And since Char had moved in three months ago, I'd become increasingly jealous, something I was aware of and humbly admitted to Jer. See, they just got along better, had more boy things in common. Their casual friendship blossomed during quarantine while Jer and I struggled to find things to do now that the outside world had mostly closed.

I hated waking up at 2:00 a.m. to an empty bed only to find Jer in Char's room playing video games. I felt like they sat strangely close on the couch.

“But Char is a straight guy,” I told myself, “who loves musicals.” And to be honest, though he has really small hands, he is really cute. And Jer is a top, so not necessarily a size thing, not that I would know, but look, I'm not saying I was right and I'm not saying I'm uncrazy, but that's the point. Jer knows me and he'd always protected me from my insecurities.

I love my man. We have a life plan. I didn't want to lose him trying to live with someone who brought out the worst and weakest in me.

Two months ago, I'd asked Jer to talk to Char about moving out. Two months later, I was rolling my eyes at their promise.

That Friday night, though, I decide to trust them and go. I trusted that as we agreed Jer would stay on the patio during the party and that, as Char said, no more than eight people were going to show up. And if so, Jer would leave.

Jer sent me a video around 6:30 and there were only three people there. At nine, I text Jer that I was on my way.

I tell myself that meeting Jer on the patio is the right thing to do, because it would help squash the jealousy I felt. I need to become a better version of myself to be a better partner, and this is life challenging me to do so. I need to embrace Char as a friend, as Jer's friend and see my jealousy for what it is, unnecessary emotion.

The patio is empty when I get there. I squish down the nose clip on my mask and open a side door. I take a few steps in and peek around the corner. Before my eyes can even comprehend the entirety of two dozen or so shadows, a 20-something without a mask barrels towards me about to puke.

I launched my 40-year-old body out the door. I pick up the phone and dial, “Are you inside?”

“Yeah, I'm…”

“That's all I need to know.”

I quarantined my fiancé and Char in the basement together. For the next week, I stomped the floors above, relived Beyonce's Lemonade, and thought about that promise while I fiddled with the ring on my finger. My blood was angry, my nerves were numb. I watched porn loudly and drank bottles of wine with my friends.

I watched from the window as Jer diligently drove Char to his job as a manager of an erectile dysfunction clinic at 6:30 a.m. each morning in a car they rented, instead of using mine anymore.

In text, he swore our love would survive, and I thought about how one year ago when I got LASIK, he left me blind at home to play Dungeons & Dragons. I thought about how he used my Best Buy card and forgot to pay it. I thought about every strike that should have been an out, but I also knew I wouldn't trade the last eight years for anything.

Jer’s love allowed parts of me to come out of their shell because he made me feel safe. Our best memories are dreams I had before we even met. I missed him so much that week.

I stretched out an olive branch but drew it back when he said he loved Char like family, which upon reflection seems unfair to his family as well. I think he fell in love, which would have been fine because I get it. That happens. I work with really hot busers, but to live with it?

One of my mistakes was telling Char he had to move out on the morning of our anniversary that Saturday eight days after the party. I think I did it politely. He responded maturely. I thought we came to an understanding. No need to pay any more rent. Just start looking for a place with the aim of next month.

I'd already told Jer that, because of the party, I was 90% sure I was going to ask Char to leave, and I expected Jer’s support. He said it would be there.

I came home from work in the afternoon that day, our anniversary. Char said he'd be gone for the day so Jer would be alone. I knocked on the basement door. No answer. I turned the knob, it was locked. It's legally my house. I have a key to every room. I thought about it and decided to open the door.

He was so angry at me. His face red with hate, he told me how embarrassed he was that I had kicked Char out. It was embarrassing to him, to his family and Char. He had shown Char and a few of the relatives I'd come to know the texts we had exchanged over the last week and they all agreed I was out of control. Like they could understand because of the pandemic but I was crazy.

“I'm offering him a free month of rent. That's hardly kicking him out.”

“You're going to have to physically remove him. And if you try to kick him out before, we'll sue. You we looked into it. There are laws.”

There were a lot of other words exchanged. He even called his mother to moderate. I waited until he repeated that sentiment for the third time. “We'll sue you.”

That ‘we’ was a limbo bar I could not get under. I don't know if Jer meant everything he said that afternoon. It was the first time he said he didn't know if he could be with me anymore. I find that hard to believe. I am difficult often.

When Jer chose Dungeons & Dragons over helping me recover, when Best Buy called about the outstanding balance, I questioned what was intentional and what was him just being irresponsible. That ‘we’ made me stop caring about his intent. COVID doesn't care about intent. It seemed like a timely lesson.

My fiancé on our anniversary was telling me he would sue me over a friend I barely knew. To say I dream bigger for myself is an understatement. I asked myself if I could still say I do, and I could not.

Over the next week or so I took my friend's advice and burned down the house, metaphorically of course. I had to protect myself from the me who would forgive him later.

I'm sorry for what I said to his mother when she called. I stayed in my parents’ den with my cat out of fear for four days after that, but there are moments in life that feel like definite forks in the road. What kind of life did I want?

It's almost seven months later. I've gone fetal on the couch with heartache. I've come to believe a bottle of wine is a single serving. And the first hot guy I met on Grindr asked me to poop in his mouth. So much fun.

But like Cher, I believe in life after love and I'm excited to start over as a better version of myself, because I did not only burn down the house. I lit a stronger fire within me as well.

When Jer chose Dungeons & Dragons over helping me recover, when Best Buy called about the outstanding balance, I questioned what was intentional and what was just him being irresponsible. That ‘we’ made me stop caring about his intent. COVID doesn't care about intent. It seemed like a timely lesson.

Over the next week or so, I took my friend's advice and burned down the house, metaphorically of course. I had to protect myself from the me who would forgive him later.

I'm sorry for what I said to his mother when she called. I stayed in my parents’ den with my cat out of fear for four days after that. But there are moments in life that feel like definite forks in the road. What kind of life did I want?

But like Cher, I believe in life after love, and I'm excited to start over as a better version of myself. Because I did not only burn down the house. I lit a stronger fire within me as well.

Part 2: Julie Grace Immink

I pack the car with hand sanitizers, face masks and cleaning wipes. I drench myself in essential oils and I even strap bulbs of garlic to my chest because I am desperate to stay safe. Emotionally, I want to crumble, but I am trying to stay in one piece because I have to drive ten hours from our home in Milwaukee towards Lincoln, Nebraska.

Our five-year-old son Gunther is in the back and my fear and anxiety sit alongside the disinfectants in the passenger seat. I am headed towards the hospital where my husband Ben and his entire family have just been hospitalized with COVID-19 complications.

Ben was in his hometown temporarily managing the family ranch because his youngest brother Jacob and his mom and dad were all tested positive and were hospitalized. When Ben went home to help, he packed funeral clothes because his younger brother was in such critical condition. And although he was careful on the ranch, he wore a mask and he kept a distance from others, Ben was later admitted. And now he is on day seven of his symptoms and the most painful days are coming. The eye of the storm, the doctors tell us.

A medical team has referred to his air sacs as being full of concrete since pneumonia has now taken over 70% of his lungs. He is being cared for by labor and delivery nurses. Because of this pandemic wave that hit the Midwest, maternity nurses had to be pulled off their floor onto the COVID-19 unit to help. And like midwives caring for the laboring mother, they assist Ben by checking his vital signs and coaching his breath.

For days his hospital bed has become a fever inferno until the evening comes when his sheets become saturated with so much sweat that the nurses change his bedding multiple times a night. They also administer to him a daily intravenous treatment of dexamethasone. Ben tells me that he gave this same exact steroid to revive dying sheep on his family ranch. When a ewe was having a difficult birth and she would lie down and surrender, the shot would bring her back so that she could care for her young. And likewise, the nurses give this same exact steroid to Ben to deliver him from the virus's painful grip.

Gunther and I are just a few hours en route to his hospital and I'm thinking we just have to drive there safe and get through the next few days of this storm, until my phone rings. It's Ben. He's out of breath.

He tells me that his x-ray just came back and the pulmonologist said that his pneumonia is progressing and he's getting worse. He'll be in the hospital for another week at least.

I pull over. I can't drive. I see a motel off the side of the freeway. I pull into the parking lot. There is caution tape on the furniture in the lobby so no one will congregate and there are handwritten signs on the glass that warn me no housekeeping, no ice, no breakfast.

I start apologizing. “I'm sorry I don't have a reservation. Is there any room available?”

I try to remember my name, my phone number, what type of credit card will I be using, what is the make and model of my car. His questioning feels like a final exam. What are the answers?

I want to climb into the motel bed, pull the sheets over my head and just start to cry, but I can't. My son wants to swim in the vacant motel pool, so I sit along the side, the shallow end, with my feet in the frigid water but my mind is in the deep end just picturing more cement being poured into Ben's lungs.

I throw my son some diving rings so he can retrieve them but each colored band I throw just sinks like my trepidation of raising our boy by myself. The first ring. Ben's job is the primary source of our income. If we were to lose him, would I have to become a street beggar or a sister wife?

Julie Grace Immink sits with her husband Gunther in the hospital.

The next weight drops in the pool. What if the virus were to attack me also? Whom would we choose to care for Gunther?

Another dense mass. Ben and I met over a decade ago before anyone was swiping left or right. Would I have to become a middle-aged mom on Tinder?

The final plunge. Would Gunther even remember Ben? He's only in kindergarten so his memories of their backyard baseball games, fishing trips and bedtime wrestling matches may become hazy.

I throw my son his final diving ring. They're all in deep water.

To dry off or after the swim, he dries off by bouncing naked on the mattress of our hotel room. He thinks we are on a mommy vacation. He parks himself in front of some cartoons to eat his dinner, a gas station hot dog.

His feet are dangling off the side of the bed and I gently talk with him. “Baby, Daddy’s still sick and the doctors are still trying to fix him. But hopefully, we will see him again soon.”

When I talk with him, I am careful and I speak in open-ended sentences. I do not want to promise him that we are going to see daddy again because I am uncertain if we will.

I put our son to bed and I video call Ben again in the darkness. His face is bright red with another fever spike. He is lying in the prone position on his stomach, which helps COVID‑19 patients distribute higher volumes of oxygen to their lungs.

We just sit in silence. We are trying to protect each other from the emotional sickness that we both feel. I don't want to let him know how debilitated he appears while well he does not want to tell me about the agony that he has been experiencing. He is wearing an oxygen mask and looks like he has been slowly burning and suffocating in a horror movie that I have watched over the past week on my phone screen. However, I can't turn off this series because I am his exit guide. If this was his last breath, I want to be there for it.

During the day, I've been cradling the phone around like a fragile newborn, toting him around to keep him safe. Until the evening comes when we lie the phones on our chest and keep the video chat on just to feel close. There is a three-piece harmony playing in the darkness. The sound of his monitors beeping, my heart pounding and the desperate moans he releases when he dozes off.

When morning arrives I'm sleepless and aching. The Interstate 80 through Iowa offers nothing but endless freeways for my mind to accelerate down. I'm technically sitting behind the wheel but my mind is racing, like I'm not really there. It feels like I have this other mom take over the driving. She is responsible and remembers to pull over for my son to take bathroom breaks and eat snacks. Her stability allows my son to look at treats in the gas station and then choose a pack of gum for the ride.

Meanwhile, I am busy clutching my phone, hoping it would ring so that way I knew Ben was still alive, but also no. Please don't ding, because what if it is more bad news.

There is an there is an intersection on the road ahead. In one direction Gunther is safely in the shadow of his father, but the other way it's just me. Broken down and lacking the tools to show my son the way through manhood. The only person with whom I want to share my fear about losing Ben is Ben. His stability reigns in my wandering mind but, for once, he is too sick to carry the weight of my emotions. I don't want to talk to anyone else about how I feel, so I try to bring Ben back to life with my mind.

“Please don't die. Gunther needs you. We need you.”

When I arrive in Lincoln, I wait for Ben to be allowed to have a visitor. His brother Jacob has been induced into a medical coma and placed on a ventilator. I am the only able-bodied, virus‑free family member nearby. So I look at the long list of restrictions for anyone entering the hospital and I'm cleared to sit with him.

It is Thanksgiving Day. A nurse walks in with a bottle for his lunch. It's a creamy gravy-colored liquid that is fed to him through one of the dozens of tubes that he is attached to. The last time I saw this cattleman, he was on the family ranch in a pasture, pulling a dead cow out of a pond with a lasso. The decomposing animal would have contaminated the water for the rest of the herd, so he removed the decaying animal.

Now, seeing him here in this bed attached to a myriad of machines that are breathing for him, wish I had a magical rope to extract what was infecting him and remove it, but I am an unskilled cowgirl in the wild west of this virus. The only weapon I possess is faith that he can recover. I hold his hand. I play him a few songs. I pray and I massage his feet.

On my visit with Jacob, Ben is approved to have a visitor. We have only seen each other for the past three weeks over a telephone screen. Seeing him now through my PPE shield, a face mask and a plastic gown provided by the COVID-19 unit, I barely recognize him. He's wearing an— he is attached to an oxygen tank and wearing pale yellow hospital slippers and a gown half falling off his limbs.

I hug him to see if he is real and he lets out a squeak because he is just too weak to cry. My blue rubber gloved hand holds his feeble fingers and I watch his chest rise and fall with each breath. I think about our relationship and how easy it's been. The hardest part about loving him is just my fear of losing him.

When I leave the hospital, the sky is dark and silent. Restaurants and stores are closed because of the Thanksgiving holiday. There is a sports bar next to our motel that is open. My son and I eat some greasy pub snacks giving thanks, because the doctors have finally talked about daddy being allowed to be sent home.