primarily to protect her nine-year-old daughter, who has severe asthma.
Heidi has moved out of her home and is living a few miles away in a
basement apartment at her parent's house. After spending every single
waking hour with my kids for six weeks and counting, I could stand to
be away from them for a night. Maybe two. OK, three. But no longer
than a four-day weekend.
I jokingly told Heidi that her living arrangement sounded amazing. She
laughed. "I totally get that, but being apart from my family has been really,
really difficult."
Heidi video chats with her kids every evening and tries to help with
home schooling from afar. She lauds the efforts of her husband, who's on
constant duty keeping the homefront in order while she heads to the
frontline. She goes to her house often, standing a healthy distance away
in the driveway to watch her daughter spin circles on a bike.
"Stopping by is almost harder because my children want hugs, and I can't
give them," she said, her voice cracking. "And then I have to leave. Again."
Heidi has no idea how long she'll need to stay away, but hopes to start
catching up on all those missed hugs at the end of this month. "Healthcare
workers and their families make sacrifices every day," said Heidi. "We
chose our career to help people who need us. You can't walk away when
things get tough."
Spoken like a true nurse. I thanked Heidi for her selfless service from the
comfort of my home.
"I appreciate you saying that, now go hug those kids of yours," she said,
her voice catching again.
"Of course," I managed to promise over a lump in my throat.
My family is alone, but we're together. Funny how life's cosmic energy
sends perfectly timed reminders about what mat-
ters most.
OSM
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