Her husband was dying of COVID
By Julia O'Malley
Wendi Gratrix lost her husband of 36 years, Speed, to coronavirus in September. The story is nightmarish, but she always tells it as a series of small mercies.
A few hundred people in 果冻传煤 know Wendi, a 64-year-old office administrator, as 鈥淟ady Wendi鈥� on Twitter. She joined the platform in 2008 to keep track of Sarah Palin, and many of her Twitter friends have known her since. For all the bad vibes on the internet, Wendi makes a habit of sending good ones. She鈥檚 the first person to like every kid鈥檚 first-day-of-school picture. Post a gorgeous latte or a perfect avocado, she鈥檒l answer with a fire emoji. If you write about a rough day, she鈥檒l check on you later.
鈥淲endi is sort of like the queen of 果冻传煤 Twitter,鈥� said Emily Purrenhage, a pharmacist and roller girl who befriended Wendi on the platform years ago when she moved to 果冻传煤. 鈥淪he takes us little transplants under her wing. She鈥檚 kind of like an auntie.鈥�
Speed had a Twitter account too. His given name was听听but he鈥檇 been known as Speed since he was born two weeks earlier than expected in 1942. He was the sort of fellow you鈥檇 recognize as from here 鈥� tall, bearded, with a preference for flannel shirts, suspenders and a pistol within reach. All his working life, he鈥檇 been an electrician. As a hobby, he carved ivory, which is why he always wore a beaded necklace strung with a single bear claw.
Wendi and Speed made their home in Spenard, where Speed lived since childhood. Wendi鈥檚 Twitter followers knew their comings and goings. In the summertime, she convened small cocktail parties on her deck while wearing a tiara and a little sequins. She had a fluffy cat named Ping Pong. She cared for her elderly mother, called 鈥淨ueen Mum.鈥�
On the other side of the isolation of the last two years are the people we hung on to. Wendi hung on to her Twitter friends, when her real life friends couldn鈥檛 visit anymore. And, when she needed them, they hung on to her too.
The Twitter friends were among the first to hear when Speed started to feel ill in late August. He had heart trouble and lung trouble and laboring all those years hurt his back. He hadn鈥檛 been in favor of getting vaccinated but eventually gave in, she said, because he knew he was vulnerable. He tested positive first. Then she did.
Not long after she tweeted about it, flowers arrived from a Twitter friend up in Fairbanks, wishing her a fast recovery. A professional arrangement! Wendi was blown away.
Her condition improved. But Speed couldn鈥檛 catch his breath. His doctor called and told them to go to the ER. But, by then, Wendi couldn鈥檛 get him to the car.
鈥淚 called 911,鈥� she said. 鈥淎nd Station 5 came over with their heroes.鈥�
Paramedics arrived in minutes, decked out in hazmat gear, and coaxed Speed on a gurney.
鈥淎nd while I was dealing with the intake fireman, I could hear the paramedics start to holler, 鈥楽peed come back, hey buddy, hey buddy, come back.鈥� ... I could tell that it sounded like he鈥檇 passed out,鈥� Wendi said. 鈥淪o I went down there and I was rustling him and talking to him and calling his name and his eyes flickered back. 鈥� That was the last time I was able to touch him, or, you know, talk to him personally.鈥�
A little over a week passed with Speed at Alaska Native Medical Center. There were no visitors. Wendi waited each day for a nurse to call. Meanwhile, the Twitter friends began a quiet campaign. She鈥檇 hear footsteps on her deck. A knock. There鈥檇 be a dozen fresh eggs. A gift card for dinner. A bottle of gin.
鈥淧eople I鈥檇 never met!鈥� she said. 鈥淪howing up and bringing me things.鈥�
The doctors put Speed in a prone position, switching him from his stomach to his back to help his breathing. Toward the end of the week, the nurse who had called her every day told her, gently, his numbers didn鈥檛 look good.
鈥淗e says, 鈥橧鈥檓 not giving you hope,鈥欌�� she said. 鈥淪peed was really, really bad.鈥�
It broke her heart. But, looking back, honesty was an act of kindness. It helped prepare her for what would come next.
She tweeted the news. Purrenhage brought her soup and biscuits. Liz and David Nicolai, a librarian and a mechanical engineer, brought her nacho fixings and queso straight off the stove. Natalie Stefano, a data manager, brought her a bag of easy-to-eat snacks.
鈥淎nything my heart desired, they showed up with,鈥� Wendi said. 鈥淭hey just seem to know.鈥�
Speed鈥檚 daughters came. They said goodbye in the grim manner of so many families during the pandemic: via video on a tablet held by a nurse.
鈥淲e were just robbed of all that end-of-life intimacy, you know?鈥� Wendi said. " I wasn鈥檛 able to hold his hand or feel his warmth or whisper in his ear.鈥�
She gets teary talking about the doctors and nurses who walked with her through it.
鈥淥ne nurse said that, you know, she talked to him all the time, just spoke out loud to him, just let him know he was doing good and he wasn鈥檛 alone,鈥� she said.
Wendi estimates 50 people she knew from Twitter sent or delivered gifts since she and Speed got sick. Dozens more of her real life friends reached out too.
鈥淢y feelings?鈥� she wrote in a Twitter message. 鈥淓ach loving kindness helped to push my grief and shock to a different place so my heart could process. 鈥� Was like a big virtual hug never breaking off.鈥�
A few days after Speed died, Wendi went to Jackie鈥檚 Place, where they had been regulars. She ordered some breakfasts to send to ANMC鈥檚 COVID ward.
鈥淎nd I reached for my card, Janice wouldn鈥檛 take my money,鈥� Wendi said. 鈥淎nd she sent out at least 25 of those breakfast orders to the crowd (at ANMC) and delivered them.鈥�
Restaurant owner Janice Johnson delivered the meals herself.
鈥�(If) the tables turned she would absolutely have done the same,鈥� Johnson wrote in an email.
Speed will be buried this summer at Joint Base Elmendorf-Richardson. Wendi still wakes up sometimes and forgets he鈥檚 gone. This is the loneliest time, six months out, when you still have to sort through clothes and get used to making dinner for just yourself. But just when she needs to be reminded she鈥檚 not alone, Wendi still finds gifts on her doorstep.
