The Night They Said Kids Were Safe — and We Were Rushed to the COVID Floor
They kept saying it on the news:
“Kids don’t get COVID.”
“If they do, it’s mild.”
“Children are safe.”
And maybe somewhere that was true.
But not where we were.
Because while those headlines scrolled across the screen, I was carrying my feverish, hive-covered son through the automatic doors of a children’s hospital — a place I thought would be safe — and within seconds everything changed.
They took one look at him — lethargic, burning up, covered in angry red hives — and we were rushed straight back without a second of waiting.
Not walked.
Rushed.
A nurse on each side.
The hallway opening in front of us like a scene from E.T. — except this time, we were the ones being treated like the aliens behind the glass.
His little hospital socks slid on the floor as the wheelchair skidded around corners.
Every door we passed was shut.
Every person who approached us was layered in yellow PPE from head to toe.
A fevered child in monster pajamas, and suddenly every adult in the room was dressed like they were approaching something radioactive.
If I felt like an outsider, I can only imagine how terrifying it was for him.
Hiding My Symptoms So They Wouldn’t Take Me Away
I was sick too. I knew it.
Fever. Chills. A cough that felt like my ribs were splintering.
But I swallowed those coughs so hard tears filled my eyes.
I held my breath until my chest burned.
I kept my face still because in those early days, no one knew the rules — only the rumors.
And the only thing more terrifying than being sick was the idea that if they found out, they might make me leave.
Leave him alone in that room.
Leave him scared and confused.
Leave him without me.
So I stayed quiet.
Held myself together by force.
A mother’s instinct doing the heavy lifting that medicine couldn’t yet do.
That room — white walls, cold air, machines humming in the dark — became our whole world for days.
Days when no one knew anything.
Days when everyone said kids were safe but the pediatric COVID floor was full.
When Discharge Didn’t Feel Like Freedom
When my son was finally cleared to go home, the discharge process didn’t feel celebratory.
It felt orchestrated.
A nurse walked us out — not out of kindness, but with purpose.
She was there to ensure we went directly to my car, nowhere else.
As we approached the elevator, she peeled off her PPE — gloves, gown, mask — and for the first time I saw her actual face.
She looked at me with something sharp behind her eyes and asked:
“Where exactly have you been?
How did he get COVID?”
Her voice had an edge, like she already decided the answer.
Like she was asking, “What did you do?”
I looked right back at her and told the truth:
“The only place we had been before he got sick was here.
For his MRI.
The appointment I waited six months for.”
I said it plainly.
Because I had nothing to hide.
She muttered something — a platitude, a judgment, maybe even blame — I don’t know. I was too drained to carry her feelings and my own.
I don’t blame her.
Frontline workers were living through a nightmare.
But here is the part no one talks about:
Parents don’t need outside blame.
We already blame ourselves, even when it’s no one’s fault.
The Parking Garage Moment That Still Lives in My Bones
When the elevator doors opened into the parking garage, it felt like stepping from one universe into another.
We still had COVID.
We were being ushered out like a secret.
It all felt… hidden.
As we moved toward the car, a family walked in — parents, a toddler, a baby in a carrier — heading toward the hospital entrance.
And something inside me screamed:
“Turn around. Don’t go in there.”
Of course I didn’t say it.
Trauma rarely waits for logic to catch up.
My son was slumped in a too-big wheelchair, his rash tucked beneath his monster pajamas, eyes half-closed.
The nurse stood guard until I loaded him in.
She waited until I pulled away before turning back.
I remember gripping the steering wheel, hands shaking, thinking:
What just happened?
What world did we just walk out of?
And why does it feel like no one will ever talk about it?
What That Room Taught Me
I didn’t know it then, but that hospital room would change me.
It changed the way I advocate.
It changed the way I prepare.
It changed the way I show up for other caregivers.
It changed how seriously I take symptoms, checklists, medical bags, documentation.
It taught me how fragile the world is.
And how strong parents become when they have absolutely no other choice.
If you were a caregiving parent in those early pandemic days, I want you to hear this:
You weren’t overreacting.
You weren’t imagining it.
You weren’t alone.
Some of us parented through chaos with nothing but instinct holding us upright.
Some of us are still learning how to breathe again.
And all of us survived something no one prepared us for.