Dec. 5, 2020
This is the story of one mother and one daughter bound by an enduring devotion to each other and a lifelong promise to be each other’s protector.
It is the story of that daughter’s decision, in the face of a growing worldwide pandemic, to step away from all that was dear to her — her home, her husband and her career — to spend nearly three months at her mother’s side when she needed her most.
For 84 days, Trib reporter JoAnne Klimovich Harrop lived with her 93-year-old mother in a small room at Squirrel Hill’s Charles Morris Nursing & Rehabilitation Center after the nursing home closed its doors to visitors to stem the spread of the deadly novel coronavirus. Six days after she moved in, Gov. Tom Wolf ordered a statewide lockdown of all nursing homes.
JoAnne slept on a cot next to her mother. She ate meals with her and held her hand when the pain of old age and cancer became unbearable.
Confined to that 250-square-foot room, they talked, they laughed and they cried.
And on those toughest days, they held on tight and prayed for one more day together.
Evelyn D’Antonio Klimovich loved God, the Pittsburgh Pirates and a good bowl of Italian wedding soup.
But above all, it was her family, her husband, Paul, a tire shop worker by trade, and the four daughters and a son they raised in a small home in Pittsburgh’s Greenfield section that gave her the most joy.
For Evelyn and Paul’s kids, there wasn’t a lot of money, but there was never a shortage of love — or Evelyn’s legendary meat ravioli.
One by one, the kids left Pittsburgh to pursue their dreams and raise families of their own, except for the youngest, JoAnne, now 57, of Scott, who stayed close to home and married a sports-loving high school teacher and basketball coach named Perry.
And that is where this story begins — with JoAnne and Evelyn, just the two of them facing a pandemic that no one saw coming and no one knew how or when it would end.
It was just before 5 p.m. on March 13 when JoAnne’s phone rang.
She knew the state might close all nursing homes to the public, possibly for as long as two weeks.
The caller from her mom’s home asked her to get there by 6 p.m.
“I’m in,” she said, hanging up the phone, gathering her thoughts, remembering she had plenty of paid leave to cover this time away from work.
She’d already discussed it with her husband who knew there was only one answer.
They didn’t have children, so that was not an issue.
She had to go.
For the past four years, she’d been faithful to a fault, visiting her mother every day after work and on weekends.
Sometimes they spent the evening snacking. Some nights it was the Pirates on TV. Sometimes, they just talked like two good friends catching up on the day’s events.
JoAnne’s daily journal tells the poignant, often heartbreaking story of their days and nights together.
Through words and images captured during those days, she shares her story, the story of one mother and one daughter who never gave up on each other, even on the darkest of days.
The date was March 13, 2020.
Yes, Friday the 13th.
The call came in at 4:40 p.m.
“How soon can you get here?” a worker at the nursing home asked.
I knew it would take me at least 45 minutes.
“I’m on my way.”
I grabbed my purse and computer and told my editor goodbye.
I had to leave at that moment because if I arrived too late, I thought they might not let me in.
JoAnne jumped in her SUV, swinging past a convenience store for a few last-minute items.
Knowing a lockdown was possible, she had some clothes with her and some at the nursing home where she’d occasionally stay all night when her mother wasn’t feeling well. A few years ago, when her mother was fighting an infection, she’d even slept on a windowsill so she could be there if she needed her.
I bought the essentials: Arizona sweet tea, Twizzlers, Hostess cinnamon cakes, Frosted Flakes and sugar cookies. It was Lent or I would have grabbed some chocolate and 14 bottles of Mountain Dew, but I had given those up.
I filled up my car with gas. Not sure why I even did that.
I arrived at the nursing home at 5:59. I have the printout to prove it.
I carried my purse, computer, bags of snacks, clothes, shoes and makeup into the building. The sliding doors closed behind me.
I signed a waiver saying if anything happened to me, the nursing home would not be responsible. I didn’t even read it until later.
I just scribbled my name.
I was in.
JoAnne found her mom sitting in her wheelchair watching the evening news.
She kissed her on the forehead, gave her a hug and sat down on her bed to talk about what was happening.
They talked about what a quarantine meant. They talked about the “virus.”
It didn’t seem like such a big deal to either of them.
They’d spent many days together indoors when Evelyn was paralyzed on her left side by a stroke in 2004. And again when she broke her hip in 2016 and moved to the nursing home.
They comforted each other when JoAnne’s dad died in 2015.
We met those challenges head on. This would be no different.
We believed we were ready. As long as we were together, that was all that mattered.
Evelyn and I are pretty much inseparable.
We have matching Steelers pillow cases and plenty of blankets because we’re always cold.
I got her ready for bed, I looked around.
We would be OK.
She had her single bed and me my cot. We had a small television — with limited channels — a blue recliner, two brown dressers, a lamp and the famous windowsill with some storage below that was loaded with family photos. Her favorite picture is the May 21, 1949, photo of she and my dad on their wedding day.
We each have an adjustable tray table for our meals. There’s a bathroom. It doesn’t have a shower. The shower is down the hall for the residents, and now, for me as well.
The next day, their routine began.
Breakfast in their room.
A daily temperature check.
A little TV time.
A nap for Evelyn.
Then a lunch of peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.
And some questions from Evelyn.
“I can’t go out? And you can’t go out either?”
“That’s right, Mom. You can’t go out and I can’t go out either.”
My mom took a nap and I visited her friend down the hall, Rosie. I promised her son and daughter-in-law that I would check on Rosie every day.
We met Rosie in September of 2018. She and my mother ate lunch and dinner together every day.
Rosie became a second mother to me. Her son and daughter-in-law became my family, too. I sent a text today, saying she was doing well. It felt good to make sure Rosie was OK. She is one-of-a-kind. At 96, she is still an amazing piano player. I wrote a story about her performing at Piano Day in downtown Pittsburgh.
Overnight, Evelyn lay awake, thinking about the day … thinking about JoAnne.
My mom woke up around 3 a.m. and called my name like she has done many times in the middle of the night.
I got her out of bed, into the wheelchair and rolled her into the bathroom. I got her back in bed and lay down on my cot across the room.
“JoAnne?”
“Do you need something?” I asked.
“Thank you” she said.
“Thanks for what?”
“Thank you for taking such good care of me.”
Holding back tears, I said, “you’re welcome.”
Sundays were their day.
First there was Mass at St. Rosalia, then lunch at Big Jim’s, a neighborhood bar and restaurant not far from where JoAnne grew up.
Evelyn loved it there, and they loved her.
It was her Sunday routine.
But not today.
Evelyn looks at her rosary as she watches Catholic Mass on television on March 15.
I don’t remember missing Mass since I was at Penn State and participated in the Dance Marathon where we danced for 48 hours from 7 p.m. Friday to 7 p.m. Sunday.
Today we watched Mass at noon on TV.
My mom asked for her rosary beads.
My mom has been saying the rosary her entire life. Brought up in an Italian Catholic family, her mother, Maddalena, attended church several days a week and praying the rosary was part of her ritual she passed down to my mother. My sister Paula recently gave Mom a pair of rosary beads blessed by Pope Francis on a visit to Rome.
At 2 p.m., there was a bingo game in the dining room. Bingo is a favorite of my mother. Residents win paper money they can spend at the gift shop.
On this day, they had to sit six feet apart, but it was nice to get out of the room for an hour.
One resident said to me, “JoAnne, I feel like I am in jail.”
The steady deliveries of food to the front desk from friends and family nourished JoAnne’s body and soul. It was her link to the outside. She missed her hectic life, her home and her husband, but she knew she was where she needed to be – with her mom.
We woke up at 8 a.m. and had breakfast. Rosie’s granddaughter brought us cookies. We had them for dessert after lunch. They are called Hamentashen. Rosie’s daughter-in-law brought us cereal, baby wipes and baggies.
Activities came by with word puzzles.
My good friend made us meatloaf, mashed potatoes, corn, bread and cookies as well as fettuccine Alfredo for another meal.
I got to walk outside for a few minutes to get the food from her.
The air felt good. Something as simple as fresh air I took for granted until this quarantine.
At 9 p.m., we prayed the rosary.
Another day just like the days before.
“Golden Girls.” “Young and Restless,” then “Judge Judy.”
In between shows, JoAnne begins to worry about a stubborn rash on her mother’s chest.
We have been able to talk about all kinds of things. She asked me if I think we see people who have died before us when we die. And I said, I think you see the people you want to see, the people you love.
On this day, the devastating effects of the pandemic on the local economy shook JoAnne’s world when she received word from her executive editor that she would be laid off along with several others. It was a conversation playing out at newspapers across the nation.
Though she was told about hopes of recalling her sometime soon, the words were lost in her grief.
This is the one quarantine day I will remember for the rest of my life. I listened in shock. The tears came after I hung up. The rest of the night is pretty much a blur.
I do remember talking with my mom about it for more than an hour. She comforted me, telling me I would find another job and that I was a good worker and many companies would want to hire me.
Later in the evening I heard the song “How Great Thou Art” coming from another room.
My mom had a rough night sleeping, so I put the recliner next to her and held her hand the rest of the evening. I stared at the windowsill, looking at the photos.
I saw my work computer on the floor. I was crushed having been laid off from the paper. This had been my dream job. I have never wanted to do any other work because journalism inspires me and is my passion.
With the rash on her chest becoming more uncomfortable, Evelyn’s doctor orders a mammogram.
This day sucked…
Two workers tried to put a brace on her left hand to help straighten it but her fingers were clenched and she cried and I cried. … I cannot take it when my mom cries. … It pierces my heart … and I wished I was dead…
It seems like each day now something changes. … I took my mom into the bathroom and she wasn’t able to stand up so I could get her pants down because she was too weak.
The nurse and two aides on duty came to the room and hugged me. I broke down.
JoAnne plays cards with Rose Wyner at the center.
I told Rosie I could play cards with her. She beat me three games in a row. I need to practice more.
Our friend from Big Jim’s brought dinner.
Rosie’s granddaughter brought us dinner — wedding soup, chicken, cookies, iced tea and wine.
After dinner, I took my mom down the hall to look out the window. She said, “It looks so nice out there. Can we go out?” I had to tell her “no” because we were in quarantine.
“This virus is pretty bad, isn’t it?” she asked.
After I got her in bed, I cried. My mother thrived on going out.
Evelyn enjoys wedding soup.
One of the 3 to 11 p.m. shift aides brought us spaghetti and wedding soup from Big Jim’s. We spent a lot of Monday nights going there for $3 spaghetti. She said she wanted us to feel as normal as we could, like old times. Some of the workers have become family to us. They treat my mother like she is their mom and they treat me like a sister.
I drank two glasses of red wine.
I went to flip the calendar to April and I looked at all the days I had crossed off in quarantine. Two weeks had come and gone.
Evelyn loved her Pittsburgh sports teams and attended many Pirates games. This year, opening day in April was canceled because of the pandemic, but she still dressed for game day and sang “Take Me Out To The Ballgame.”
It was what was supposed to be Opening Day for Major League Baseball. With the season suspended, we still celebrated with a video I made of some of the residents singing “Take Me Out to the Ball Game.”
My mom knows all the words.
Though the nursing home is run by the Jewish Association on Aging and kosher food was a constant, the staff is ever-conscious that Evelyn is a devout Catholic.
Palm Sunday is approaching so the activities department brought us homemade palms they created from greenery outside the nursing home. I hung them above a cross my mom has in her room.
I got a Facebook message to call the president of my company. I was scared to dial her number. I asked my mom what she thought I should do. She said, “Call and see what she wants.”
Perry brought us Mineo’s pizza and wedding soup.
I called the president after dinner.
She asked how I was doing. I told her about the quarantine and how things were going. She sent me a message later that read, “I’ll see you on the other side of this pandemic. Please relax and enjoy your time with your mom. Our story together isn’t over.”
This made me feel good.
The staff got new uniforms. They are beige tops and bottoms. They can wear their clothes to work and then change into the uniforms and change out of the uniforms before they go home. The nursing home is doing everything it can to keep the virus out.
I spent the afternoon getting my mother’s backpack ready for her appointment to check her left breast tomorrow at UPMC Magee-Womens Hospital. We always take extra items when we go out, additional briefs, wipes and gloves as well as an extra outfit. There is also a hat and scarf in case we need them, and container of orange juice in case her blood sugar drops.
Perry picked us up at 7:15 a.m. and we drove to the hospital.
The first doctor thought my mom had a skin infection. She consulted a colleague. When he looked at my mom’s breast, he said he thought it needed a biopsy.
There were needles and blood and stitches. She went through it like a champ.
It was heart-wrenching to watch, but I wanted to be there. He numbed the area, then he took a piece of the tissue. He stitched it so carefully.
We made Perry take us for a ride to Juliano’s in Robinson for takeout. It was our first day outside in 27 days.
I am starting to worry about Rosie. She seems overwhelmed. She is used to seeing her family and I know this is hard on her, too.
Her daughter-in-law asked if I could bring her to the door so they could see her, but I wasn’t allowed.
My mom woke from her nap and asked why I was staying with her. I told her that I want to be here with her during quarantine and “isn’t that nice you have me here?”
She said, “It’s fantastic… and you have me here, too.”
It is the first day of Passover.
The call came from the surgeon that my mom had triple negative breast cancer that was stage 3 and aggressive.
He said, “Treasure your time with her. She’s lived a long life.”
He talked about palliative care, so of course, I did a Google search.
I have heard the word before – hospice. It’s a word that is hard for me to say. Hospice attaches a sense of emergency about the here and now because you don’t know if there’s a tomorrow, really for any of us, but time becomes even more precious when someone is diagnosed with triple negative breast cancer that is inoperable.
My mom had a bad night from the pain from the biopsy.
She kept saying “I’m sick, I’m sick.”
I texted my siblings.
Mom and I talked about the diagnosis. She said she didn’t want any drastic measures. I held her hand and we both cried.
My mom didn’t want to eat or drink.
One of the aides tried to comfort us, but my mom and I were both upset. Even though we didn’t talk about the diagnosis I know my mom knew what was happening. She could feel it in her body.
I spent most of this day in tears.
I got into it with the night aide about the pads on the bed not being right. She wanted to hug me, but I didn’t want to hug her. I just wanted to be left alone.
It’s Easter Sunday.
My mom seems more confused than normal. The pain medication has that effect on her sometimes.
She ate lunch and we watched Mass on TV.
After dinner we did a family Zoom meeting. She seemed a little better after the Zoom meeting.
I played cards with Rosie and lost again.
JoAnne holds her mother’s hand as they try to sleep.
I met with a woman to discuss what hospice means. We talked about everything from surgery to chemotherapy to keeping my mom pain-free.
“There is no crystal ball about how long she has left,” she told me.
When you are a caregiver you know this day will come. It’s just you are never prepared for it. The realization that time is winding down for the person who gave you life is unbearable. You wish it was you who was sick and not her. You want to keep her with you forever.
I watched my mom as she slept. I didn’t know what would happen in the coming months, but I knew one thing. I would be right there by her side every step of the way.
JoAnne thinks about all that Evelyn has endured in her life — a father who abandoned her as a child, scarlet fever that left her blind in one eye, a stroke, the loss of her husband.
This is unbelievable.
I got called back to work. I was worried about being able to do a good job. I was still in quarantine and with my mom’s health deteriorating that made for added stress.
I told the executive editor what was happening with my mom and she assured me I could work from the nursing home until quarantine was over. Anyone who knows me knows I love being a journalist. It took me two years to do a career change from salesperson to sports writer. I was the first full-time female sportswriter for the Tribune-Review. I’ve gone from covering sports and the social scene to features writer during my 23 years there.
My mom and the workers were happy that I got my job back. The housekeeper brought me pizza.
This was a good day.
My mom was in a lot of pain.
She cried most of the day and night. Around 1 a.m. she told me, “I am old. I am not going to be around much longer.”
This was my first day back to work. I created a work space in the corner of the room with a chair and my tray table. I was glad to be working. It felt good.
Activities made hot dogs and French fries for lunch as I tried to get back into work mode. I did a few phone interviews. My editor asked about a story and I said I made a few calls and no one called me back. This was a time when if things were normal I would get in my car and track down the interview. But in quarantine I wasn’t able to do that. If I left, I would not be allowed back in the building.
At 11 p.m. an administrator stopped by to tell me one of the employees tested positive for covid-19 on another wing. The person was sent home as were other workers who may have come in contact with this person. All residents on that side were going to be tested.
This virus now became real.
Today is Day 50. 5-0.
My mom slept in until 11 a.m. She ate some babka, a sweet Jewish cake, and then took a nap. Her nurse said to let her eat whatever she wants to because she is losing weight.
The rabbi visited. There is something calming about talking to him.
At 5:30 a.m. the night nurse came in for my mom’s morning medication and had trouble waking her. She took my mom’s blood sugar which was 52. I poured two sugar packets in orange juice and helped her drink.
I was scared.
I had a conversation with the director of nursing. She told me “I was a wonderful daughter” and in her long career hadn’t seen another family member like me. She understood things were not good and I did too. It was just hard for me to verbalize. My heart wasn’t ready for this. She said I should think about what JoAnne will do next. I hadn’t thought about that for the past 16½ years because my mom and my dad were my top priority. They were my world.
I’d stand my mom up and place her in my car. She would often joke that I threw her in the front seat. I’d give her showers often and dress her nearly every day. I’d clean her dentures.
I’d rub lotion on her body.
JoAnne and her mother Evelyn.
Today is “Mother’s Day.”
My mom got her hair done. My siblings and I did a virtual meeting in the morning and at 3:30 Perry and my brother Dave came by for the window visit. My mom kept asking why they were outside.
I loved spending “Mother’s Day” with her. I never missed one. We always did fun things such as a casino trip or Pirates game or lunch or dinner at Big Jim’s.
Perry brought Big Jim’s for dinner.
The night nurse came by and told me, “You know we are here for you.”
Even before the pandemic, my mom’s room was the place for the workers to come by and talk because they felt welcome and safe. They confided in us and now I was confiding in them.
As I got my mom ready for bed, I told her I loved her and she said, “I love you JoAnne.”
And then I asked the usual follow-up question: “All the time or most of the time?”
Usually, when I had asked that question, she would say “most of the time,” because “no one loves another person all of the time.”
But tonight she said, “all of the time.”
Day 60. 6-0.
Evelyn gets a window visit from her son David and son-in-law Perry Harrop on Mother’s Day.
Her nephrologist said my mom’s kidney function is at 18%. I know this is not good because my dad was on dialysis for 2½ years.
Perry brought us Mineo’s pizza and wedding soup.
Today we had an appointment with my mom’s oncologist. She talked with us for a while and even though the news was not good, I felt a calmness in her office.
I realize my mom’s life is now in my hands because of the decisions I will have to make concerning her care. For all these years, she’s the one who took care of me. And now, it’s my turn to take care of her.
Last night, as I slept in the blue recliner next to her bed, she reached for me and patted me on the head. I looked at my phone. It was 2 a.m. I would often reach for her, too, because no matter how old you are you still want your mother.
My mom had trouble getting her dentures in correctly. This scared me because she usually could put them in with no problem. She’s losing weight and the shape of her face is changing.
Not sure what made me do this, but I scheduled an appointment with the nurse from hospice.
We talked for a while in my mom’s room and then we went to the television room to sign the papers to put her on hospice care.
I cried as I signed my name.
There is absolutely nothing that prepares you for this moment, even though in your head you know it is coming. Your heart fights to stop it.
A resident, 99, saw me crying and asked if my mother was OK when I walked by her room. She was sitting at the doorway.
Senior citizens just know. They haven’t lived this long not to be aware of life situations.
I played cards with Rosie. I won two games, but she won three.
Evelyn has a glass of wine with daughter JoAnne and son David.
The hospice nurse said my siblings and my husband were allowed to visit because my mom wasn’t doing well.
My mother had a rough night and the hospice nurse came in, gave my mom some medication and said what she was doing resembles the start of the end of life. This can’t be, I thought.
My brother came today from Ohio. My mom got out of bed for an hour and talked with him. We had some wine.
My mom received her first morphine dosage. She didn’t want to get out of bed.
When I looked at the calendar, I remembered that June 1, 2015 was the date I took my father to the hospital. He was admitted to the intensive care unit in Shadyside Hospital with a collapsed lung. He died five days later, 71 years from the date when he waded ashore during the invasion of Normandy on D-Day.
I am sitting in this room looking at all of our stuff and listening to the sound of the oxygen machine, which is unsettling.
I don’t want to pack anything up because I don’t want my mom to see me doing that.
I’m not giving up.
I left the room for about 20 minutes for a walk with one of the workers who has become a friend. One of the hospice people came by and sang “Amazing Grace” for us.
Rosie wasn’t feeling well — maybe she was sad for my mom — so against the pandemic rules, I hugged her and we both cried.
One of my three sisters, Rudy, came to visit.
Mom slept most of the time but opened her eyes right before Rudy left. She looked at her but didn’t say anything.
These nights, she’s been reaching with her right hand to hold mine.
I’ve been writing stories with my right hand and holding her right hand with my left.
Mom slept most of the day and woke up at dinner time and ate some strawberry ice cream. Our priest came and gave her last rites.
JoAnne holds her mother’s hand as they try to sleep.
My friend stopped twice and asked if I wanted to walk around the building. Something inside me told me not to go.
A little after 5p.m., my mom coughed. I was looking at my smart phone but looked up as she struggled for a few breaths. I think she was trying to tell me something. I saw the top of her chest stop moving and a slight movement from the bottom of her chest.
I called out for an aide.
She called for the nurse.
My mom took a few more staggered breaths … and then her … last.
The time was 5:15 p.m.
My mom was there when I took my first breath and I was there when she took her last.
I remember I screamed and cried and held her hand. Some of the workers were there, hugging me.
They made a call to the hospice nurse who pronounced my mom dead.
I called Perry and my oldest sister, Rose.
I sat with Evelyn and cried. I was still there with her.
One of the workers came in and said they told Rosie about my mom and that Rosie wanted to see me.
I walked into her room and the minute she saw me she cried and I cried. We hugged and she asked if I was OK, and I said I didn’t know. I held her for a while.
Perry came to the room and then we went outside while they prepared my mom for the funeral home.
The charge nurse asked if I want to stay one more night and I said, “yes.” I slept in my mom’s bed with her favorite stuffed animal — a pig she bought for herself with her bingo money at the gift shop for Valentine’s Day.
I felt her presence.
The next morning there was a breakfast tray with my name on it — bananas and Rice Krispies.
The activities director and her assistant came by to help me pack and load my car.
As I left the now-empty room, I couldn’t believe this was happening. This was not how quarantine was supposed to end.
That long walk out of the building after 85 days was emotional. I felt the biggest ache in my heart.
We kept my mom safe from covid-19, but cancer didn’t care.
It never does.
JoAnne kneels at her mother’s casket on June 13. (Photo by Fran Sissel Wyner)
In days ahead, JoAnne and her husband visited the funeral home.
She met with the priest, picked out a blue casket — her mother’s favorite color — and selected clothing for her: a baby blue sweater, a royal blue turtleneck, a bracelet she loved with dice dangling from it and her rosary beads.
There were chats with her siblings, photo collages to be put together.
The next day, JoAnne wrote her mother’s obituary, “my hardest writing assignment ever.”
There were the viewings. Despite the pandemic, there were hugs.
JoAnne at the funeral for Evelyn on June 13. (Photo by Fran Sissel Wyner)
Today was my mom’s funeral, exactly five years to the day we buried our dad.
Just as I had done for my dad, I handed a note to the funeral director to place in my mom’s hand before closing the casket.
I will never tell what I wrote.
I cried so hard.
The priest gave a wonderful homily about my mom’s commitment to the church.
My brother did the eulogy that our family had written together.
The service at the cemetery was graveside because of the pandemic.
When it was time to return to our cars, I stared at the casket.
I didn’t want to leave her.
My mom was gone. And a part of me left with her.
I had dreams of her that were so real.
One of them was about taking her somewhere in my car and she said, “If it wasn’t for you, I wouldn’t go anywhere. I don’t know what I would do without you.”
Well, Mom, I don’t know what I’m going to do without you.
JoAnne Klimovich Harrop is a Tribune-Review staff writer. You can contact JoAnne at 724-853-5062, jharrop@triblive.com or via Twitter.
Unless noted, photos courtesy of Klimovich family.
This story was published on Dec. 6, 2020.
