On January 2 of this year, I was tired. I'd worked for two or three weeks straight through the holidays. I had a headache. I needed some sleep. I'm usually up pretty late, but around 10 p.m., I took a hot bath and went to bed. I didn't check my email. I didn't look at the news or social media. I even silenced my phone, something I rarely do because I don't want to miss anything.
I woke up around 9:30 the next morning, and it took my groggy brain a minute to realize what was going on when I saw my phone lit up like a Christmas tree. I had emails from people in Venezuela or people with family there. I had texts from several people, including my friend and our managing editor Chris Queen, trying to wake me from my slumber so I could cover the news that we'd captured Nicolás Maduro.
I'd predicted it. I'd been covering it intently for months. And I missed it.
For weeks, and maybe even months after, I developed a lot of anxiety and fear of missing out (FOMO!) on anything to do with that situation. I stayed glued to the news and my sources. In the immediate aftermath, I would work 16-hour days. Eventually, thankfully, my anxiety subsided, but it's back.
You may have noticed that I haven't been around much over the last couple of weeks and have missed or only dabbled in some stories I normally would have covered intently. The Brazilian elections, some stories out of Cuba, Costa Rica opening its new mega-prison, and what's going on with Haiti and El Salvador, among other things — I've had to watch a lot of this from the sidelines or report on it later than I should have or report on it with less analysis than I'd like (most of the media doesn't get Latin America right, and I feel like I let y'all down when I can't correct it or explain missing nuances).
And don't get me started on María Corina Machado's return to Venezuela. I did manage to sit up until 2 a.m. last Sunday and share a few thoughts on that. Anything less, and I feel like I let half of the Venezuelan diaspora down.
The problem is that I started on that article from an Atlanta hospital room, where my father is currently fighting for his life and has been for weeks.
My dad is in his seventies and has had some health issues in the past, but for the last few years, he's been okay. Earlier this year, however, he began to go downhill a little bit. He wrote it off as old age, allergies, etc. He slowed down and stopped doing a lot of his household duties, but remained largely independent.
We live together in a larger home, but we each have our own space, do our own chores, and live our own lives mostly. But as I watched his life get smaller and smaller, it worried me. I wondered if he was in worse shape than he was letting on or even knew himself. I tried to get him to go to the doctor or a hospital, but like the rest of the Anderson family, he's stubborn. He's also frugal and there were some hiccups with his health insurance, which my aunt and I were in the process of trying to fix.
It's very stressful to watch someone you love dearly decline, especially when he refuses everyone's help. My dad is my best friend. I am not married, nor do I have siblings, and my mom died a few years ago. While we have some great friends and extended family members, at the end of the day, we are each other's people.
One morning in October, he got up to take a shower, and he was in his bedroom getting dressed after. When I woke up a little later that morning, I couldn't find him, but I saw that his bedroom door was closed. He doesn't go in there much anymore (he sleeps in a recliner in the den), so I knocked. He told me to come in — he had fallen and was sitting on the floor.
Long story short, after a couple of hours of me trying unsuccessfully to get him up and then him trying to get himself up but only wearing himself out to the point that he fell asleep, I called 911. He wasn't thrilled with me, but I knew he needed much more help than I could provide at that point. The operator asked if I merely wanted someone to come help him up or take him to the hospital. I said I didn't know because he could hear me and was already upset that I was calling 911, but I was hoping these people would just come take him to the hospital. I desperately needed their help.
Was it Mr. Rogers who always said "Look for the helpers"? I had that line running through my mind as I waited for them to come, and I felt a sense of relief knowing the helpers were on the way. Unfortunately, that was short-lived.
The so-called helpers who arrived weren't very helpful. In fact, they were incredibly rude to me and my father. They told him he probably had severe medical conditions that he did not have. They were hostile toward me as if I'd been keeping him chained to the floor for months or something. I heard one mutter "elderly abuse" when he passed me in the hall.
I tried to see it from their perspective. I actually worked in that field at one time. They have a job to do. They have to look out for people. My dad was obviously unwell. His bedroom was in disarray because he hadn't really been in there in months. I was literally shaking because I was so worried about him and was at my wit's end after weeks and months of trying to get him help One of them asked me how long he'd been like this. I wasn't sure how to answer because I didn't know if they meant on the floor, sick, etc., and I don't think I answered the question correctly.
But they never asked any more questions — they just looked at me with disgust and wouldn't even make eye contact or turn toward me when I spoke after that.
Thankfully, a second team showed up and actually asked me questions so they could understand what happened, told the first crew to back off, and treated us like human beings. I also had a handful of neighbors and relatives come over and advocate for me. And I may have thrown a small fit at one point, which seemed to have some effect.
I'm usually pretty good about standing up for myself, but after these past few months of watching my dad decline and feeling like things were spiraling out of control, I was worn down. Defeated. I was not in a great place mentally and most of my close circle of friends and relatives knew this and were supporting me and trying to find ways to help. But the people who I thought might finally be able to do something came in and treated me so horribly that it made the situation 100 times worse.
I was scared to be in my own home that night after I got back from the hospital. I was scared to go outside. I slept with the lights and TV on for a few nights. For several days, I was afraid every doctor and nurse at the hospital was judging me, and I was almost afraid to speak up and advocate for my father. I have never experienced anything like this in my life — I felt like I was living in a horror movie. I'd rather miss 1,000 Maduro captures than go through that again.
Anytime there was talk of him coming home, all I could think about was what will I do if I have to call 911 again? I don't want those people back in my house. It has changed my perspective on many things, but I will save that story for another day. We're already in the process of selling our homes and property and moving. That day can't come fast enough for me.
I've managed to put it mostly behind me and be there for my dad because that is what is most important right now. He's still in the hospital as I'm writing this on Monday night, but he may be coming home in the next couple of days. What that will look like exactly, I'm not sure. He's got a lot going on with his health. There is much uncertainty ahead, and he will require a lot of care in the immediate future. I'm just hoping I can stay strong enough to provide it.
And hopefully, I'll be back to working full-time soon. I appreciate those of you who have reached out via email or social media. I'm itching to get back to covering Venezuela, Cuba, and the historic political shifts we're watching in real time. But making sure my dad is safe, comfortable, and well is my top priority.
