Arizona marks a tragic day: 10,000 deaths from COVID-19

Tara Swanigan's father, Charles Henry Krebbs, an avid gardener from Glendale who enjoyed reading and jazz music, is one of the 10,000.

So is Jeri Whooley's father, Lou Immediato, her "big, strong, Italian, military dad," who lived in Surprise.

Jose "Lolo" Hernandez, the patriarch of the Hernandez family is among them, too, a man who treated all visitors like family and greeted them with a shot of tequila at his Phoenix home.

The list includes parents and grandparents, sons and daughters, aunts and uncles. Spouses, siblings, friends, coworkers, acquaintances are on it. People who loved and were loved.

It now has the names of more than 10,000 Arizonans, as of Saturday. 

In Arizona, 10,036 people have died from complications of COVID-19, the disease caused by the new coronavirus, according to the Arizona Department of Health Services.

The appalling milestone comes as the virus continues its accelerating path through the state in a second wave that's proving harsher than the first.

Nationally, the number of American lives claimed by COVID-19 is 368,953.

The state arrived at 10,000 deaths with increasing speed. The jump from 9,000 happened in just eight days.

Arizona likely reached 10,000 deaths days or even weeks ago, though. Death certificate matching and delays in reporting mean deaths are reported well after they occur in some cases.

Hundreds of thousands more have tested positive for the virus, with most recovering at home. But hospitalizations are on the rise, reaching levels that are taxing Arizona hospitals worse than they did in the summer surge.

Those who have lost loved ones to COVID-19 share similar warnings: You don't want to lose a family member this way. It's grueling, isolating and increasingly politicized. Grieving proves difficult with rituals interrupted, and guilt comes along with it. Frustration and anger bubble up at people who don't follow rules and governments that don't enforce them.

"When I see people now posting about not wanting to wear a mask or thinking this is just the flu, it's like, I lost my father. I'm still sick. A lot of my friends are still sick. It's very troubling and very hurtful for me to see those kind of comments posted," Whooley said.

Pace of death quickens over time

Arizona's first known death, a Phoenix aviation director, was recorded on March 17. It took 70 days to reach 1,000 deaths, including the loss of the matriarch of a Winslow family that warned others they didn't want to suffer this fate. That was May 26.

Arizona's summer surge, one of the world's worst, quickened the pace of deaths. Arizona reached 2,000 deaths on June 28. July 24 marked 4,000; 5,000 came on Aug. 11.

An ebbing caseload slowed the pace of death, for a time. It took 64 days to reach 6,000 deaths, on Oct. 14.

But the second wave of infections rose locally and nationally. Arizona reached 7,000 deaths on Nov. 28, two days after Thanksgiving.

The state surpassed 9,000 on Jan. 1.

And now, 10,000 has come.

Throughout the course of the pandemic, a classroom in rural Arizona lost a teacher. Health care workers died. Individuals have lost multiple loved ones. The virus tore through Arizona's Latino and Native American communities at higher rates.

Some, like Kristin Urquiza, turned grief into action, advocating for a better response from the government and finding comfort in their shared pain, through a group called Marked by COVID.

About three-fourths of the deaths are among people 65 and older, though hundreds of young people have died as well. Nearly 60% of those who died were men.

Grief and guilt come together

Whooley, a 66-year-old retired respiratory therapist, was in a "bubble" with her husband and her father, who lived just a couple blocks away from her. They all saw each other, but hardly anyone else.

She saw her father on Sundays, their tradition to help stave off loneliness after her mother died about six years ago. She always followed precautions, like wearing a mask and washing her hands. She hadn't attended any gatherings.

She saw her dad, Lou Immediato, on a Sunday in early December. The next day, she started feeling some symptoms of COVID-19. A few days later, her dad felt tired and lost his appetite.

Immediato didn't want to go to the hospital. At 87, he felt like he may be cast aside if hospitals were too busy. Whooley treated him at home to the extent possible, urging him to go to a hospital. He waited, and waited, and waited, until he gasped for air and his lips started turning blue. Finally, he relented.

By the time he went to the hospital on Dec. 23, his oxygen levels were dangerously low. He was placed on a ventilator. Whooley called every morning and night for updates. His organs started to fail. She was given one 15-minute visit in person to say goodbye.

He died on Jan. 1. He had a plan for his burial, but the funeral home is so backed up that he won't be buried until Jan. 14, Whooley said.

She's grieving her beloved father, whom she went to spring training games with every year at Surprise Stadium, who should be sitting in his recliner and watching TV.

Whooley still feels COVID-19 symptoms herself, more than a month after they first appeared — lingering shortness of breath, muscle pain, high blood pressure.

And she's flooded with guilt. If she hadn't visited on that Sunday, maybe he wouldn't have gotten sick. If only she had realized the sniffles she had that day, which were common for her asthma, were something more.

"I think I might still have my dad if I just wouldn't have gone over there that day," she said. "So I'm trying to reconcile the fact that this is my fault. And that I lost him because of an innocent mistake."

An anchor gone for Hernandez family

Browse through GoFundMe and you'll find hundreds of families missing a member and seeking help for lost income and unexpected funeral expenses.

Among them is the family of José Hernandez, "Lolo" or "El Cocinero" to those who knew him, who died from COVID-19 on Jan. 6 at age 61.

He came to Arizona from Mexico at 16, worked hard to make a life for his family, for his four children. He and his wife, Justina, gained citizenship in 2000. He lost one of his four children last year, when he was shot and killed by Phoenix Police.

Lolo and Justina both contracted the disease. Justina recovered, but Lolo went to the hospital, a place he hesitated to go because he would be alone, his children said.

There were glimmers of hope, moments when it seemed like he would pull through, his children said. But his condition deteriorated, and he would have had to live on a respirator for the rest of his life, something his children knew he didn't want.

"We wanted to honor his wishes, and we hoped for a miracle, but we were able to be with him in his last moments," said José Hernandez, Lolo's eldest son, who lives in New Orleans.

The younger José, his sisters Anna and Lupe, and their mother, Justina, all said goodbye in person at the hospital. Other family members joined by FaceTime. They showed videos and shared memories.

Lupe will miss hearing him sing her happy birthday and the way he adored her children, his grandchildren. Anna will miss watching baseball with him; he taught her to love the game. Jose learned from his dad how to value family above all else.

"If you stepped foot in his home, you're part of the family. And he would have a plate ready, he would get the grill going, he'd make you take a shot of tequila with him," Jose said.

They will have a small funeral, for immediate family. Deciding who can come is a challenge; the family is big, and in a typical year, members would travel from all over to pay their respects.

"This isn't a situation that we want anybody else to go through," Lupe said.

First holidays without dad

Tara Swanigan spent the holidays without her father, Charles Henry Krebbs, for the first time.

Krebbs, 75, spent his days in his organic garden or reading or listening to jazz. Swanigan's parents took the pandemic seriously; they don't know how COVID-19 got to them.

Krebbs started to feel under the weather, but assumed it was a cold or flu, since they were taking strong precautions. After his symptoms intensified over several days, he went to the hospital because he couldn't breathe. He was still communicating via phone with Swanigan. It was July and his test results for a COVID-19 test took 10 days to come back because the labs were overwhelmed.

He was treated with supplemental oxygen, remdesivir and plasma, then a bipap machine. Then, for an unknown reason, perhaps confusion, he tried to get out of his hospital bed while connected to machines and fell. Hospital workers weren't able to get his oxygen levels back up, and he was put on a ventilator.

The ICU nurse who treated her dad told her that Krebbs would wiggle his eyebrows whenever she shared updates from his daughter.

He showed signs of improving for a bit, giving Swanigan a sense of hope that he could get off the ventilator and go to a rehab facility. But he never got well enough for either.

Only one family member could go at the end. Swanigan's mother, had seen him the day he entered the hospital. Swanigan hadn't seen him for weeks before that. So, she was the one who went to say goodbye. The ICU nurse took an extra shift to be there when Swanigan visited.

She shared her favorite memories, told him she knew he fought hard, that she and her mom would be OK.

"He, the whole time, was wiggling his eyebrows," Swanigan said. "I know that he knows I was there. Honestly, I think he waited for someone to come."

He died minutes after he was removed from the ventilator. It was August, and he had fought the disease for more than a month.

Arizona recorded 5,000 deaths around the time of his passing.

Swanigan can't believe how fast the death totals have increased. Her father was the first person many of Swanigan's family and friends knew who the disease had claimed. Now, she knows many, and the circle continues to expand.

"It's terrifying for me to watch," she said.

The frustrations of losing someone to COVID

The loved ones left behind by a COVID-19 death watch in frustration as people continue to go to parties, expand their bubbles, eschew masks.

Lupe Hernandez saw a family without masks at the local grocery store a few weeks ago. She was taken aback. A statewide mandate could send a better message, she said.

Some feel angry that the government has responded in ways that seem to prioritize the economy over human lives.

For his part, Gov. Doug Ducey has insisted he has done what's right for Arizona, balancing health and the economy. If another state had a prescription that was working, he would adopt it, he has said. But, at this point, no state is left untouched. The virus spirals out of control essentially everywhere.

"It's been terrible. We've lost nearly 10,000 lives in the state of Arizona. The virus continues to spread," Ducey said on Jan. 8.

The politicization of the virus feels personal to those who have buried loved ones. If Swanigan had lost her father to cancer, she said, she wouldn't get questions about whether he had pre-existing conditions or if he was overweight. She wouldn't be told that most people recover from this particular kind of cancer.

The sympathy wouldn't be hedged. She wouldn't feel like so many people thought her dad didn't matter.

"When someone starts a statement with, 'I'm sorry you lost your loved one, but ... ' I just stop listening. The 'but' should not be there," she said.

Arizona Republic reporters Ronald J. Hansen, Alison Steinbach and Stephanie Innes contributed to this article.

Reach reporter Rachel Leingang by email at rachel.leingang@gannett.com or by phone at 602-444-8157, or find her on Twitter and Facebook.

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