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The Voice Message I Will Never Delete from my iPhone

Updated: Oct 10, 2021

I have a voice message saved on my phone that I will never delete. I still get choked up when I listen to it. I received it mid-afternoon on April 7, 2020, as I walked to the hospital cafeteria from my office in the Spiritual Care Department. I was exhausted, frazzled, and hungry. I can still feel the tension I was holding in my body that day, mostly in my face and throat, as I held back tears. New York City was under siege by the coronavirus. Two thousand New Yorkers a day were dying. 25% of the nation’s COVID-19 cases were concentrated here. The city was eerily quiet except for the near-constant wail of sirens as ambulances transported the sick and dying to overwhelmed hospitals.

We feared there were not enough hospital beds. Tents were erected in Central Park to create more. A Navy ship with an additional 1,000 beds was docked in the Hudson River with military personnel standing by to provide emergency medical care. It was a strange and stressful time.

A field hospital in Central Park - March 2020 (Photo by David Fleenor)

I’ve been a hospital chaplain and educator for over 15 years. My job is to provide spiritual and emotional support to patients and their families during periods of hospitalization. I teach aspiring chaplains how to enter a hospital room, initiate a conversation with a stranger about sacred matters in their lives, and respond with words of comfort tailored to their spiritual and cultural worldviews. None of this - teaching spiritual care or providing it - is easy under the best of circumstances. I’ve been through several natural disasters, mostly hurricanes, but never anything like this. I didn’t know how or if we would make it through, and I was scared.

My wife, Amy, the Director of Spiritual Care at the same hospital where I work, was battling COVID-19 herself. Our daughter, Dorothy, was with her biological father and his family in rural Massachusetts for an indefinite period. I was trying to do my job while at the same time serving as the interim Director of Spiritual Care while Amy recuperated.

It wasn’t clear to us how Amy contracted COVID-19. Amy, Dorothy, and I had taken our annual vacation in February to Istanbul, Turkey. We devoured delicious Turkish and Yemeni food and allowed ourselves to be awestruck by the history and beauty of the Hagai Sophia. We had the bizarre experience of a traditional Turkish bath, and we danced the night away on an international dinner cruise down the Bosphorus River. A while after we returned to New York City, Dorothy had what seemed like a bad cold. Amy hugged and kissed her like any good mom would do to help her feel better. And like most step-dads, I kept my distance, trying to keep from catching whatever she had. I didn’t see any sense in all of us getting sick. But that’s what happened. Soon, Amy had similar symptoms as Dorothy. She called Employee Health and was advised to quarantine, hydrate, and rest. Covid tests were scarce at that time, and the assumption was if you had symptoms, then you probably had COVID-19. Dorothy recovered and went to stay with her biological father and his family. Meanwhile, Amy and I tried to keep our distance from one another, which only lasted about four hours. Public health officials advised anyone with symptoms to go to separate parts of their homes and use separate bathrooms. All of that assumes you live in a large enough home to create distance from each other, which was laughable in our - and most New Yorker’s - situation. The average NYC apartment is roughly 800-square feet with one bathroom. How were we going to socially distance? But we tried. Amy went to the bedroom, and I stayed in the living room. After about an hour we were both bored and missed each other. We got creative and tried to use our smart speakers’ “drop-in” feature to talk to each other from separate rooms. Before long, we gave up and decided to share the living room while wearing masks and sitting six feet apart. None of it worked, and I soon got sick too.

David Fleenor and his family at the Hagia Sophia in Istanbul, Turkey - February 2020

(Photo by David Fleenor)

My bout with Covid was relatively short, at least in comparison to my wife’s. We both continued to work from home as much as we were physically able. I soon returned to work onsite and found myself angry. Every little thing annoyed me. A teacher once told me that some people cover their sadness with anger while others cover their anger with sadness. I knew in which group I belonged. I was grieving.

It was in that context that I received the voice message. As I walked through the hospital and the phone rang, I lamented how everything had changed. Workers had constructed new, makeshift hospital rooms in the atrium. I was stunned out of my thoughts when I felt my phone buzz. I pulled it out of my pocket, saw my friend’s name, and wanted to answer but just didn’t have it in me. With that realization, tears began to well up behind my eyes. I let it go to voicemail and continued walking angrily, tearfully to my destination.

Makeshift hospital rooms in the Guggenheim Pavilion at Mount Sinai Hospital - April 2020 (Photo by David Fleenor)

A couple of hours later, I pulled out my phone and saw I had a voice message to listen to from my friend in Alabama. I had met Malcolm Marler two decades ago when I was training to be a hospital chaplain. Already a chaplain himself, he was someone I looked up to because of his boundless compassion and creativity. One of America’s first chaplains to serv