Cathy Fuller, a nurse at the University of Alabama at Birmingham, vaccinates a patient on May 18, 2021, at a mass COVID-19 immunization site in Hoover, Ala. When Alabama reported its first confirmed case of coronavirus on March 13, 2020, no one knew what to expect. Gov. Ivey swiftly declared a state of emergency and closed all schools for three weeks, but by the time those weeks were up, it was clear that the pandemic was just beginning. (AP Photo/Jay Reeves)

When Alabama reported its first confirmed case of coronavirus on March 13, 2020, no one knew what to expect.

Gov. Kay Ivey swiftly declared a state of emergency and closed all schools for three weeks, but by the time those weeks were up, it was clear that the pandemic was just beginning.

The state had amassed hundreds of cases and dozens of deaths when Ivey issued an official stay-at-home order.

“No one is immune from this,” she said in a press conference on April 3, 2020.

Nineteen months later, that statement rang true. While 44% of the state population was fully vaccinated, more than 835,000 people had contracted the virus in Alabama, where there had been close to 16,000 deaths.

The state no longer requires masks, and the most recent surge in COVID cases has quieted. Still, as recently as August, the state’s hospitals were overwhelmed with more ICU patients than there were available beds.

Some people say they have returned as close as possible to pre-pandemic life, while others are coping with the loved ones and experiences that COVID-19 took from them.

On Oct. 14, community leaders, state officials and average Alabamians alike pondered one question: “How has COVID changed my life?”

A BATTLE WITH AN UNKNOWN ENDPOINT

For Alabama State Health Officer Dr. Scott Harris, the COVID-19 epidemic taught him many things.

Like logistics.

The Alabama Department of Public Health, which he leads, had trained to deploy aid in emergencies such as destructive weather. Tornadoes and floods leave tragedies, but they usually occur over a limited area, and the work ends at some point.

COVID erupted all over the state. If it has an endpoint, no one can say when. The ADPH had to think about running trucks with supplies constantly, where they ought to go and whether the budget could support such efforts.

“You know, there are folks like UPS and FedEx who do that all the time, and that’s what they do,” Harris said. “But we don’t do that, and there aren’t any state agencies that do that.”

It also taught him the difficulties of messaging. Pleas for masking and vaccination were greeted with indifference — often threats. Harris had to have law enforcement outside his home for months. He also began taking medicine for high blood pressure.

“I’ve practiced medicine for 30 years, and I’ll tell patients, ‘You need to quit smoking and lose weight,'” he said. “And maybe they do, and maybe they don’t. But they don’t usually turn around and go ‘No, smoking is actually good for you, and I’m going to try to gain more weight because it’s healthier.’ That’s the kind of response you get when you say you need to wear a mask and get vaccinated. It’s just stunning to me.”

FIST BUMPS AND ELBOW TOUCHES? SOMETIMES YOU JUST NEED A HUG

Jeannie Coker, the school nurse at Prattville Primary School, has seen this response firsthand.

As she attended to a student with diabetes and a first-grader who lost a tooth, she reflected on how COVID has affected her.

“Do you want a pretty answer or the truth?” Coker said. “I think it hardens you. I have been verbally attacked by parents who want to know why we don’t have a mask mandate. I have been attacked by parents on the other side who don’t want us to do anything.”

She is responsible for the health of about 690 children from preschool through second grade, and while COVID gets the public attention, strep throat, tummy aches, skinned knees, lost teeth and the flu haven’t gone away.

Of everything that has changed because of the pandemic, though, Coker most misses hugging the kids to make them feel better.

“They are very tactile,” Coker said. “We have tried the fist bumps and elbow touches. But sometimes the only thing that will work is a hug.”

SETTING ASIDE FEAR

In Tuscaloosa, Dr. Ramesh Peramsetty was on the front lines of the fight against COVID in a different way.

His Crimson Care clinics were among the first non-hospital sites to offer COVID-19 testing, a COVID-19 vaccine and, ultimately, administration of monoclonal antibodies for those infected with the disease.

For Peramsetty, the first son born to his family in Andhra Pradesh, India, the global spread of the novel coronavirus was a call-to-arms.

It was this sense of duty that he used to explain to his mother, now 83, when she asked in the early days of COVID-19 whether he would be closing the clinics he launched in 2001 and limit his exposure to this mysterious new threat.

“I kind of looked at her and smiled and said ‘Mom, you made me a soldier, remember?,'” Peramsetty said. “You made me a doctor.”

Montgomery resident Chikodi Demings has been driven through the pandemic by something else entirely: fear. Her best decisions are made that way, she says.

As she left her shop on March 27, 2020, anxiety sank in. Dozens of cars typically backed up traffic on Mulberry Street, but that day, roads were empty. Demings drove away not knowing when she could reopen or how she would pay rent in the meantime.

She had never been a fan of social media, but during lockdown, it became her livelihood. Demings revamped her Etsy, Facebook and Instagram to begin selling the season’s most in-demand accessory: masks.

She already knew how to sew the African fabrics in her shop into head wraps, so she figured masks wouldn’t be difficult. Plus, she hated the idea of ruining a stylish outfit with a blue disposable mask.

Today, Demings is raking in more sales than ever before.

“When fear gets into you and you work through it, that’s what makes it for me,” Demings said. “That’s living.”

HELPING OTHERS DURING A DIFFICULT TIME

Phillips-Riley Funeral Home, regrettably, is also busier in the pandemic.

Operational manager Monte Maddox leaned against the doorway of a parlor room prepped for a viewing as he thought about how his life has changed since the start of the pandemic. His aunt recently died, but he hasn’t had much time to grieve. He’s been too busy.

“Before COVID, we were doing seven to eight funerals in a week,” he said. “Now, we’re doing seven to eight funerals in a day.”

Sitting in the heart of west Montgomery, Phillips-Riley predominantly serves the local Black community, which, like many across the country, has been disproportionately impacted by the pandemic.

Many of the families Maddox serves struggle to pay the unexpected bills associated with a COVID death. For that, Maddox directs them to seek out federal funding from FEMA to help cover the costs.

“Honestly, in the Black community, a lot of people don’t have life insurance,” Maddox said. “Sometimes they have to get the money the best way they can. We wanted them to know that if they needed assistance, the assistance was there. We wanted to be one of those firms that didn’t keep that a secret.”

UNITING A COMMUNITY

In Tuscaloosa, the Rev. Cathy Caldwell Hoop of Grace Presbyterian Church faced a lot of loss over the past year and a half.

“Can I even begin to do my job when you can’t go in the hospital? You can’t go in the nursing home?” she said. “I mean it just feels like your hands have been cut off, in a way.”

Still, Grace united a pair of congregations diverse in age, race, sexuality and beliefs: University Presbyterian, on the University of Alabama campus, and Covenant Presbyterian, at the Hargrove Road space where Grace now stands. Members of each described themselves as runaways from “The Island of Misfit Toys.”

“We believe scripture calls for us to be a voice for justice and peace,” Hoop said, “and so we look for ways to live that out.”

As Hoop sat in her office surrounded by potted plants, sunflowers and folk art, just two miles north in Baumhower’s restaurant, a crowd was gathering to see Nick Saban.

Like clockwork, because that’s how Saban operates, the Alabama football coach entered at about 7 p.m. Clapping filled the restaurant, and Saban strode toward his usual seat on the far right of the stage, one thing that hasn’t changed through the pandemic.

Alabama radio voice Eli Gold acknowledged Saban’s wife, Terry, at the front table.

“It’s always nice to see that smiling face of Miss Terry,” Gold says.

“I’ve enjoyed that smiling face for almost 50 years pretty soon,” Saban replies.

Miss Terry beams and pats her heart as her husband’s weekly radio show begins.

It was a stark contrast from when Saban spoke publicly a year ago. That day, he was sitting in his home, talking to reporters on Zoom about how he had just tested positive for COVID-19.

It turned out to be a false positive, but Saban later in the season tested positive again and it kept him from coaching against Auburn.

Alabama still won the game and went on to capture the national championship with an undefeated season amid the pandemic.

“When you take something away, I think you have a much greater appreciation when you get it back,” Saban told ESPN after winning the championship. “A lot of these disruptions actually made our team closer.”

Saban went on to do exactly what he has for years: win another SEC title.

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