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More than 8,500 Marylanders have died of COVID-19 since March 2020, as the devastating novel coronavirus pandemic swept through the state and the world.
Behind every statistic, a family mourns for a loved one and copes with those losses alone, socially distanced and without healing mourning rituals.
A year into the pandemic, Maryland Matters聽interviewed four families about the tangible things that help them honor and remember the lives of their loved ones.
Danitza Simpson: A Kind Soul With a Heart For Others
Two pendants trimmed with gold, hang on a chain around Janier Escano鈥檚 neck. His initials wrap around the marble-sized seed, a traditional family baby gift and symbol of protection and connection to Panamanian heritage that his mother, Danitza Simpson, gave him after he was born.
The other 鈥渄eer鈥檚 eye,鈥� or聽ojo de venado, belonged to her. And after she died of COVID-19 in October, the 26-year-old slipped the precious reminder adorned with her initials onto the chain next to his, as a way of keeping her with him.
鈥淲herever I go, I travel anywhere, I have it,鈥� he said.
Simpson died at the age of 51. She left behind her husband of 22 years, Samuel Escano, their two sons, Adonis Escano, 20, and Janier and her daughter, Christina, 27, and her granddaughter, Amalia, 10 months 鈥� a large, close-knit extended family.
But before she died, her family members say the committed advocate for children, families and immigrants sowed seeds of kindness, generosity and support in every corner of the community she touched and throughout her life.
Born in Panama in 1968, Simpson and her younger sister, Karla, moved to the United States with their mother in 1983 when they were just 14 and 13.
The girls attended Calvin Coolidge High School in Washington. The elder Simpson went on to get a bachelor鈥檚 degree from the University of the District of Columbia. Not long after college, Simpson started working for the Prince George鈥檚 Child Resource Center, where she eventually became a director for the Adelphi/Langley Park Family Support Center and stayed for more than 25 years.
The center serves around 150 families, the majority of whom are immigrants, by empowering parents through classes and support services to create healthy, nurturing environments for young children.
Her supervisor, Jennifer Iverson, said her personality was a 鈥渟uperpower鈥� that helped to create 鈥渁 warm, welcoming and safe environment for families of all cultures and backgrounds.鈥�
Simpson involved her children in her work. Janier remembers helping her at a health fair every summer. Adonis remembers reading to children at the support center as early as middle school.
鈥淪he wanted them to see the kind of work that she did,鈥� Karla Simpson said.
When the pandemic shuttered businesses and unforeseen numbers of families experienced food insecurity, Prince George鈥檚 County Councilmember Deni Taveras (D) called Simpson to orchestrate one of the county鈥檚 largest food distribution sites.
鈥淪he was somebody that was going to make it happen,鈥� said Taveras, who called Simpson 鈥渁 warrior鈥� for the community. The site distributed around 1,500 boxes of food a week, Taveras said.
Feeding people and making sure everyone had enough to eat was a thread woven through the tapestry of Simpson鈥檚 life.
As children growing up in Panama, Karla remembers her older sister feeding others.
The sisters did not grow up wealthy, but even with what little they had, Danitza concocted a way to make sure their neighbors who had less had something to eat.
鈥淪he would gather up her pennies,鈥� or rally a crew of children to redeem glass bottles for money to buy some chicken and rice, said Karla. Then, she would prepare a聽cocinaito 鈥� a metal grill balanced on two rocks over a wood fire 鈥� and cook lunch for the neighborhood children while all the parents were at work.
鈥淪he was always the leader, she knew just what to do,鈥� said Karla, 51, who is still grappling with the loss of her gregarious, big-hearted sister.
Simpson聽generously cooked for others throughout her life. No one can come close to their mother鈥檚 Panamanian-style rice with chicken, or her empanadas, said Adonis and Janier.
She gave everyone in the family a cookbook with recipes, so that someday they could make her聽moro聽or yucca, said her niece and goddaughter, Sierra Wanzer.
Simpson submerged the next generation in their Panamanian heritage, taking them to Panamanian festivals in D.C. and as far away as New York.
鈥淲e grew up very proud Panamanians,鈥� said Wanzer, who will remember her aunt for this gift. 鈥淵ou couldn鈥檛 tell us that we weren鈥檛 from Panama, even though we were born here.鈥�
Her aunt鈥檚 recipes and her 鈥渧ibrant鈥� and 鈥渂right鈥� personality were the centerpieces of any family event, according to Wanzer.
鈥淪he would get everyone dancing, laughing,鈥� said Wanzer, who remembers the way Simpson would enter a room playfully imitating a model on a catwalk with 鈥渁bsolute confidence鈥� and announce to everyone: 鈥淭he most beautiful has arrived.鈥�
鈥淵ou knew you were going to have a good time,鈥� Wanzer said.
Months after her death, Wanzer, Adonis and Janier are still taking in the breadth of the garden Simpson planted in their community. But they鈥檙e not surprised because they watched it grow.
They saw Simpson deliver a meal to someone no one else knew needed help. They remember her getting the whole family to order food from a new business, holding diaper drives, sitting with children while their parents learned English.
鈥淗er heart was bigger than the community,鈥� said Wanzer. 鈥淚t had to be bigger than the community in order to fit love and compassion 鈥� and just genuine kindness 鈥� for everybody.鈥�
Dr. Herb Henderson: A Family Doctor and Family Man
After her husband of 24 years died of COVID-19 last May, Dr. Teresa Hanyok started using his stethoscope.
The sensitive medical device that has attended thousands of beating hearts reminds her of how Dr. Herb Henderson listened to his patients.
鈥淗e trained at a time where you sat and you let the patient talk,鈥� she said. 鈥淎nd if you let them talk long enough, they鈥檒l tell you what鈥檚 wrong with them, or they鈥檒l give you enough clues to point you in the right direction.鈥�
Hanyok, 53, recalled one college student who came to Henderson wanting anxiety medication. She told her family physician she feared failing a calculus class.
Instead of giving her the medicine, Henderson tutored her in calculus, Hanyok said.
鈥淪he came back afterward and thanked him not only for passing the class, but helping her get the confidence to finish up and finish college.鈥�
Whether it鈥檚 his stethoscope at work or his musical instruments or his books at home, Henderson, who died at age 56, left behind a trail of physical things by which his family will remember him. But as Hanyok and her two children, Josie, 17, and Paul, 14, approach the one-year anniversary of his death, they must continue to navigate his absence.
鈥淲e actually haven鈥檛 had barbecue since he died because it was something we would do together,鈥� Hanyok said.
And this April was still too soon to dye Easter eggs without him. Henderson would write puns on the dozens of dyed shells, egged on by his family鈥檚 bursts of laughter.
These family rituals 鈥渁re too painful to do right now,鈥� she said.
The three of them recently played the board game Risk together and found themselves talking about how Henderson would have played and how he would have outsmarted them.
鈥淗e always won,鈥� Hanyok said.
In addition to his smarts and his skill, he had incredible luck. He once hit the jackpot on a Las Vegas slot machine, which prompted his family to buy him a home version. He then frequently hit the jackpot on the home version when everyone else would come up empty.
Originally from Spartanburg, South Carolina, Henderson met Hanyok while the pair were in residency at what was then called Spartanburg Regional hospital. Henderson in 1997 followed her back to her home state. They worked in separate practices at first, until about 20 years ago when Henderson and Hanyok joined forces at Manchester Family Medicine, where he saw thousands of patients over the years.
Former medical assistant and practice manager Lauren Reece said patients, who had moved as far away as Delaware, West Virginia and Florida, traveled back for routine doctor鈥檚 visits with Henderson and are feeling the loss of their practitioner.
鈥淚t鈥檚 been almost a year already, and I have patients that are just still absolutely devastated,鈥� Reece said.
Henderson was also the medical examiner for Carroll County.
When the pandemic hit, the couple decided to keep their practice open: Closing would force patients to visit local emergency rooms with nonemergencies and increase potential exposure to the virus.
Even though the practice screened patients and masks were worn, both doctors and their daughter came down with the virus. This was early in the pandemic, back when COVID-19 tests were precious. Treatments were experimental and only available to those who had a positive COVID-19 test result. Henderson was sick for 12 days. Hoping to get treatment, he went to the hospital. He died five days later, the same day his test came back positive.
Perhaps in May, with an assurance of a safe environment, Hanyok hopes to hold the memorial for Henderson they weren鈥檛 able to have last year. She plans to have his favorite barbecue restaurant cater and to invite his favorite band, The Rogues, to play their version of 鈥淎mazing Grace.鈥�
But for now, the void remains and Henderson鈥檚 belongings serve as insufficient fillers.
On the side of the bed where Henderson used to sleep lies the two-foot-tall brown stuffed bear, named Harry, that he bought for Hanyok back when they were dating.
Their children sleep with the quilts Hanyok鈥檚 aunt made from Henderson鈥檚 drawerfuls of souvenir T-shirts.
His guitar and his drums lie in wait; Hanyok hopes the kids will play them someday. The slot machine sits idle in the basement.
As of March 1, Hanyok sold the couple鈥檚 medical practice to a health care system, but she will continue to work there. The sale unburdens her from managing the practice on her own and gives her staff job security.
But she鈥檒l use her husband鈥檚 stethoscope to listen to the hearts of their patients. 鈥淚 don鈥檛 know what I鈥檒l do if it breaks.鈥�
Kevin Crabtree Sr.: A Little League Coach Who Mentored Generations
When Kevin Crabtree Sr., 58, died in December from complications due to COVID-19, he left a legacy of volunteerism and mentorship to his family and his Allegany County community.
Crabtree taught hundreds of children how to play baseball in his nearly 30 years of coaching the Oldtown Indians for the Bi-State and Hot Stove leagues.
Former player Miranda Kott played for Crabtree every season from the time she was four until she graduated high school. And for the last two seasons, the 29-year-old has helped coach her son鈥檚 Oldtown Indians teams.
She said her coach was 鈥渆xtremely dedicated to the team and to us kids,鈥� and always made sure games were about sportsmanship and having fun.
But, whether it was intentional or not, Crabtree was much more than a coach. Motivated by a love of baseball and the belief that all children deserve a chance to play, he mentored children, volunteered his time, and to some, became a father figure.
鈥淗e lived for baseball,鈥� said Diana Crabtree, his wife of 39 years, who remembers the day in the early 1990s when her husband first decided to coach Little League.
He had taken their oldest son, Kevin Jr., to try out for the team. But the coach at the time only took kids with prior experience, she said. Enough kids were cut, including their son, to make additional teams.
She remembers he came home and told her: 鈥淲e鈥檙e not gonna let these kids go without playing ball.鈥�
Crabtree鈥檚 wife said he made sure every child that wanted to play could play, even if their family couldn鈥檛 afford the fees or equipment.
鈥淚f they鈥檇 need something, we鈥檇 see that they would get it,鈥� she said.
The youngest of Crabtree鈥檚 four children said his dad 鈥渨as a one-of-a-kind person.鈥�
鈥淲henever we lost my dad, I had people messaging me that I didn鈥檛 even know who they were, saying how much they love my dad and how appreciative they were for the things that he did for them,鈥� Michael Crabtree said.
The 27-year-old, along with his older brother, will coach their sons鈥� tee ball team this season. He said there were dozens of children who looked to his dad as a father figure.
鈥淗e had four biological and probably about 50 that weren鈥檛,鈥� he said.
Caitlin Weems was one of them. She played for two seasons in elementary school for Crabtree鈥檚 team and said his family cared for her 鈥渁s if I was their daughter.鈥�
鈥淚n our small communities, when you lose a neighbor, we鈥檙e so close-knit and so tight, that it is like losing a family member,鈥� she said.
A lifelong Allegany County resident, Crabtree grew up and always lived on top of Warrior Mountain, on a farm that鈥檚 been in his family for decades, according to his wife.
He played first base and outfield for the since-closed Oldtown High School. He spent every spare moment at the school鈥檚 ball field, said his wife, and often walked or biked the five miles to and from his parent鈥檚 house.
The high school sweethearts married the summer before her senior year of high school. But their time together was nearly cut short in 1992, when Crabtree, at 29, was diagnosed with idiopathic cardiomyopathy, or an enlarged heart.
Diana still remembers the chronology of events like it was yesterday. Doctors at Johns Hopkins could not believe he survived the chronic heart condition. They told her Crabtree鈥檚 heart was 鈥渓ike Jello; it would鈥檝e went through their fingers,鈥� she said.
Crabtree was not a candidate for a heart transplant because of a previously diagnosed seizure disorder.
So instead, the doctors performed an experimental heart surgery called cardiomyoplasty, wrapping one of his back muscles around his weakened heart. A pacemaker conditioned the back muscle to then contract in sync with the heart.
The operation was a success, and Crabtree鈥檚 case was written up in medical magazines. However, he was no longer able to meet the physical demands of his manual labor jobs and retired with a medical disability.
His heart grew stronger over the next months, and one season after his surgery 鈥� and for nearly the next 25 years 鈥� he coached the Oldtown Indians.
And the baseball-loving family didn鈥檛 waste a minute of their time together, according to Crabtree Jr.
Neighborhood friends, teammates and cousins would congregate on the Crabtree鈥檚 front lawn for 鈥渟ome of the most intense baseball games,鈥� he said. The marathon games lasted for hours 鈥渦ntil it was too dark to see the baseball.鈥�
The home鈥檚 siding took some dents, and Diana said there are still bald spots in the grass where the bases were.
The last team her husband coached was his granddaughter Alison鈥檚 team, along with her dad, Kevin Jr.
The oldest of the Crabtrees鈥� four children was 10 when Kevin Sr. got sick. Now that his dad is gone, Kevin Jr.聽looks back with appreciation for every year and every baseball season they had together.
鈥淚 thought I was gonna grow up without a dad,鈥� he said. 鈥淎nd I ended up getting an extra 30 years with him.鈥�
Pilar Palacios Pe: A Caring Nurse and 鈥楽tar of the Show鈥�
Alex Pe kept the voice mails his mother had left him before she died of COVID-19. Anytime he wasn鈥檛 able to pick up, Pilar Palacios Pe would leave several messages in a row, sometimes five within 10 minutes.
鈥淪he would say the exact same phrase but she would sound more exasperated,鈥� said the 34-year-old lawyer, smiling and laughing about the memory on a video call interview from his home in Washington, D.C.
In a sweet-toned voice, Pe reenacted what her first message would sound like.
鈥溾�楬i Lex, it鈥檚 Mommy. Call me back. Love you. Bye,鈥欌�� he said.
The next would sound more serious.
鈥溾�楲ex, Mommy. Call me back,鈥欌�� Pe recalled. 鈥淭hen it would be, 鈥楢lex, this is your mother!鈥欌��
When the final call involved his full name 鈥淎lexander,鈥� he knew he would have to drop everything and call her back.
And when he did call, his mother would quickly forget the delay and laughter would soon follow. Pe said his mom was always a 鈥渉ilarious comedian鈥� with the timing of a professional stand-up comic. She loved karaoke and was known to dance whenever the mood struck her, even in public.
Those voicemail messages that used to evoke annoyance from Pe, have become precious keepsakes he will save. But since his mother died at age 63 last May, he hasn鈥檛 been able to go back and listen to them.
Also remembering Pe through digital recordings is her older sister, Maria Luisa 鈥淟ulut鈥� Palacios Chan. The 67-year-old says re-watching the hundreds of videos she made of her sister鈥檚 comedic antics keeps her alive.
鈥淚t鈥檚 like I鈥檓 going to the Kennedy Center or some bar; Pilar is the star of the show,鈥� she said.
Chan started making the video recordings of the sisters鈥� weekly visit at Pe鈥檚 home to send back to family still living in the Philippines. She would drive from her home in Woodbridge, Virginia, and Pe always made the drive worthwhile.
鈥淪he鈥檒l start baking, mixing all the ingredients and dancing while doing it, dancing and singing,鈥� Chan said. The sisters would drink coffee all day, tell stories and laugh, while indulging in their shared favorite 鈥� chiffon cake. And to get Chan to stay longer, Pe would start making their favorite Filipino noodle dishes.
Although she鈥檚 grateful for the technology that allows her to relive their visits, they鈥檙e a weak substitute for the gregarious sister she鈥檚 lost.
Pe鈥檚 life began thousands of miles away from her Charles County home in Nanjemoy where the sisters met each week.
She was born the eighth of nine children in 1956 in Lagao, Philippines. Her family split their time between a home in the city and a cattle ranch.
Pe moved to New York City in her mid-twenties, where she lived with her brother before marrying her husband in 1983 and moving to Maryland.
A few years after she had her first child, she earned an undergraduate degree from the College of Southern Maryland and worked at Adventist HealthCare Fort Washington Medical Center in Prince George鈥檚 County for about 20 years, her son estimated.
鈥淪he was definitely meant to be in medicine. She loved what she did,鈥� her eldest said.
Pilar contracted the virus early last April. She went to a hospital after she had trouble breathing and fought the virus for over a month. She died in the hospital as family members from all over the world sang to her and prayed over a video call, her sister said.
Pe leaves behind her husband of 37 years, Odirolf Pe. They raised their two sons 鈥� Alex and Nicholas, 22, who is a senior in college 鈥� on their farm.
Her oldest son said the days after his mother鈥檚 death were 鈥渟urreal,鈥� especially because just prior to getting sick 鈥渟he was just full of her normal self.鈥�
Funeral attendance restrictions last spring complicated his mourning process and he felt the absence of a post-funeral gathering with friends and family to tell stories and share memories of his mom.
鈥淭hat part of the ritual was missing,鈥� he said.
Pe will continue to heal on his own schedule, he said. 鈥淭here鈥檚 no rule book to this.鈥�
