Cheryl and Corrina Thinn were almost at the hip. The sisters, both members of the Navajo Nation, shared an office in Arizona’s Tuba City Regional Health Care. Cheryl has conducted reviews to ensure that patients receive adequate care. Corrina was a social worker. Their desks were only inches apart.
They lived together, with their mother, Mary Thinn. They helped raise each other’s children.
And they died only weeks apart, at the ages of 40 and 44, after being ill with COVID-19.
Close friend Lynette Goldtooth, a registered nurse and case manager, will not be near the area of the hospital where she worked, knowing she will drop out when she sees her empty seats.
“That was where I went to Corrina every morning,” Goldtooth said. ‘I used to sit in Cheryl’s chair. Corrina and I would just start talking, catching up on what we were doing in our free time, laughing and joking. ”
Corrina Thinn with her sons, Michael (center) and Gary Werito Jr.
Cheryl and Corrina are among hundreds of U.S. health care workers who have died after helping patients fight the virus. The Guardian and KHN are investigating more than 1,000 of the deaths of these workers in the Lost on the Frontline project.
The Navajo Nation was destroyed this spring by COVID-19. In May, it reported the highest per capita infection in the United States. As of August 21, the sisters were among the 489 members of the reservation who died from the virus, according to the Navajo Department of Health.
Experts attributed the spread to the prevalence of multigenerational housing and poor sanitation infrastructure – many homes do not have running water. Like medical centers throughout the country, local hospitals across the Navajo Nation have a shortage of personal protective equipment.
In early March, Corrina, without personal protective equipment, saw a patient showing symptoms of COVID-19, according to her sister Chris. Corrina made sure the patient was comfortable and asked what else she could do to help. A few days later, that patient died, and a test for COVID-19 returned positive.
“Within days of that, she got really sick,” Chris said.
The sisters’ employer declined to comment for this story.
Corrina’s first concern was for Cheryl, who around the same time began to show symptoms of the virus she was contracting. Cheryl’s job as a technician for using evaluations requires face-to-face interaction with patients to verify their insurance and discuss workers’ compensation. She had underlying health conditions, including rheumatoid arthritis.
“Corrina worked with people with RA when she was on Pima Reservation, so she knows the effects of having it,” said Mary, her mother. ‘I think it’s what worries her the most, because she thought it might be [Cheryl’s] immune system weaker. ”
Chris thinks she called Cheryl on her 40th birthday, March 19th. Cheryl joked about how, as a baby of four siblings, she was “still young and beautiful.” But she also complained that it was difficult for her to breathe. She was admitted to Tuba City Hospital the next day.
Corrina’s condition also deteriorated, and she checked herself in the reporting room in Tuba City on March 21. Hospital staff attempted treatments using breathing on them, to no avail.
Cheryl was taken to Flagstaff Medical Center on March 24. She never knew Corrina was short with her in the hospital.
Corrina was airlifted to Banner Thunderbird Medical Center in Glendale later that night.
Corrina and Cheryl Thinn, two of four siblings, lived with their mother, Mary, and helped raise each other’s children. From left: Fabian Thinn, Corrina Thinn, Chris Thinn, Mary Thinn and Cheryl Thinn.
Chris said that the last time she spoke to Corrina, she was still in the ER. “She just sent us a message that she would fly out, that she loved us and that she would be back,” Chris said. “That was the last time we heard from her.”
Due to shortage, the sisters were not tested on COVID-19 until they were transferred from Tuba City. They both tested positive and were then intubated in their respective hospitals. Cheryl died on April 11, and no family members were allowed to be with her.
“I could not even hold my baby,” her mother said. “I could not even hold her hand when she passed by.”
The family had a small service before Cheryl was buried next to her father, Navajo Police Sgt. Jimmie Thinn Sr., and Cheryl’s ex-husband, who died in January. Even after their marriage ended, the two remained close and co-parented Cheryl’s son, Kyle.
Chris said the whole experience “felt very lonely.”
Nominated by the pain of Cheryl’s death, the family shifted their focus to Corrina.
“You tell yourself we just need to get her healthy enough to come home,” Chris said. “And then all of a sudden she’s gone.”
Corrina died on April 29 – 18 days after her sister’s death and two weeks after her birthday, which she spent in a ventilator. Although she was unconscious, her nurse sang “Happy Birthday”.
Corrina’s eldest son, Gary Werito Jr., had been trying for weeks to say goodbye to his Fort Bliss Army post in El Paso, Texas. His superiors refused his requests due to concerns that he might adopt the virus on leave.
Werito divorced his mother by hundreds of miles, Werito tried to reach her through prayer.
“I would burn later,” he said. ‘I tried to talk to my mother. I told her, ‘Mom, you’ll go through this. You will come home. You will meet your grandmother. ‘”
Werito and his wife were expecting their second child. The baby would have been Corrina’s first grandchild.
Werito remembers his mother as a “model Navajo.”
“She left the reserve to get an education, and then she came home,” he said. “She could have worked somewhere other than a social worker, but she chose to help her own people.”
Before becoming a social worker, Corrina worked for the Tuba City Police Department for more than 10 years. She ended her career of law enforcement as a senior police officer.
Goldtooth, the sister’s friend and colleague, said Corrina was particularly effective in the hospital because she spoke English and Navajo fluently. The native language, which helped the US win World War II as a secret code of communication, is not listed.
“A lot of people are no longer powerful in Navajo,” she said. “If older people were to come [to the hospital], they do not speak much English. She was there to talk to her. It would really surprise people. ”
Cheryl was softer than her sister. Mary remembers her as empathetic and insightful. Her relatives often sought her advice.
“That’s what we miss about her,” Mary said. “She might be quiet, but she always has important things to say to us.”
Both sisters have left young sons behind. Corrina’s son Michael is 14, and Cheryl’s son is just 12 years old. The cousins keep each other company, reminding Mary of the way her daughters behave.
To honor her former service with the Tuba City Police District, law enforcement officers escorted Corrina’s body from Flagstaff to Tuba City. Her family was humiliated by the eviction.
“We had people lined up to honor their return,” Mary said. ‘They pay their respects, waving their flags. Some officers stood along the road and greeted her. ”
Since June, the Navajo Department of Health has maintained strict guidelines throughout the week. Those measures have been effective because they have seen cases over the past two months. The Navajo Nation began its first recovery phase in mid-August, allowing most companies to operate at 25% capacity.
At the end of July, Werito left the army for good and returned home to Tuba City. His daughter was born on August 5 in the same hospital where his mother and aunt worked. Her middle name is Lois, the same as Corrina’s.
Werito said he sometimes forgets that his mother is away and expects her to come home from work.
“My grandmother told me it’s a little peace of mind that I’m home now,” he said. “It kind of filled that void that my mom and my aunt left behind.”
This story is part of “Lost on the frontline, ”An ongoing project of The guard and Kaiser Health News that aims to document the lives of health care workers in the U.S. who die from COVID-19, and to investigate why so many are victims of the disease. If you have a colleague or loved one, please include us share their story.
