Undocumented immigrants with COVID symptoms may be suffering in silence

Mexican native dies in Roseville

Raul Castaneda, 48, didn’t feel well, with fluctuating fevers and fatigue, in the two weeks before he died of COVID-19 in April. But he didn’t want to seek medical attention.

He and his family lacked health insurance for one thing, his loved ones and friends said. But being an undocumented immigrant afraid of arrest and removal from the country undoubtedly was another factor.

“In every moment he was aware of the danger that he could be arrested,” said Carlos Urrutia, a fellow undocumented immigrant who advocates for economic and racial justice through ISAIAH, a St. Paul-based coalition of faith communities. “Why would he not think if he goes to the hospital — in addition to the money — why would he not think that he is a person ICE (Immigration and Customs Enforcement) could arrest?”

Urrutia, 46, and Richard Podvin, both members with Castaneda of St. Odilia in Shoreview, said they fear Castaneda’s predicament is shared by many undocumented immigrants, who might suffer with the novel coronavirus at the risk of their own lives and the lives of their loved ones.

“Undocumented immigrants often do not have insurance, don’t have financial resources to pay emergency room costs, and feel pressure to go to work no matter how they feel, to support their families,” Podvin said. “In addition, they are fearful of being a ‘public charge’ and later being denied consideration” for permanent residency.

However, Podvin said, the federal government has stated that it won’t consider immigrants seeking medical care for COVID-19 or other communicable diseases to be a factor in “public charge” determinations, which are made by the federal government as it tries to ensure immigrants entering the country or seeking permanent residency can support themselves.

But for many immigrants, that message of hope has been drowned out by the Trump administration in February broadening its definition of public charge — from someone who might be dependent on income assistance or long-term, institutionalized care from the government — to also include immigrants receiving public assistance such as Medicaid, housing vouchers, rental assistance or food stamps, Podvin said. That broader definition has prompted fears among immigrants about drawing attention to themselves, he said.

Podvin, 78, a retired psychiatric social worker, is fluent in Spanish and active in the Latino community of St. Odilia, where he met Castaneda and Castaneda’s partner, Enedelia Martinez, 47, and their two children, 14-year-old Elena and 9-year-old Paolo, who attend public schools in Roseville and Little Canada.

Podvin contacted The Catholic Spirit to draw attention to Castaneda’s death and the plight of undocumented immigrants who are afraid to seek medical care in the midst of the pandemic.

It’s important for people in the community to know about their fears and the protection afforded by the federal government, so they can share those facts and encourage undocumented immigrants to seek help when they need it, Podvin said. Seeking proper medical care also protects the broader community, he said.

Fear of deportation

With Urrutia and Podvin acting as interpreters, Martinez said that although she is an undocumented immigrant, she wants to tell her family’s story to help others. She feels relatively comfortable sharing her name because she doesn’t believe she will be a high priority target for ICE officials, she said. Still, she and Castaneda, who came to the United States from Mexico nearly 20 years ago and had their children in this country, have always been aware of the risk of deportation. If they were deported, that could separate them from their children, who are U.S. citizens by birth, Martinez said.

“The fear has always been in our lives,” she said. “But when the illness came, we never thought it would get this bad.”

They took great care to avoid contracting the coronavirus, Martinez said. At their weekly prayer group of about 10 families at St. Odilia, which was held in people’s homes and gave them time and fellowship to pray the rosary, and pray for one another, Martinez made sure that everyone stayed 6 feet apart from one another, wore masks and washed their hands.

As the coronavirus pandemic deepened in Minnesota, that prayer group went to virtual meetings on Zoom, and it has grown to about 30 families, including people’s relatives and friends in El Salvador, Mexico and other countries, Podvin said.

Castaneda and Martinez made their living cooking, washing dishes and cleaning at restaurants in Shoreview and Roseville. When Gov. Tim Walz closed restaurants, bars, salons, churches and other gathering places statewide March 18, the couple’s hours were greatly reduced. But they continued to help clean the two restaurants where they worked, as the restaurant owners anticipated opening again at a later date, she said.

Becoming ill

On April 4, after helping clean a restaurant on two different workdays, Castaneda came home feeling sick and unusually tired, Martinez said.

“We knew about the symptoms, so when he walked in the door, I looked at him and said, ‘Take your clothes off, they are dirty,’” she said. “I grabbed the sanitizer, sprayed them all down and told him to take a shower.”

He began to feel better, and the next week worked two more days. But by April 18 he had a high fever and felt quite ill, said Martinez, adding that she felt ill as well.

Symptoms for each of them rose and fell, and didn’t reach a point of emergency until April 25, when another family member determined it was time to go the hospital. Castaneda showered and combed his hair, but that took all of his energy, and he “just wanted to lay down again,” Martinez said.

When he rose to try to get out the door, he had difficulty breathing and started trembling. Martinez said she grabbed him, crying out, “No, don’t leave me now, don’t leave me now, Raul.”

They called an ambulance and Martinez applied CPR, but could not feel his pulse.

Paramedics put Castaneda on oxygen and hooked him to a defibrillator, but they couldn’t bring him back, she said.

An autopsy showed Castaneda had contracted the novel coronavirus, and Martinez tested positive for it as well. Medical officials didn’t test their children because they were not showing symptoms, Martinez said, in what she views as a mistake. One of them later developed a fever but recovered, she said.

“It’s really wrong that they didn’t test the children,” she said. “So then, how do we know they aren’t giving the contagion to other people?”

Getting help

Castaneda’s brother, who lives in Wisconsin, took the family in. They practiced social distancing and wore masks while staying with him. Now, the family is back in Roseville, living at a mobile home complex. Martinez is trying to scrape by with the help of family and friends.

That has included help from a Go Fund Me campaign mounted by friends that raised more than $20,000 to help pay for Castaneda’s funeral and help Martinez with rent and other immediate needs.

“That alone tells you how this family is loved not only by his friends, but the community,” Urrutia said. “Because they are always giving.”

Martinez said some people might argue that she and Castaneda and their children should not even be in the United States without proper documentation. But people have the right to better their families through immigration, and the United States has made it extremely difficult, and in some cases nearly impossible, to obtain visas, green cards and citizenship, she said.

Grieving over the loss of Castaneda and facing an uncertain future, Martinez said she remains glad that her family is in the United States.

“This is a country that gives us a lot of opportunity, and I don’t want to take that away from my children,” she said.

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CHURCH LEADERS CONCERNED

If Raul Castaneda was worried about seeking medical care before he died of COVID-19 because of the attention it could bring to him as an undocumented immigrant, he would not be alone, two leaders in Latino ministry told The Catholic Spirit.

“I think various of our Latino brothers and sisters would be fearful,” said Sandy Cortez, coordinator of Latino Ministry at St. Odilia in Shoreview, where Castaneda and his partner, Enedelia Martinez, have been active members. “They think about what it is like to go to the clinic, to go to the doctor. … That is at the front of their minds,” Cortez said. “Anyone who is undocumented, how would that not be on their minds?”

Martinez and friends of Castaneda at St. Odilia said they suspect he was worried about being deported or being declared a “public charge,” which would interfere with attempts at obtaining permanent residency in the United States. Castaneda and Martinez came to the United States from Mexico nearly 20 years ago.

Cortez and Anne Attea, coordinator of Latino Ministry at Ascension in Minneapolis, said that in addition to concerns about being deported, undocumented immigrants often don’t want to go to the doctor because they lack health insurance or money to pay the bills.

Undocumented immigrants have asked her if they should go in for a COVID-19 test, and she always tells them, yes, if they are showing symptoms, Attea said.

“There is definitely concern about going in,” she said. “People voice concerns around (whether) this (medical) information is confidential: ‘Am I putting my status in jeopardy?’”

That fear remains despite Trump administration assurances that seeking medical care for COVID-19 symptoms will not trigger “public charge” investigations, Attea said.

President Donald Trump is widely known to change his mind from one day to the next, and his anti-immigration rhetoric does not promote trust, she said.

“Raul and his family may have heard that he would not be penalized, but to believe it is something with which all undocumented immigrants struggle, and not just because of their personal situation, but because of all the others they may put at risk if they are asked to provide information for contact tracing,” Attea said.

That kind of worry and dilemma points once again to the need for comprehensive immigration reform, Attea said.

“People like Raul have been here for 20, 25, 30 years, working and contributing positively to our society, and they have no legal way to regulate their status,” she said. “We have not had a pathway since 1986.”

The Pew Research Center in Washington, D.C., estimated in 2016 that there were about 95,000 undocumented immigrants in Minnesota, making up about 20% of the immigrant population and 2% of the state’s overall population.

The nonprofit Immigrant Law Center of Minnesota, based in St. Paul, notes on its website that the “climate of fear created by the public charge rule has hampered efforts to respond to the novel coronavirus. This put people’s lives at risk.”

Estela Villagran Manancero, director of the Office of Latino Ministry in the Archdiocese of St. Paul and Minneapolis, said she shares with the Latino community avenues for dealing with health issues. She is in weekly telephone calls with the Minnesota Department of Health about COVID-19, as well as regular contact with officials in Hennepin and Ramsey counties and other Latino organizations. She shares that information with the community via emails and Flocknote.

Cortez said Castaneda, Martinez and their two children have contributed in a big way to St. Odilia, particularly the Latino ministry, and Castaneda is greatly missed. The children are in faith formation, the couple helped lead a rosary prayer group that Martinez continues to be involved with, and they assisted with meet-and-greets after Mass and other events.

Castaneda also loved music, Cortez said. He had deejay equipment and was the unofficial deejay for parish celebrations such as the Dec. 12 feast day of Our Lady of Guadalupe, she said.

“He was such a great person, with a huge heart,” Cortez said. “He was like, ‘How can I help? How can I help?’”