Syracuse, NY – Onondaga County executive Ryan McMahon cannot drive.
He cannot send email. The 40-year-old man can’t even clean his garage entrance.
McMahon, who has been a steady, calm voice in response to the pandemic in central New York for almost a year, started seeing twice as much when he woke up on February 6.
A night at the hospital, a battery of tests and several follow-up visits with specialists ruled out the most frightening possibilities, including a stroke or brain tumor.
The main candidate on this point: pandemic stress.
“I am coming to the conclusion that it is related to the pandemic,” said McMahon. “When we see what this pandemic has done to the public and the community … the human side of things … It is difficult to disconnect. To turn off. To be honest with you, I can’t turn it off. “
Almost a year after entering Covid-19, the county executive’s front-row seat for other people’s loss, fear and frustration, he said.
McMahon revealed to Syracuse.com that, even while playing, the situation is serious. The nerve in his left eye is damaged and, so far, medical teams have not been able to find the cause. There is no treatment plan at this time.
For an instant, he thought about keeping the crisis private, he said. But how could he? People would see him close his eyes at meetings. They would see him squint and trip, he said. They would hear that he is not driving. Of course, they would wonder. They would draw their own conclusions.
McMahon has been a voice of reason, a delivery system of community desperation when deaths soared and hope when the vaccine was launched online. He had promised to be transparent about the response to the pandemic. He had to be transparent about the consequences on his life too, he said.
“We are a big family in this and families share that kind of information,” said McMahon.
Onondaga County executive Ryan McMahon presents the latest statistics locally on rates of coronavirus infection and vaccinations on February 22, 2021. Dennis Nett | [email protected]
In his instructions, yet, he reminds people that he is still struggling. I see two Ann Rooneys, he pointed out at a recent meeting, referring to a senior advisor. He made a joke and moved on.
Looking back, McMahon sees where it all started to go bad, he said. For him, the launch of the vaccine was just as stressful as the initial shutdown at the beginning of the pandemic, he said.
McMahon has no control over supply and has little control over distribution. And he knows that thousands of people want the vaccine more than they can get it. They call him and leave messages.
Each time new slots are opened, your office is flooded with calls from people who were unable to enter. There are thousands of them. People desperate for injections. Some are angry, some are concerned. Some are just frustrated. McMahon has no power to help them.
“As rewarding as the vaccination process was, it was the most stressful. You have so many people who want it and there is no way to make it reach everyone. And that triggers public reaction or extreme frustration and despair, ”said McMahon. “We feel it. We are the face of it. “
Near the start of the vaccine launch, McMahon began to have spasms in his back. He couldn’t sleep. He usually sleeps five hours; it has become much less, he said.
When I was home at night, I used to call state and federal authorities, trying to get better access to the vaccine.
He didn’t feel well when he went to work on February 5.
It was one of the last times he drove. The sun shone on the snow and he squinted as he drove down South Salina Street. His outlook was funny after that, he said. He thought he just couldn’t keep the shine off.
He told himself that he was just downcast. He imagined he would go to bed and his eyes would be normal when he woke up. He didn’t tell anyone how he felt.
But when he woke up, he didn’t just see that restless glow. He saw twice. He knew that his brother, Tommy, had migraines. Maybe that was it, McMahon thought. He called him. The brothers waited a while to see if it would turn into a headache or if their vision improved. Nothing happened.
McMahon told his wife, Caitlin, when she returned from her errands on Saturday morning. She took him to see his sister-in-law, who is a nurse.
She measured his blood pressure, which reached 160 by 120.
McMahon had never seen his blood pressure anywhere near that level. He never had serious health problems, he said.
McMahon called his doctor, who told him to go to Crouse Hospital immediately. The doctor feared that he might be having a stroke.
Once there, McMahon lived his own version of the story that he heard so many times. He was alone in the hospital. He was sick. And he was terrified.
He had CT scans, MRI scans and a lumbar puncture.
“I have a deadly fear of needles. And I was a pin cushion for a weekend, ”said McMahon, laughing.
Tests have revealed that there is damage to the nerve in his left eye, which makes it difficult, and sometimes impossible, to move the eye. But there was no indication of what caused it, which is why doctors are considering stress as the reason.
McMahon has glasses that help to put everything in focus, but they give him a headache if he wears them too long. Sometimes he reads with just one eye. His phone is easier to see than other screens, so he managed to do a few things on it.
But mostly, he depends on others to do things that he cannot. Justin Sayles, its director of communications, became its driver. McMahon used to reply to most emails that reached the “county executive” inbox because he liked to do that. Now, your team is doing that too.
He had planned to be polishing his County State address now, but that has to be postponed.
His vision improved a little. He went for a walk on the street and did well, he said. But he can’t deal with the forest he used to walk to find some peace. The terrain is very uneven for the way he sees it now.
McMahon was forced to work at a slower pace. If he tries to read a lot, he will have to lie down until the headache is gone.
He found more time to play with Andrew, who is 4 years old. And more time to sit on the couch and do a show or two with your older kids, Maddie and Jack.
But what makes him calm, which reminds him that it is worthwhile, are the vaccination clinics of Oncenter.
If he has a few minutes these days, someone will accompany him. Then he watches. He reminds himself that this is what it is about.
Streams of people who have lived in fear and isolation for months line up as if they are waiting for a show.
Nurses who have spent months chasing the paths of Covid-19 infections instead provide a solution.
Both are smiling, said McMahon.
For now, he sees this twice.
Marnie Eisenstadt writes about people, public affairs and the school district of the city of Syracuse. Contact her anytime the e-mail | Twitter| cell 315-470-2246.