The Allie Henderson who stepped out of her mother's car to a driveway full of cheering friends and family holding "Welcome Home" signs was a wisp of her former self.
After 10 days in the hospital with a near-fatal case of covid inflammatory syndrome, the then-13-year-old softball phenom and beloved, straight-A student was lethargic and frail and braced herself against the car's door frame.
But six months later, as the highly contagious delta variant swarms Mississippi, the state has one of the highest per capita infection rates in the nation and one of the lowest vaccination rates. In Hinds County, where the Hendersons live, the vaccination rate is 45%, well below the national average of 53%, as of last week. Some of Allie's closest friends and family remain unvaccinated.
"I feel like it hasn't been tested enough," said Erin Acey, 16, of the vaccine. Erin is a cousin of Allie's who lives a block away and grew up playing whiffle ball with Allie in the backyard.
Erin's parents are also not vaccinated, nor is another cousin, Cara McClure, 23, a hairstylist in nearby Clinton who is suspicious of conflicting information she's heard about the vaccine.
"I try not to watch the news. I get it from Facebook," said McClure. "I really try not to talk about it at work because it's like politics: You don't talk about politics at work."
The gravity of Allie's condition last winter became clear when the prayer requests went out, months before vaccines were widely available.
Congregations across the area in Crystal Springs, Hazelhurst, Wesson and Georgetown prayed for Allie; teachers at her small, independent Christian school in Gallman, Copiah Academy, prayed before class.
Allie's grandmother texted Wayne Hall, the pastor at Jackson First, where the Hendersons have been regular parishioners. Allie was a fixture in the Children's Ministry, a vivacious child always in the middle of the action, and the Hendersons are an admired family of go-getters. "Please pray," the text said. "Allie is in the hospital."
"When the request went out, it was all hands on deck," said Hall, who hunts with Allie's dad, Brook. He said his own prayers: "We believe in God to heal her body and are praying for Mom and Dad, who are walking through this, because there are a lot of unknowns."
Allie had felt crummy at school on a Monday in late January but still managed to play in a basketball game that evening. A few days later, she was doubled over with stomach pain and no remedy — Tylenol, Motrin, baths — would break her 104-degree fever. LeAnn Henderson, Allie's mother, asked her best friend, Caroline Young, a nurse and fellow softball mom, "Why can't we get this fever to go away?"
At the emergency room, Allie tested negative for covid, strep and influenza, and doctors settled on removing her inflamed appendix. But soon after the surgery, her fever spiked again, her blood pressure and oxygen levels dropped, her eyes were eerily bloodshot, her hands splotchy.
"Allie was so weak, she was talking about giving up," said LeAnn.
An ambulance whisked Allie to Children's of Mississippi, a hospital in Jackson with a pediatric intensive care unit where doctors diagnosed her with multisystem inflammatory syndrome in children. MIS-C, as it is known, appears to affect children two to eight weeks after an asymptomatic or mild covid-19 infection. A blood test found covid antibodies, and Allie began receiving steroids, blood pressure medication and intravenous antibiotics to fight the syndrome.
McClure, who often styled Allie's hair and took her to the local waterpark, video chatted with her cousin. "She looked tired, drained, her face was white," said McClure. Already thin, Allie was losing weight. At the hair salon, McClure tried to keep the unfolding family crisis away from clients already spooked by the pandemic. Her co-workers would see her crying between appointments.
Outside the hospital windows, friends and family stood on the grass and held up signs that Allie could see from her room. There was an endless stream of food deliveries for the family: Chick-fil-A, chili from Wendy's, seafood pasta from Biaggi's.
"Everybody in Allie's world knew about this — softball, school, church — it was on our doorstep," said LeAnn. "People had known adults who had gotten sick and been in the hospital, but not sick like Allie. I think it was like, 'Wow, this is real and this happened to her.' They know how strong and athletic [she is]. She's a power hitter."
At Copiah Academy, Allie's absence registered with growing fear. "Parents began to get scared," said Rita Henley, a school administrator. The school had taken precautions, sanitizing classrooms, requiring students to wear masks and to physically distance. Students who tested positive for covid and those who shared classrooms or sports teams had to quarantine at home. "Some of the parents embraced it and some didn't," said Henley. "It reflected the differences in opinion that we have right now in our country."
As Allie came in and out of consciousness at the hospital, she fretted about her grades and missing the remainder of basketball season and the upcoming softball season.
"Allie is a very aggressive athlete, always ready to practice and play hard," said Caroline Young, LeAnn's friend whose daughter plays on the same travel softball team as Allie. "That was the most poignant thing about the illness — we saw a really strong teammate become weak."
On Feb. 7, LeAnn drove her daughter home to the cheers and open arms of a loving gaggle of friends and family. "I started crying, she started crying, everyone started crying," said Allie's cousin Erin.
LeAnn shared her family's ordeal with a local television station. "I immediately went to the media and said, 'This is something else covid can do. This happened to my 13-year-old. We need to look out for this.'"
Allie returned to school for a few hours each day and grew stronger. On occasion, she was overcome by seizures, passing out once in the bathroom at home and once on her way to her bedroom. One night, Allie woke and couldn't feel her legs. "I was screaming," LeAnn said, whose usual unflappable disposition had finally caved. By spring break, in mid-March, after neurology appointments and brain scans and heart scans, Allie started coming back to herself. She and her family got the vaccines when they became available.
At school, the questions overwhelmed her. "We had a little joke. I said I had a bad haircut and couldn't come to school," Allie said. But she didn't feel the urge to proselytize about the dangers of covid. "I don't like to go public about personal stuff."
She suited up for a softball scrimmage and could barely hoist the bat above her shoulder. "It was very difficult because I couldn't do what I could do before," said Allie. She told her mom, "I just suck at this." The crowd of softball dads teared up when Allie tried to swing the bat. "It's amazing that she's out there," LeAnn said they told her.
Students returned to Copiah Academy in early August. Masks are not required, nor is the covid vaccine for those eligible. "Our internal conversation is that we do not feel we can require the vaccine unless the state requires it," said Henley. But "because of Allie, people — without question — know that this is a real thing."
Still, the shifting nature of the pandemic — the arrival of the delta variant, the news that vaccinated people can spread covid — has brewed confusion. "I truly think that we see too much back-and-forth on the news. I think it hurts people," said Henley, who is vaccinated. "People don't know what to believe."
Federal health officials say millions of Americans have been safely vaccinated, and vaccination reduces the risk of severe complications from covid.
Pastor Hall is reluctant to direct his parishioners to get vaccinated. "We believe in healing, we believe in the power of God, and we also know God gives wisdom," he said. "If the CDC is saying things we need to abide by, we need to really listen." He added, "Allie's story has helped a lot of people really understand, 'Hey, this is not a pick-and-choose kind of deal. It can hit home anywhere.'"
At the hair salon in Clinton, McClure shares more openly now about her cousin's illness with her clients. "I'll say my little cousin had it and we get to talking about it," said McClure. But she doesn't push it. "When clients come in, we want it to be about them. We ask, 'Are you going on vacation?' We focus on them to make them feel good."
But she notices those around her have dropped their guard. "They take everything for granted. 'Oh, we're good. We're fine. We don't have to sanitize,'" she said. "Even now at the salon we try to make people sanitize, and they're like, 'Ugh.'"
McClure had a mild covid infection last Thanksgiving — headache and nausea — but it passed. Even now, she's in no rush to get vaccinated. "Even with the vaccine, you can still get it. Every day I feel like something about it is changing, there's a new strand," she said.
Erin, Allie's 16-year-old cousin, isn't sure when — or if — she'll get vaccinated. She's nervous about the side effects and wants to wait and see. In her view, the pandemic has "died down" and she's unfamiliar with the delta variant. "I'd rather read about it and see it myself," she said.
"I know she has a different perspective," Allie said about her cousin Erin. "I would have a different perspective if it hadn't happened to me. I just know some people are like, 'My body, my choice.' Everything these days is about politics and nobody likes to be wrong. It's very confusing for my part. I want people to get vaccinated because I know what it feels like."
Some of her closest friends have gotten the vaccine. Was it because of what happened to her? Allie responded, "Yes, ma'am."
This article was reprinted from khn.org with permission from the Henry J. Kaiser Family Foundation. Kaiser Health News, an editorially independent news service, is a program of the Kaiser Family Foundation, a nonpartisan health care policy research organization unaffiliated with Kaiser Permanente.