6:30 AM
I sit in my car in the parking lot and psych myself up before shift. The uncertainty and chaos of the coming hours, the reality of what’s happening—12 hours feel like 20 these days.
We gather for our morning huddle. The medical surgical nurses stand by us, just as scared as we are. Forget the information we told you yesterday. Be careful, be safe, be smart. Remember, there is no emergency in a pandemic. We disperse.
Breathing is getting harder and harder in my mask. Sweat drips down my back. I’ve been in this room for more than 45 minutes. I take off only my gloves, open the glass door, use the hand sanitizer outside, and gather the medications I set aside for the next patient. I put on new gloves and go into the room.
11 AM
I’m late for unit rounds, where we update status with the doctors and charge nurse. I bring the doctor up to speed on both patients.
It’s too late. We listen for heart tones. Nothing. He’s gone. Gone too soon.
Patient 3 is 59 years old, and came in this morning with shortness of breath. We suspect COVID; he’s been ill for two days, though he hasn’t encountered anyone positive. When he arrived in the ER, his oxygen saturation was low on room air and he couldn’t talk in full sentences. We intubated him right away.
I finish up my conversation and get ready for bed. I have a few minutes to myself. Emotionally, I am spent. I think about those going to the streets to fight for the “freedom” to reopen businesses, to protest the right to get a haircut or the right to go to a bar, and I want those people to understand that this is about more than your right to day-to-day life. This is everyone’s right to health and safety. I close my eyes and rest for tomorrow. v
