COVID: Isolation
Every breath was a struggle. I watched the patient as he focused on breathing. Inhale. Exhale. Absolute concentration. He had been wearing a BiPAP mask for nearly 24 hours, having failed the nasal cannula and non-rebreather mask. The BiPAP creates a seal around the nose and mouth, making it difficult to talk, much less eat. Today we were going to try to get him to snack. Not too much, as that could lead to aspiration. Banana. Gelatin. Water.
We unfastened the mask and pulled it away from his face. The hiss of air filled the room. Life-saving air. Contagious air. Before I could consider the particles of coronavirus that had billowed out of his BiPAP, alarms started to ring. The patient’s oxygen levels plunged to the mid-70s. Fear. I looked in the man’s eyes and they were filled with fear. “Ignore the alarms,” the respiratory therapist said. “We’re putting on this other mask that will allow you to eat.” She showed me how to place the mask and his oxygen levels slowly returned to the mid-80s. The bells were silenced. We encouraged the man to eat and he did what he could.
A week after my ED assignment, the oncology floor had been turned into a COVID isolation unit. All hands on deck meant that I would be returning to my desk upstairs. My role would consist of providing direct patient care.
The unit at first was quiet. Tense. The whole hospital feels that way, but 10C moreso. Perhaps it’s the seriousness of the work. Perhaps the masks cut down on conversation. Over the past two weeks though, we’ve developed a camaraderie. The tension has reduced. We know what to expect, and we know how to counter it (mostly). At first, we were seeing only admissions. Now, we’re seeing discharges. With the discharges, we’ve developed a custom of applauding the patient as they leave our floor. The work almost feels normal.
Frustrations still develop. PPE (Personal Protective Equipment) can be in varying sates of supply. Recently, gowns have been in short supply. There has been mention of nurses being forced to wear trash bags for gowns, and while we always have had a gown available, the flimsiness of some of these gowns could make the trashbag a preferential choice.
N95 masks are available, but the ones supplied by the hospital offer a level of comfort that mimics a tin can tied to the face. Thankfully, family and friends have provided a personal stash to add a semblance of comfort while on shift. They’ve collected masks from friends and neighbors and sent them up to Brooklyn. Seven masks here. Three masks there. Many left over from the Houston floods. Some of their friends have sent supplies directly. One man I’ve never met sent me a box of masks. Another couple sent a gift basket filled with beers, meats, and cheeses. Lori’s family has also provided hand-sewn masks. Cookies too! The community support certainly helps ease the stress.
The shifts have been tough and the hours long. 4-12s. I’m handling it well enough, at least I think I am. After my shift ends, I rush home. As soon as I walk through the door, I strip my clothes and jump in the shower. The scrubs go straight to the bin with an every-other-day wash cycle, though there have been times I’ve considered purchasing an incinerator instead. After my shower, I’ll get in a ride or a run. Dinner. Maybe another shower. Then a 5 hour nap and back at it the next day. Monday through Thursday. I don’t yet feel close to burn out, but I’m not sure I could maintain this for a solid six months.
Every night at 7pm, the City opens their windows and applauds. It’s shift change, at least theoretically. The applause is for the people in the City who are fighting for it. I’ve had people call me a hero, which I hate. I’m just doing my job. The applause though. The appreciation. It’s directed at the medical community, but I think it’s more. It’s applause for the City. It’s applause for all of us. We’re going to make it though. We will.