I Don't Know

By: Sarah Abedi, MD

            I don’t think she knew when she was walking into Harbor, that would be the last thing she ever did. I don’t know if she knew she would never see her husband again. I don’t think she ever thought she would not be going back into her home again, seeing her children again. I don’t know if when she woke up that morning, it would be the last time she woke up in her own bed.

            I don’t know if I’m safe. I don’t know if I will be one of the younger ones that ends up on a ventilator if I get sick. I don’t know why it’s the worst pain I have ever felt when I see my healthcare colleagues around the world dying at staggering numbers. I don’t feel that many of the people that are supposed to keep me safe will actually keep me safe. I don’t know if I’m going to kill my mom or dad because I decided to practice medicine. I don’t feel like a hero. I don’t know why science and politics ever decided to intertwine. 

            I don’t think she understands how sick she is. I don’t know if she understands what is about to happen to her. I don’t know if she feels as bad as her numbers look. I don’t know how scared she is. I don’t know how to explain a breathing tube in Spanish with the detail I need to. I don’t have a pen to write down her husband’s phone number on that paper towel. I don’t have the ability to pre-oxygenate her the way I want to be before I stop her breathing. I don’t fully understand the level of risk I am facing doing this. I don’t see panic and fear in her eyes anymore as the sedation has been pushed. I don’t have the ability to stop myself from bagging her after seeing that low of a pulse oximeter reading because I cannot let her die. I don’t know why she was the hardest intubation of my entire residency. I don’t want her to die like this. I don’t wish this on any fellow human.     

            I don’t think her family understand her prognosis. I don’t think they want to. I don’t think they realized they saw her for the last time a few days ago. I don’t think they ever deserved to have her die without them near her. I don’t know if they cried or yelled or collapsed when they changed her code status. I don’t know what they look like. I don’t want to feel this heaviness anymore. I don’t know where to put this. I just don’t know.  

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I Work in Healthcare

By: Adriana Willis, PRW

I never thought in a million years that I would live in a time of a pandemic. Walking into the hospital now is surreal, it feels like we’re living in a movie. I feel scared and sad all at once. Anxiety sets in as I approach the entrance, just wondering if I am protected enough with the PPE. Will I be next to get covid-19 or will I be a carrier and bring the virus home to my family. The constant worry weighs heavy on me everyday. I have to try my best to stay positive and follow all protocols in protecting myself while at work. To see the face of defeat on a doctor who is treating a patient who has covid-19 is heartbreaking. To know you tried your best and it still wasn’t enough. Remembering how full the ER used to be with people complaining of common cold or something equally as small seems like only a memory. Now we only have a few patients a night but they all are coming in because they have covid-19 symptoms. This alone makes it seem like we are seeing hundreds of patients because one covid-19 patient requires all our attention and care. Knowing that you are only a hallway away from someone who is severely ill and fighting for their life is overwhelming. Some days are hard but then you see someone getting better and you feel hope again. All of this puts things into prospective for me. To know that you can just wake up and become severely ill is an alarmingly thing. From now on I will make the best of everyday and make sure I tell my family that I love them. Please stay safe. Covid-19 is real and it does not discriminate. Stay home and continue social distancing. It works and it saves lives.

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Why Nursing?

By: Eileen Lee RN, BSN

WHY NURSING?

Nursing is tiring, just go clubbing
Why not Engineering, and don't worry about documenting
Why not a Teacher, and be a preacher
Why not acting, and never get tired of gurney steering
Why can't be a boss, and don't deal with any loss.

WHY NURSING?

As a Nurse, I can put into words that I am caring
As a Nurse, preaching is a big part of my teaching
As a Nurse, I act too, by advocating for you.
As a Nurse, I cry with every loss. But I make sure that I cared for you the most.
As a Nurse, I am the boss.


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Through Glass

By: Alexander Garrett, MD

Photo by: Andrew Thorne, MD

The first time he saw her, sitting in period 3, English lit, tap-tapping her pencil to the prosody of A Midsummer’s Night, he forgot himself. If this were a movie, time would have stopped, but life’s not a movie, and moments like this always feel shorter than reality. Fireworks, days at Disneyland, and snow days are all disproportionately short to the inherent beauty of their moments. Such was this. 

The first time she saw him, slouching his way down the sidewalk, hands in his pockets, whistling Armstrong, she found herself. Sometimes life is like the movies, sometimes mundane little moments hold an opportunity for introspection disproportionately long to their blandness. Looking out the window on a rainy day, catching a whiff of Grandmother’s perfume on the bracelet she gave you, watching your cat curl into the perfect nap-ball. Such was this.

She kissed him for the first time under the jacaranda, outside Grandmother’s after a sweaty afternoon moving furniture, after an interminably awkward teatime, he, sitting politely, smiling and saying the right things, and she, catching herself staring at his dimples, and Grandma laughing and laughing. Then they were outside, under the jacaranda, with the sun dappling their hair through the leaves, and she didn’t know what to say, what to say when you don’t even know if this time will last forever, so she closed her eyes and kissed him, surrounded by sun and warmth and pale blues and violets.

Together they traveled, not the world, but through life, through joy and loss, guilt and redemption, satisfaction and regret, strife and compromise. Their life was a summation of moments, a hill of sand formed from innumerable grains, moments fast, moments slow, some flickering for just an instant, leaving behind an aching for something lost never to be found or broken never to be fixed, some lingering agonizingly long as memory.

The last time she saw him, it was through a glass. 
He was in a bed.
Scared.  
She was too.
Scared.
Hopeless.
Empty.
She was given a phone, told that they could speak before they put him on the ventilator, before they took his voice.

What do you say 
when you don’t even know 
if it’s time for goodbye?

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Calm Before the Storm

By: Dr. Andrew Thorne

I hear the sirens blaring. Everyone is warning, “keep in your homes, shelter in place, the storm is coming!” There’s such panic all around. But I turn the ignition and drive, down streets previously congested beyond use, to the lighthouse. The beacon shines bright, as if welcoming what’s to come. The air here is surprisingly calm, as if even Mother Nature herself is holding her breath. It’s not until I reach the entrance that I realize something is truly amiss. The familiar crash of the surf and shrill cries of seagulls have all faded. The beach is bone dry. I look to the horizon, hoping for a ray of light. Perhaps the storm won’t break, perhaps this calm will last. Shaking my head, I must remind myself that I can’t afford this optimism today. My training has taught me one thing, and that is to prepare for the direst outcome with each and every case. I secure my mask and enter, knowing full well that the tide always recedes before the tsunami hits.

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