To the people of 2020,
We’re born alone, we die alone. We have all heard that phrase at one time or another throughout our lives, but never has that been so true as it is now. During this uncertain time that we live in, the time of the ‘Novel Coronavirus’, fear is so prevalent that you can almost feel it in the air. For most people, the shelter-in-place lifestyle has become the new norm. Wake up, drink coffee, work from home (if you’re lucky), eat, try to exercise, watch Netflix, have a beer, go to bed, and repeat. For some, the empathy exists, and is real. Maybe they know science well enough to stay home, maybe they know someone in the healthcare field that is out there fighting, maybe they stay home strictly out of fear of contracting the virus, and maybe they stay home just because they respect the rules. Whatever the case, those that are staying home are doing the right thing, and they are helping save lives.
No one really “likes” what is going on, and I have heard more complaints about this shelter in place to last me a lifetime:
“I’m pissed I can’t go to the gym”
“It’s bullshit I can’t go on my vacation”
“They should at least let me go to the golf course; I’m going crazy over here”
Whatever the complaints are, if that’s what is getting you through, whether I like it or not, then so be it, as long as you are abiding by the shelter-in-place orders.
Then there are those comments that have cut me, and so many healthcare providers, so deep to hear, when we are out there fighting for the very people making these comments.
“Are the lives really worth the economic decline”
“It’s just old and sick people dying, like any other disease”
“This is natural selection at its finest”
“You’re healthy, you’ll be fine out there”
“Honestly, the world is over populated anyways”
So, to those of you who share those aforementioned views, I would like to share with you what we are doing, and what are patients are suffering through, in hopes that you, for lack of a better phrase, shut your mouth. These are not only my experiences, but the experiences of my beloved coworkers, my coworkers-coworkers, and so many medical professionals beyond that. Whether you are a nurse, doctor, virologist, EVS worker, tech, speech language pathologist, or a medical assistant, we are all in this together, and this is for you.
5:00AM, alarm goes off. It seems like you just laid your head on the pillow, and now the unforgiving blare of your alarm prompts you that it is in fact a new day. Hit the snooze once, you deserve it. Nine minutes. Nine more minutes to cherish your bed, that somehow seems softer than the last night you slept in it. Your spouse, or significant other, is next to you snoozing away, if you are lucky; you however, are not that lucky. You went to bed alone, and you face this new day alone. Maybe you just had a break up before Covid19 hit, maybe you just got your heartbroken, or maybe you were focusing on your career, too busy for a relationship. Well, whatever the reason, you wake up alone, with only your own strength to get out of bed. Deep breaths, you have five more minutes before your alarm goes off again.
You know you have your family…that you can’t see, out of fear of infecting them. You know you have good friends, but as wonderful as your friends are, they can only empathize with what you are seeing on a daily basis, but they can never truly understand the horrors of this disease, and frankly, you pray every night that they never have to. Three minutes until your alarm goes off again. The first few weeks of this, you confided in your friends, you talked non-stop of what your saw in attempts to get it off your chest. Now though, several weeks in, you have lost your will to talk about it. Some things are just unspeakable. You hate yourself because your friends mean so well, and they urge you to talk to them, but you can’t hear one more person say to you “How awful, I can’t imagine what you are are going through” because the truth is, they cant. It’s not their fault, but you find it’s just easier to keep it inside and power through the next day.
You look at the pillow next to you, and you can’t help think about the person you wish was there, sleeping next to you. You’re filled with sadness and regret, even if it wasn’t your fault, but it’s times like this, you just wish that person was next to you. One minute until your alarm goes off again, and you are forced to leave the comfort of your warm bed. Deep breaths, ‘you’ve got this’ you tell yourself. This is the life path you chose. This is the job you chose…no, it’s not just a job, it’s your passion. After all, no one goes into nursing for the money, you went into nursing because you were born with the innate passion to better this world, but hey, no one told you that you were signing up for this. No one told you that your passion could also be the end of you. 5:09AM, there’s that unforgiving blaring once again. Time to get up.
Normally, you would go to your dresser and pull out a clean pair of scrubs, but now you just throw on whatever gets you to work in one piece. It doesn’t matter what your wear, you’re going to be changing into disposable OR scrubs anyways when you get there. Clothes, shoes, brush your teeth…no point to shower in the morning, you’ll have to get in the shower the second you get home anyways, for fear of bringing Covid19 home with you. Walk out to your car…is that frost on the windshield? It’s mid-April, and it was 70 degrees last week. Yep, that’s frost, better get your ice scraper out.
You’ve found that your drive to work is your favorite part of your day. You’re not trapped in your house, but you’re not terrified at your job either. Somehow, the song that just came on your Spotify is perfect. You enjoy twenty minutes of peace before you pull into the parking garage. You park, and you take a deep breath. The second you leave your car, you know the day is no longer about you, so you better suck it up, and slap a smile on your face for the people who need it.
The walk through the parking garage is cold, but it gets just a little warmer when you see your coworker. Finally, a face that understands. You can’t hug her though, but you smile and greet each other, and walk into the battle together. Yes, make no mistake, this is a battle, and everyone working in that hospital, including yourself is a soldier. A lot of you didn’t even work on the floor or in the clinic where the Covid patients are located now, but your “deployment papers," yes, they were called deployment papers, were signed and you were sent to the front lines to fight this disease together.
Upon entering the hospital, you wait in line to get your temperature taken. Too high, and you get sent home. You’re disgusted with yourself as a tiny voice in the back of your head secretly hopes that your temperature will be slightly too high to go into work today. You’re disgusted because you know this is your duty, and if you were brave enough, you would never even entertain a thought like that. You shake that thought out of your head and remind yourself that you are stronger than that. 98.7, near perfect, you’re good to go.
It’s your third twelve-hour shift in a row, and as you walk to the floor, you wonder how your patients from yesterday are doing. When you left, two of them were fairly stable, but one of them has been on your mind constantly. He is about your age, late twenties, we can call him Adam. He was diagnosed Covid positive two days ago. He is non-smoker with no previous medical history. He was the picture of health a week ago, but none of that matters, because your enemy is so insidious, so maniacal, that its victimology sees every human as its next target; regardless of age, gender, race or previous health history. You’re at the elevator now, and as you wait for it to open, you can’t shake something Adam said before you left last night: “See you tomorrow, I mean, as long as I’m still here”. God, in what world should those words ever come out of a young man in his twenties. Your anxiety builds thinking about him as the elevator climbs, it seems like it’s taking forever to get to your floor.
Finally, the elevator stops on your floor and you almost trip over your feet as you rush out. You don’t go to the charge station like you normally would, instead you head over to change into the OR scrubs. You change quickly, your patients still on your mind, and you pray that they are still alive. You grab your goggles, face shield and mask, and you don your PPE from head to toe. You catch yourself almost laughing as you think about how, a few months prior, IDPH and JCAHO would have had a heart attack if they found out that anyone was reusing PPE even once, but here you are now, wearing the same mask the entire day, because supplies are still low. Beyond that, you are actually thankful that your hospital has any PPE at all, because not everyone in your city is that lucky.
Once dressed you, don’t go immediately to look at your assignment. Instead, you head straight to Adam’s room to make sure he made it through the night. A giant wave of relief comes over you, when you see his name still on the door where you left it last night. You get your assignment, same three patients as yesterday. You are glad for the consistency. You make your morning rounds on your three patients, and see how they did overnight. Before going into each room, you ensure your goggles are secure, face shield in place, gown is closed, hair is back, gloves are on, and your N95 mask is secure and occlusive. Your two more stable patients look abut the same, and they are relieved to see a familiar face when you walk in. It gives you some perspective as your write your name on the whiteboard in their room…as lonely as you feel right now, at least you are not fighting for your life without your loved ones by your side, like your patients are. The hospital has a strict no visitor policy, and even in the face of death, this policy is not broken, in hopes to contain the virus as much as possible.
You get to Adams room, and you check your PPE once again before going inside. You don’t like what you see when you enter the room. When you left, he was on only 2L of oxygen, via nasal cannula. Now he is on 5L of oxygen, and he somehow looks paler than when you left him. Along with his fluids, you see they have hung multiple electrolyte riders overnight. You’re not shocked, you couldn’t get him to eat a damn thing yesterday. Upon looking at him, you remember how he told you jokingly yesterday that he is usually a tan ‘Italian Stallion’, and it’s a good thing his girlfriend isn’t here because she would probably be turned off at how pale he has become. Since he is asleep you write your name on the whiteboard and then turn around to take this opportunity to count his respirations. Thirty-two. At least ten breaths more a minute than when you left him last night. Not good. You turn to leave the room, not wanting to wake him yet, but he stirs and you hear:
“Hey there, you sick of me already?”
“I was just letting you get your beauty sleep Adam, we can’t send you back to your girlfriend looking all pale and pasty when this is all over," you reply.
He laughs, hard. You know he, being a young man, appreciates the entertainment your slight sass brings him. He's got to have some kind of entertainment while he's stuck here. He continues to laugh, but then the laugh turns into a cough, and the cough turns into a coughing fit. Soon he is coughing so hard that he can’t catch his breath, and you see his oxygen saturation drop from 95% to 83%. You spring into action, feeling terrible about causing the laughter, and raise his bed to the full 60 degrees and crank his oxygen up a little more. You squat down to his bedside level and say “Breath through your nose Adam. Slowly. Slowly. Look at me.” He continues to cough; his face turns purple. “Look at me Adam, in and out. In and out”. The fear in his eyes is unmistakable, but he listens to you, and slowly but surely catches his breath. The purple hue in his face fades to red and then pink and finally back to pale. His oxygen level stabilizes and you are able to titrate his oxygen back to 5L.
You try to hide a sigh of relief behind your face shield in hopes that you won’t worry him. You fight back a tear, as you feel guilty for being the one to make him laugh and put him through that. Instead, you manage to say “Okay Adam, no need to laugh so hard, I’m not THAT funny.” You can tell that calms him and he smiles, lays back and closes his eyes.
You listen to his lungs and heart as you do your assessment. His skin is burning up, it's about time for another dose of Tylenol. You offer to order him breakfast, but of course, he declines, he hasn’t had an appetite in days. Instead you turn on the TV for him, Let’s Make A Deal has become his morning routine over the past ten days since he arrived here. You hand him his call light and excuse yourself from the room. As you reach the door, he turns his head to you and says, “Can we facetime Kelsey at 10?” Kelsey is his girlfriend, and the love of his life, as he so frequently he calls her. He talks about her any time he can. You have been helping him facetime her every day you have taken care of him because he is too weak to do it himself. You are happy to do it, because you see how she lights up his life, and you know beyond a shadow of a doubt that she is what is keeping him going. “Of course Adam, I will be back at 10 on the dot, as soon as Let’s Make A Deal” is over." Adam smiles again and lays his head back down. “I’m going to marry her ya know” He says, eyes still closed. You smile and leave the room. You really hope that he gets that chance.
You give medication to your other patients, and give them words of encouragement. You are so happy to see their vital signs improving, as well as their physically ability. One of them is even projected to get discharged today. Before you know it, it’s 10AM, and time to help Adam talk to Kelsey. You check your PPE once again before entering the room, and sit next to Adam’s bedside and open up his iPad. This is the time of day when you see Adam at his strongest. Healing really is so multifactorial, and it just proves how humanity needs each other to survive. You dial Kelsey’s number for him and she answers with the biggest smile on her face. You can tell she loves him just as much as he loves her. She greets him as she always does with her simple “Hi babe, how my favorite guy holding up”. You set the iPad up for them to talk and you make your way once again to the door to give them their time. Before you leave, Kelsey yells out a warm hello to you too. She has gotten to know and trust you just as much as Adam. You pop your face in view, say hi to Kelsey and then give your silly parting statement “Okay you too, no funny business in here” They both giggle and you leave the room smiling.
For the next few hours, you chart what you can, pass meds, round on your patients, and answer call lights that are ever ringing. There’s really no time to eat or drink, which is fine, because you really never have an appetite anymore these days. Stress is a crazy drug. Honestly, you’re grateful to even be able to pee, which in and of itself is a feat with all your PPE.
You go into Adam’s room again to check on him, and you notice his nose has become slightly bloody. You know it’s because the oxygen cannula has been on him so long and the higher flow rate is drying him out. You go to the supply room and grab a humidification adapter to attach to his oxygen, so that the flow won’t be so rough on him. As you attach it, you notice his oxygen levels have dipped to 91% on 5L. Not the worst thing that could happen, but not good either. You turn his oxygen up to 6L and his levels come up to 93%. You’ll have to keep an eye on that.
“How was your chat with Kelsey?” you ask him.
“Perfect, per usual,” he winks at you and says. You are so happy for your patients who have someone like Kelsey, because Lord knows not all of them do.
“Okay you, get some rest, and think about ordering some food”.
You head towards the door and take one more look at Adam’s monitor, something about it irks you and leaves you unsettled. You leave again to round on your other two patients and then hopefully sit down and chart soon.
Before rounding on your other patients, you FYI page the doctors again about Adam’s increased oxygen needs. You paged them this morning, but they never answered you; which is pretty typical because they are just as overwhelmed as you are, and Adam’s condition isn’t emergent yet. There’s nothing to do but continue to monitor. You answer your patients call light, and you go inside. She is a 75-year-old woman who, against odds, has seemingly turned the corner and is beating Covid. She asks you to help her get dressed because her daughter is picking her up in an hour. You chat with her for a little while as you help her get dressed. She tells you about how she knows she’s an "old lady", but she’s not nearly done living, and she’s so grateful for another chance at life. For a brief moment, in all this chaos, you are happy. You can’t help but smile for your patient’s success. Your happiness if fleeting though, because just as you finish helping your patient put her coat on, you hear it. The blaring alarm…it’s ten times worse than the blaring of your alarm clock…this is the haunting sound of the emergency light. Your stomach drops, you don’t even need to look, in your gut, you know whose room its coming from. It’s Adam.
You fly out of your patient’s room and next door into Adam’s. You barely check your PPE as you run in, driven by your instincts to help, you throw your own safety out the window. Your patient care tech sounded the alarm when she went to check Adams vital signs. She is standing next to his bedside hurriedly attaching more monitors to him when you enter. You are the second person to enter the room after the emergency light goes off. Your eyes are drawn straight to Adam’s eyes, which are filled with fear. This isn’t the same fear you saw in his eyes this morning while he was coughing. This is the fear, and knowledge, of impending doom. Your eyes snap to the monitor, his heart rate is 195, his oxygen has plummeted into the 70’s and his blood pressure is swiftly dropping. You start barking orders to your coworkers to get the crash cart, to get IV fluids, and to get you a non-rebreather mask for Adam. Adam grabs your arm as you exchange his nasal cannula for the nonrebreather mask, in a last-ditch effort to stabilize his oxygen. “Don’t, let, me, die,” he gasps with what little air he can move out of his lungs. You grab his hand, and open your mouth to say something encouraging, when he lets go of your hand, and falls back unconscious onto his pillow. You knew he couldn’t keep that heart rate up for long, and you hear the deafening noise on the monitor as his heart flatlines.
A code blue is immediately called, and while you wait for the team, you pray to God that they are not already in another code right now. As roles are assigned, you instinctively jump into action as you use all your strength to compress on his chest and move his blood through his body for him. “One, two, three, four, five…” you count out loud as your fellow nurse starts a second IV. “Six, seven, eight, nine, ten…” another fellow nurse throws the defibrillator pads on Adams chest. You continue to compress throughout your two-minute cycle, even as the code team arrives. “Come on Adam, don’t you dare let go” you don’t even know if you said that out loud or to yourself as you continue to compress. You feel Adam’s ribs actively cracking under your compressions, and you try to drown out the sound by counting even louder. Your adrenaline is running so high, you are sweating, your arms are aching. You fight back the urge to cry, to puke, to scream.
Finally, your fellow nurse counts you down in the last five seconds of your two-minute cycle. “Five, four, three, two, one…switch” You pop back, and your coworker takes your spot. The code leader has you rattle through Adam’s medically history, and the events leading up to the code. He has no medical history. He was healthy. He has Covid, there’s nothing else to discuss. He assures you that you did nothing wrong, and that it’s just the nature of this disease, but it sure feels like you failed him. You can’t take your eyes off of Adam’s lifeless face, somehow paler than before, as your coworkers continue to compress and slam medications through his IV in a desperate attempt to restart his heart. There’s blood coming from so many places, you’re not even sure the origin of it.
The anesthesiologist and respiratory therapist are on their second attempt to intubate Adam, but are having little success due to the damage the disease has done to his respiratory system. The emergency tracheostomy team steps in to perform an emergency cric on Adam. The doctor looks at you and tells you to suction as soon as the cric is completed. He takes a scalpel to Adam’s neck and slices a slit, and skillfully maneuver’s a trach into place. You suction, blood immediately comes out. It takes all of you to hold your hand steady. Once you’re done, the ambu bag is attached and you are able to breath for Adam through his new airway. One more round of epi and bicarb, and you are able to get a fibrillating rhythm back. Enough of a rhythm to shock Adam’s heart. The shock is administered and his heart begins to beat on his own. It’s weak, but its there. They rush Adam to the ICU, as you call the receiving nurse to give her report. What seems like hours, was only twenty minutes. You hang up the phone and lean against the wall, staring at the space where Adam’s bed used to be. The room is filled with empty syringes, bloody gauze and debris from the code.
You exit the room to clean up, and your manager compliments you on your quick reaction time, but you don’t acknowledge her as you walk into the bathroom. You barely have your soiled PPE off as you slide down the wall into a sitting position, hugging your knees as you silently cry. He is twenty-eight years old. He has never been in the hospital before. He was out at the bars weeks ago with his friends. He is in love. He should have his whole life ahead of him. None of it makes sense. You feel absolutely helpless in the face of this disease. Covid could care less who Adam is. Covid is relentless and it doesn’t care the destruction is leaves in its path. You know you and your team did everything right, and that’s what makes you so sick. Covid is so much stronger than you are. You are just a pawn in this horrendous game.
You wipe your tears, clean yourself up, and walk back out to the floor to don new PPE. You still have two patients to take care of. You tell yourself you will get through this shift, and then you will go check on Adam in the ICU… “Oh my God, Kelsey.” You have to call her, she trusts you, she will want to hear this from you. You go into an empty room to call Kelsey and tell her what happened to Adam. She cries on the phone with you. You can’t imagine her pain and agony over not being able to be here him him. You transfer her to Adam’s new nurse, and promise to call her from Adam’s room after your shift.
You power through the last six hours of your shift, and do your best to concentrate on your remaining patients. Every code you hear called the rest of the day; you pray it is not Adam. You can’t help but replay the events of earlier that day and wonder if you could have done something more, if you could have prevented it, if you should have paged the doctors just one more time. You have to physically shake your head to clear it. Focus on your patients, you have a responsibility to them.
7:30PM comes, you give report to the oncoming nurse, and you say goodbye to your patients. You head two floors down to the ICU, and pray that Adam is still alive. He is. Thank God. But this isn’t the Adam you know. This Adam is sedated. This Adam is hooked up to a ventilator. This Adam is on so many pressors, medications and electrolytes, that his IV pole looks like a Christmas tree. You are grateful to see your friend who works in the ICU, a familiar face, but that soon fades when she gives you the update on Adam. She tells you Adam can no longer breath on his own, his brain was severely damaged from lack of oxygen while they attempted to intubate him several times, and Adam will likely not make it through the night. Despite their best efforts, they are not able to stabilize his blood pressures, and his temperature continues to rise due to the infection. You blink back tears of both sadness and guilt as you ask her if someone has updated his family and Kelsey. She says yes, but they were not willing to make Adam a DNR at this time. How can anyone blame them? He’s twenty-eight, of course they’re going to fight for his life until his dying breath. I know though, all the medicine in the word won’t save Adam, short of miracle, Adam is going to die.
You know what you have to do. You fix your PPE and enter Adam’s room. You find his iPad in his belongings and you call Kelsey, one last time. Kelsey answers, already with tear in her eyes.
“Kelsey, I want you to talk to Adam. He can’t respond, but I promise he can hear you, and I know he would want to hear your voice”
“What am I supposed to say? I want to be there. I should be there.” She sobs. “I am abandoning him.”
“You are not abandoning him. You have been here through the hardest time in his life and proved your love for him every step of the way,” you say to her.
“It’s not fair, it’s not fair” she chokes out between sobs. “He is the love of my life; I can’t live without him. He’s going to die on me. What am I supposed to say?”
“Tell him what you would want to hear if you were lying in this bed Kelsey.”
There is a long silence.
“Is this the last time I am going to talk to Adam?” She asks softly.
“I wish I could tell you,” you say to her, being sure she can’t see my eyes welling up. “But I don’t want you to miss your chance to tell him everything you wanted to if it is. Adam loved you more than most people are capable of loving in a lifetime. He talked about you every chance he got. You are the thing that kept him going this long Kelsey.”
Another long silence. Then she tells Adam some of the most beautiful things you have ever heard one person say to another. You hold the iPad at his bedside, keeping your face out of Kelsey’s sight, so as to not interfere with what will probably be her last moments with Adam. The last thing Kelsey says, will stick with you for the rest of your life.
“By the way Adam,” She half cries and half laughs. “You didn’t hide the ring very well, I found it in your stupid messy sock drawer.” She breathes in and out heavily. “I would have said yes. I would have said yes to the rest of my life with you before you even got down on one knee. Fuck this disease. Two months ago, I would have never thought in one hundred years this is where our story would end. If you have to leave this world, I want you to leave knowing, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that someone in this world loved you with their whole heart.”
When she finishes, you hang up the iPad and set it down next to him. You kneel by Adam’s bedside and place your gloved hand on his arm. The gloved hand seems so informal. How many patients have you sat next to on their deathbed, yet this one seems different. This one seems somehow less fair. Adam, as loved as he is, is dying alone. You look at him and say “If you can fight this, there is a girl who loves you more than anything in the world, and she is waiting for you. Don’t give up.” You go to leave his room, but you take one last long look at Adam before you do. What a difference a day can make. You take off your PPE and OR scrubs and change back into your street clothes, and head back to your car.
You sit in your car for a moment to collect yourself. You angrily slam your hands onto the steering wheel repeatedly. You feel helpless. Worse, you feel pointless. You couldn’t save him. You couldn’t heal him. What as the point of today, or any day for that matter, since this awful disease began? You watched as a twenty-eight-year-old, healthy male, suffocated in front of you, as if someone had squeezed every last ounce of air from his lungs. You saw him fight with everything he had to bring even a small amount of air into his lungs. You saw his heart overwork itself. You saw his heart stop. What is the point of going to work? What are you even doing? You drive home in a confusing cloud of anger and sadness.
You kick off your shoes at the door and hop right in the shower. You somehow feel safe to cry in there, because even by yourself, you feel selfish to cry, but the running water of the shower masks the tears that continue to fall. You didn’t die today. You didn’t lose the love of your life. You didn’t lose your family member. YOU didn’t lose anything. Well…that’s not entirely true, is it? Every day, it seems like you lose a little more hope. Unfortunately, Adam is not the first patient you’ve lost to Covid, and he won’t be the last.
You trudge to bed and turn on Netflix, as an attempt to distract yourself. You know you should go to bed, but you can’t, your head is too full. You reflect on your life. Your family. Your friends. Despite wanting to talk to all of them, you don’t reach for your phone, because you aren’t searching for empathy. You are searching for understanding, and you know they can’t give that to you, no matter how hard they try. There you are, alone in your bed, just like you were this morning when you woke up. You turn to your side, and again see the empty side of the bed. You have another selfish moment where you wish the person you lost was there next to you. You are filled with an overwhelming sadness as your long to be held by that person, even for just a moment. Eventually you wipe your tears and focus your attention back to Netflix. You need to fall asleep; you have to do it all again tomorrow.
An hour passes and you are still wide awake. It’s now almost midnight, and your phone dings. “Who in the hell could that possibly be,” you wonder to yourself. You grab your phone and you know what the text says even before your open it. It’s from your friend who works in the ICU. You don’t want to open it, because then it will be real. After a minute of staring, you swipe your phone open to see exactly what you thought. “Adam passed away at 9:27 this evening, shortly after you left. His heart gave out again, and we couldn’t save him. I’m so sorry. From what I heard, you were a wonderful nurse to him and he was lucky to have you.” God. Dammit. Might as well pour yourself a glass of wine, you’re going to need all the help you can get to fall asleep tonight. You toss and you turn, until finally you are able to fall into a restless sleep, only to be woken up by the blaring of your 5AM alarm the next morning.
I will not comment on whether this story was mine, or whether it was a coworker’s, or whether it was a compilation of multiple patients’ stories. That is not important. What is important is that your healthcare works are suffering along with the victims of Covid19, and we’re doing it for, not only the people we love, but the people like Adam and Kelsey, the stranger who lives five doors down from you, and even the people making thoughtless comments about this disease. Covid is not particular in its victims. So, while you are out there, thinking you are invincible, just know that you are not. If it’s not you, then it could be the person you love most in this world. Stay home. Don’t be selfish. Some of us can’t stay home. Some of us are going to have long term scars from this pandemic, be it mentally or physically. You GET to stay home and be bored. I know there are much more fun things to do, but you are actually privileged. You have your heath and your loved ones. A lot of us don’t. The golf course and the gym will be there when this passes, and it will pass. It will pass because there are brave people out there nursing the victims, healing the victims, cleaning the victims’ rooms, bringing the victims water, delivering the victims food. If you have the choice to be a victim of boredom or a victim of Covid, I urge, choose boredom. Stay home. Live through this long enough to tell the person or the people you love the most, that you love them; because some people will never get that chance again.
Sincerely,
A Nurse