Woke up smiling; went to bed smiling. A #getaftergrateful day, indeed.
Yesterday, our medical director was spotted playing a game of cribbage with the first resident to successfully test out of isolation. We are halfway through this outbreak.
Another case today but thankfully, the only one. The resident remained completely asymptomatic and unperturbed, and could be found eating a snack at the dining room table when we got her test result. As we huddled in our haz-mat suited group, staring at her from afar and wondering aloud what to do because she most certainly cannot stay in her room or wear a mask, my supervising physician said simply we’ll just do the best we can.
We had enough staff to get through the shift somewhat smoothly. I arrived home in time to eat supper with my family and accompany them on a gelato date. There was no wind on the beach, only sun and sand and peace. I might just make it after all.
There is nothing else for me to talk about except for this outbreak in my long term care facility. I have no other thoughts or words. I dream about it. I stare at the wall and think about it. I research other facilities, studies, evidence that supports some sort of different thing we should be doing. There is nothing. We have done everything we possibly can and still, our elders are sick. Thankfully, they are all still alive. I know we have protocols and PPE and vaccines and antibodies and antivirals to thank for that. I know it would have been a lot worse two years ago. But it still feels as close to an apocalypse as I can possibly describe.
My existence has shrunk to an hourly checklist. I enter a room to visit with an elder. I help them with the most basic activities of daily living. I sweat through my gear. I try to stay patient. I help them some more. I carefully remove my gear. I wash my hands. I tell them I will be back as soon as I can. I exit the room. I write down what I did, on a paper towel that is now wet and soggy. And then I put it back in my pocket and move on to the next room, reminding my coworkers and myself to take a sip of water and visit the restroom at least once.
Yesterday I told my husband, I cannot do this. And he responded with, Yes you can. Because you must.
Today I shouted to the staff, WE WILL GET THROUGH THIS. AND THEN WE WILL GO TO TRAUMA THERAPY TOGETHER.
I think it’s all true.
Last week, I told my family that I wished to welcome autumn on August 1. Not Thanksgiving, not Halloween, just autumn. I have my reasons, and nearly all of them involve allowing the land and the weather to lead us. As summer crawls on, we begin to feel a nip in the air most mornings and nights. We start to see the sunset at bedtime, instead of midnight. And the fireweed. The fireweed! In early summer, the fireweed grows as a tall green stalk and begins to bloom from the bottom, a pale pink peeking out to the world. In August, fireweed plants shoot their magenta blossoms all of the way to the top, and then begin to blow them away. And so, I follow the fireweed and declare August 1 the beginning of autumn. I asked for an unpacking of the fall decor box, a halibut stew with crusty bread and red wine, and something fall-ish on TV. My family collectively rolled their eyes, because we are still very much in summer, but they agreed to my wish list.
Today, I sat at a woman’s bedside on our makeshift COVID unit, coaxing and cajoling her into eating small bites of watermelon. I am learning, you see, that this viral variant makes them lose their appetite and their will to stay awake. They only want cold, sweet things and barely open their mouth between fitful, feverish naps. As I sat there, feeding her watermelon, bite-by-bite over the course of thirty minutes, opening my mouth to encourage her to do the same, only to remember I am layers-deep in an N95 and eye protection and she cannot see my mouth at all, I looked up and out. Beyond the negative-pressure hoses that snake from her window, I saw it. The fireweed had officially reached the top of the plants outside. On August 1, of all days.
Happy forty years of marriage to my parents, who went out to eat hibachi like the creatures of habit they are. They called me on their way home, and the sound of their voices sent me tumbling and crumbling after the hardest day of my professional career.
My tiny town waited two and a half years to be done with the pandemic, only to be hit like a tidal wave. I will sleep the sleep of the dead tonight, hopefully, after the sweetest reception from my family. And I will call a therapist tomorrow. There are some nursing shifts we share, and some shifts of which we do not speak again in the public forum. Today was the latter.
