Yesterday, I found myself contemplating writing a will. At just 24 years old and in good health as an ICU nurse in New York City, this should be the furthest thought from my mind. But the reality of my environment has forced me to confront the unsettling truth that my chances of dying from this virus are more real than I ever imagined.
When I completed my nursing program in 2018, I never envisioned being at the frontline of a pandemic. I thought I had mentally prepared myself for death after my first year in the ICU, having witnessed enough loss. However, in the past two weeks alone, I’ve seen more people pass away than most individuals encounter in a lifetime. Now, I question if I’m truly equipped to handle such experiences anymore.
Death feels different now. It feels personal.
Just last week, a woman reached out, believing her mother was stable. I realized that no one had been able to update her due to the visitor restrictions in place. So, I had to gently break the news that if I were to turn off the IV pump, her mother wouldn’t survive much longer. I spoke plainly; there was no point in sugarcoating the dire reality. As she wept, I stood there, my arms full of medical supplies, trying to keep my composure while managing a whirlwind of emotions.
Each time I enter a COVID patient’s room, I risk exposure. I remind myself that forgetting any necessary item could force me to return and put my life in jeopardy. It’s challenging to maintain humanity when I’m masked up and drenched in sweat from layers of protective equipment.
How do I apologize for not being enough?
People often refer to me as being on the frontline, but in truth, I am the last line of defense. I’m one of the few who stand between life and death. In normal circumstances, the ICU operates with two patients per nurse; now, I’m expected to handle three. In some hospitals, the ratios are even worse. I consider myself fortunate to have just three patients on particularly tough days.
Those days take a toll on me.
ICU nurses are trained to be meticulous: we administer medications, manage sedation, and provide comfort. I’ve been called a hero, even an angel, praised for my bravery. Yet, I often feel the opposite. I sometimes barely have enough time to apply ointment to a patient’s chapped lips before connecting them with their family over FaceTime, showing them the harsh reality of their loved one’s condition. Who am I to intrude on such sacred moments? It feels wrong. I carry that shame with me.
There are times when I get so overwhelmed that patients remain in their own waste longer than I care to admit. How do I balance cleaning one patient while another’s heart flatlines next door?
Even when I leave the hospital, the pandemic lingers. The virus is on my shoes, my clothes, and it stays with me as I scrub my hands raw, trying to wash away the grime of the day. The sirens outside echo the suffering, and texts from coworkers bearing bad news weigh heavily on my heart. The quiet in my apartment feels heavy, almost suffocating.
On my days off, I drown in articles detailing the latest research and findings about COVID-19, yet I still feel unprepared every time I step into work. I leave feeling like I failed, like I could have done more. It never feels sufficient.
That’s why I refuse to accept the label of hero. It feels disingenuous. I carry guilt like a heavy shroud. I work twelve-hour shifts, sometimes longer, and finding time to eat or even use the restroom is a luxury. I often question if I should be grateful for a moment of respite or simply relieved that I’m not the one lying in that ICU bed.
I want people to understand the enormity of this situation. This isn’t the healthcare world I envisioned; none of us anticipated this. I studied nursing to save lives, and while I accept the risks to my health, I never signed up for martyrdom. If I end up in that ICU bed, it will be because I lacked adequate protection.
I want the nation to recognize how it has failed its essential workers. We pride ourselves on being the best and richest country in the world, yet I find myself peeling off the same N-95 mask after more than twelve hours of use, desperately hoping it has protected me from the virus that saturates our unit.
The truth is, until we find a cure or viable treatment, the death toll will continue to rise. After quarantine measures are lifted, people will still be at risk. The situation will remain dire long after we think it has peaked. I want everyone to grasp that the healthcare system in America is fundamentally broken; New York is a glaring example of this failure.
This pandemic has painfully highlighted our systemic flaws.
In college, I often thought I was too busy to call my parents, who are nurses in Chicago. Now, I frantically reach out to them every night, haunted by the faces of my patients, many of whom remind me of my family. I can’t help but wonder if they finally understand the urgency behind my calls.
I am still young with dreams for a future. I want to return to my parents, enjoy their home-cooked meals, watch my nephew grow, and build a life with someone special. I don’t want pity or to be glorified as a hero. When this is all over, remember the fear, the isolation, and the struggles we faced. Acknowledge the reality of the ice trucks outside the morgues and the frantic search for masks and toilet paper.
Applauding us at 7 PM is appreciated, but it doesn’t change the outcomes. My hope is that we can learn from this experience and ensure it never happens again.
For more on navigating these challenging times, you can explore other insights in our posts, such as this one on home insemination.
Summary:
In this heartfelt reflection, an NYC ICU nurse shares the stark realities of working amidst the COVID-19 pandemic. Despite being labeled a hero, she emphasizes the emotional and physical toll of her job, the struggles of inadequate resources, and the personal connections she forges with patients and their families. Her candid account highlights the systemic failures in healthcare and urges society to remember the lessons learned during this crisis.