These bulbs are old, not the newer LEDs. There is a lingering glow as the hot tungsten filaments gradually cool.
I watch them as the room slowly goes dark.
A lingering glow... and then nothing.
I am exhausted, but I can’t sleep.
A monster awaits. 1/
It’s almost like my time away from this place was the dream, and the hospital is my waking reality.
N95 on, surgical mask over it.
Face shield for when it’s time.
Armor up. 2/
And you don’t face the monster alone.
The intensivist sits with me in the dictation room.
She is a seasoned veteran.
She leads naturally. 3/
But beneath the kind smile is a steely resolve.
And above the mask her green eyes are twin pools of calm strength. 4/
Something in the air, quite literally.
The monster is on the prowl.
The intensivist is more stressed than I can remember her being. Her smile is thin.
“Tubed several so far. Floor people decompensating. ER is packed.”
Short, staccato updates. 5/
A nurse comes up and opens the door, her voice terse. “Doc, we need you out here.”
“Coming.” She gets up quickly, grabbing her stethoscope.
I follow, to see. 6/
Outside the doors are sets of IV pumps, so they can be adjusted without going inside.
Face shields hang on makeshift hooks when not in use, names written on them in Sharpie. 7/
The breathing is becoming shallow, labored, despite multiple interventions.
The ICU team prepares for another intubation.
Armor up. 8/
I sit down at the table outside the room. Backup, just in case things go sideways.
The team preps rapidly, smoothly. 9/
The team (the doc, a respiratory therapist, and an ICU nurse) wears PAPR hoods.
PAPR - Powered Air-Purifying Respirator, running on batteries.
They put them on in silence. 10/
To make sure they can hear each other, the team dials in to a special number, and tapes their headphones to their ears so they won’t dislodge accidentally. 11/
They enter the room, the door sliding open slightly with a hiss.
Now they are in the monster’s lair.
“You got everything?”
“Yup.”
“I’m going to move fast.”
“Ready to position.”
“On it.” 12/
I can hear the patient through their mics. She’s gasping with each labored breath.
“Ohgodohgodohgodohgodohgod-“
Her voice is growing quieter.
Ominous. 13/
You can’t make noise if you can’t breathe.
The team moves rapidly.
“Etomidate.”
“Yes.”
“Succs.”
“In.”
The intensivist’s eyes are keenly focused as she intubates. 14/
As I watch her team save a life, I wonder how I could make people see.
The risks that some have to take because of the simple steps that others wouldn’t. 15/
“Looks good.”
She exhales deeply, rubbing her eyes. Then she looks up.
“You ok Sayed? Did you eat something?”
Her empathy is her strength. 16/
Another patient beginning to succumb.
The monster is raging like a wildfire.
She opens a small packet of gummy bears, and pops a handful in her mouth.
The sugar will help.
Time to go.
Armor up. 17/
Not every life has been saved. People have died today.
My fatigue is the kind that makes my soul feel shallower.
I am hollow.
The work isn’t done, but it isn’t ours anymore. Backup arrives in the form of the on-call team. 18/
She is exhausted, her face marked with the indentations of her PPE, but she smiles.
“Aw really? Be sure to tell your readers to wear their masks.”
I nod. “You got it.”
Time to go home. 19/
I tell her I’m going to write about the day.
I ask her if she has any messages.
She nods, and her smile is faint.
“Wear your f***ing masks. Distance. None of this had to happen. None of it.” 20/
It’s packed, and I can see only a few masks as I drive by.
The thought occurs to me.
The monster isn’t just in those hospital rooms.
Everywhere.
People risking other people’s lives. 21/
Get ready for bed.
I turn off the lights.
These bulbs are old, not the newer LEDs. There is a lingering glow as the hot tungsten filaments gradually cool.
I watch them as the room slowly goes dark.
A lingering glow... and then nothing.
A monster awaits.