Thread by @TheRealDoctorT

Was paid a visit today, by a great horned owl.

It perches on a low-lying branch, and watches me with eyes so golden they seem like twin suns.

Everything brings forth a memory now.

A connection.

The owl flies away, with slow leisurely flaps of large wings.

Effortless. 1/

The gold of its eyes.

The yellow of his eyes.

I’m an intern, it’s the early 2000s, and I’m on a gastroenterology rotation.

Seeing end-stage liver failure up close, learning the shades of yellow that skin can turn.

From a sickly tinge to something that looks radioactive. 2/

My attending sits across from me.

“That’s often the hardest part,” he says, “the realization of just how sick they are, and it’s already too late.”

It’s a painful lesson I will learn again and again as the years pass.

How bitter the truth can be.

How sweet the mirage. 3/

It’s December of 2020. The COVID-19 pandemic rages on with unabated fury.

To those who haven’t seen it up close, it remains a distant and unfamiliar specter. Perhaps a mirage.

To those who face it, the monster still draws breath, and takes thousands of lives daily. 4/

All of our COVID units are open now, and the San Antonio metrics show that we are reaching a particularly precarious phase.

I know the data. I know what’s happening to my census lists. I know what my partners are seeing in other hospitals.

We aren’t out of the woods. 5/

Some of my colleagues follow me here, on this app. I eat lunch with one of them.

“I notice you haven’t written a story in a while,” he says.

I nod.

It’s true. Between the long hours, the hard work, the numbing routine... it’s been difficult.

“I’ll write, eventually.” 6/

“You should keep writing about COVID. People think this vaccine is here and it’s all over.”

I want to tell him I’m sick of writing about COVID. I’ve written dozens of threads about it.

I’ve written my heart out.

And for what? For who?

For me?

For you?

To bear witness? 7/

Yes. I’m angry.

Disappointed, and heartsick.

I thought we would be better. Do better. We were let down, and we let each other down.

Every death seems to hit so much harder now that a vaccine is finally here.

Deus ex vaccina.

Here to save us all. 8/

What will we have learned from the COVID-19 pandemic as it eventually gets consigned to the pages of history?

Will we learn as a society? At all?

Or are we just eager to get back to the world we once knew.

The mirage.

Where we were all safe, because we were exceptional. 9/

Gore Vidal called us the United States of Amnesia, and he was right.

Only some of us won’t have the luxury of moving on so easily.

There are empty spaces between us now.

Hundreds of thousands of empty spaces, that never should have been.

Yes, I’m angry.

And heartbroken. 10/

“I like the way you write. It seems effortless.”

I’m drawn back into the conversation with my colleague, and smile.

“Thank you, but it really isn’t effortless. Sometimes it’s like surgery. Painful, and bloody.”

He laughs. “Well, if you ever need an anesthesiologist...” 11/

Later that evening I’m sitting outside my home.

This part of Texas can get awfully cold in the winter. It snowed a few years ago.

My breath fogs and hangs in the air.

I think about my day.

As I remember each of the day’s deaths, I notice a somber visitor watching me. 12/

Was paid a visit today, by a great horned owl.

It perched on a low-lying branch and watched me with eyes so golden they seemed like twin suns.

Everything brings forth a memory now.

A connection.

The owl flew away, with slow leisurely flaps of large wings.

Effortless.