The alarm was a reedy chirping sound. In the daytime hustle of the ward it was barely noticeable.

It made my heart sink.

My eyes were glued to the monitor on the water treatment unit.

I knew the dialysis nurse was looking at it too.

“WTR PRES LOW”

A red light flashed. 1/
The devastating winter storm knocked out the power and water supply to most of Texas.

It affected many people, and some paid the ultimate price.

Hemodialysis patients were at particularly high risk because of the nature of their illness, and its treatment. 2/
Patients with end-stage kidney failure usually have several treatment options, including kidney transplantation and various forms of dialysis.

Hemodialysis involves a machine that filters the blood and removes excess fluid.

It is typically a very water-intensive process. 3/
Every year, thousands of dialysis clinics in America use trillions of liters of fresh water.

Trillions of liters.

With loss of water supply, these clinics effectively shut down.

A dialysis patient who makes no urine is in a race against time to get treated. 4/
These patients normally dialyze three times a week. If too much time passes before they can get dialysis, it can easily be fatal.

Fluid overload can lead to respiratory failure, essentially like drowning.

Electrolyte abnormalities can lead to coma, or cardiac arrest. 5/
When the power went out, some dialysis units were still functional with water supply intact, but others weren’t.

Many people worked hard, overtime, to find a way for patients to get their treatments.

The risk was real. Lives were at stake. 6/
With the freeze, hospitals lost water too.

Some places still had water pressure, others had low pressure, or none.

I found myself practicing a sort of medicine I never trained for.

Figuring out how to deliver treatments, juggling logistics, trying to engineer workarounds. 7/
“WTR PRES LOW.”

My heart sank.

Because this was one of the last rooms I had available with adequate water pressure... and we were losing it.

I reached out to my colleagues, and we discussed our options.

I’m grateful to know people smarter than me, willing to help. 8/
What was happening during the COVID pandemic happened again during the storm.

We were pulling together, making sacrifices, holding the line.

Patients sensed it too.

One even told me in between labored breaths, “I’m not that bad Dr. T... you can dialyze someone else.” 9/
Fortunately, we were saved by others working hard too.

Utility teams working around the clock, electrical and water company workers, were able to bring the water back.

We were able to get dialysis services back online, and alarms turned off. 10/
The storm represented the best and the worst of us.

I am glad to have gotten through it safely.

I know many were not so lucky.

Emotionally, with the pandemic still going on, it was another layer of numbness.

Burnout upon burnout.

Ash upon ash.

We wait for phoenixes to rise.

• • •

Missing some Tweet in this thread? You can try to force a refresh
 

Keep Current with Sayed Tabatabai, MD

Sayed Tabatabai, MD Profile picture

Stay in touch and get notified when new unrolls are available from this author!

Read all threads

This Thread may be Removed Anytime!

PDF

Twitter may remove this content at anytime! Save it as PDF for later use!

Try unrolling a thread yourself!

how to unroll video
  1. Follow @ThreadReaderApp to mention us!

  2. From a Twitter thread mention us with a keyword "unroll"
@threadreaderapp unroll

Practice here first or read more on our help page!

More from @TheRealDoctorT

16 Feb
The following is by Nick Drake @nickfdrake. It is timely. Urgent.

“The Future.”

Dear mortals,
I know you are busy with your colourful lives;
You grow quickly bored
And detest moralizing.
I have no wish to waste the little time that remains
On arguments and heated debates.

1/
I wish I could entertain you
With some magnificent propositions and glorious jokes;
But the best I can do is this:

I haven’t happened yet; but I will.

I am the future, but before I appear
Please
Close the scrolls of information,
Let the laptop
Sleep,

2/
Sit still
And shut your eyes.
Listen
Things are going to change -
Don’t open your eyes, not yet! -
I’m not trying to frighten you.

Think of me not as a wish or a nightmare
But as a story you have to tell yourselves

3/
Read 7 tweets
12 Feb
When she was a child, her dream was to be an artist. She would chew her lip, and grip her crayon far too tightly as she tried to stay within the lines.

“Be practical,” her father said.

“Enjoy art in your spare time. Work hard. Then, maybe someday.”

Maybe someday. 1/
She puts on the vest that completes her uniform. At her last job she had a name badge, but not here.

Just the words “ENVIRONMENTAL SERVICES” in block letters.

Her granddaughter once asked her if that meant she was saving the environment.

“Sort of, mija,” she laughed. 2/
She has been “Janitorial Staff,” “Hospital Housekeeping,” and “Cleaning Crew” over the years.

The job remains the same.

She gets the equipment ready on her cart. She is detail-oriented. Everything in its place.

The little walkie-talkie on her cart crackles to life. 3/
Read 14 tweets
4 Feb
The thought occurs to him repeatedly, as he feels the slow rush of air in and out of his lungs.

The irony isn’t lost on him.

He is a pulmonologist, and all he can think about now is how he took every precious breath for granted.

He knows where this is going.

Dying breaths. 1/
He’ll never know exactly when he got infected with COVID-19. It’s a thought that resurfaces now and then. A lingering loose end.

He does spend a lot of his time being exposed to it as he works in the ICUs, but he is meticulous with his PPE.

It begins with a runny nose. 2/
The runny nose is followed by chills.

He self-quarantines, just to be safe. By the time a cough is developing, he has tested positive.

The shortness of breath comes on relatively rapidly.

He checks his oxygen levels at home and decides he needs to go to the hospital. 3/
Read 17 tweets
28 Jan
There are always questions at the end of the visit.

It’s only natural. Nobody remembers everything. I’m used to clarifying and reiterating.

But your question catches me off guard.

“Did you know that hummingbirds remember every single flower they’ve ever visited?” 1/
I smile, and shake my head. “No, I didn’t know that.”

You nod at me, “Well, it’s true. I’m gonna send you a bill now.”

I laugh, and the layered masks muffle the sound.

I was consulted because your kidney function is dropping.

Clear yellow urine now turning dark amber. 2/
Your room is on a COVID unit.

The plastic sheets you have to zipper yourself through. The cool hiss of the air flow. Donning and doffing.

There was a time when this was a pulse-quickening ritual, when adrenaline would flow.

Now it is a necessary nuisance.

Numbing. 3/
Read 11 tweets
13 Jan
There are moments now and then when, if I imagine hard enough, it’s like it was before.

I don’t feel the ear loops from the mask.

I don’t notice the red signs on the floor, saying “6 ft apart!”

I don’t feel... the heaviness that tinges every single hour.

There are moments. 1/
I’m standing in line at the post office. It’s a beautiful day and sunlight streams in through the windows.

Miraculously it’s relatively deserted.

A bored little boy looks through the stamps for sale with his mother.

A man stands behind me, elderly, leaning on a cane. 2/
He’s tall, lean, and wears a “GO ARMY” sweatshirt paired with sweatpants, and those brown sandals that seem ubiquitous in South Texas.

I nod hello.

He nods in return, “Hi, doc.”

For a moment, I feel that queasy discomfort of being unable to remember.

Do I know him? 3/
Read 13 tweets
7 Jan
A dark cloud has descended, cloaking everything in gray.

It isn’t just me.

One of my colleagues, Tony Alvarado (@TexasKidneyDoc), is one of the most upbeat and outgoing people I know.

Now he’s quiet.

His trademark smile is faint, and the light has faded in his eyes. 1/
Tony texted me the other day.

The most I’ve heard from him in weeks.

“My dad died last night.
COVID.
Pretty fast.
2020. Hell. On. Earth.”

I responded as best I could. Told him I was there for him.

His father was a kind man.

He didn’t have to die.

Not like this. 2/
It’s Fall 2008, and I’m a resident in Internal Medicine.

I’m attending a forum where I’ve been invited to read from the journal I’ve kept since medical school.

These are my thoughts that have been slowly consuming me.

The documenting of a downward spiral. 3/
Read 12 tweets

Did Thread Reader help you today?

Support us! We are indie developers!


This site is made by just two indie developers on a laptop doing marketing, support and development! Read more about the story.

Become a Premium Member ($3/month or $30/year) and get exclusive features!

Become Premium

Too expensive? Make a small donation by buying us coffee ($5) or help with server cost ($10)

Donate via Paypal Become our Patreon

Thank you for your support!

Follow Us on Twitter!