She was a single mother of three girls.
Between the school closures and night shifts she hadn’t found the time to get one shot, let alone two. She did make her daughters lunches that day. They were on the kitchen table.
Her eldest called 911 when she slumped over the sink and couldn’t get up. That’s where the paramedics told me they found her, with one of her children trying to give her a glass of water.
She was so ashen they didn’t think they would get her to the hospital in time. They went with lights and sirens.
Her heart stopped as they transferred her to the stretcher. I could hear the ER staff running the code. Fully gowned and practiced, they were had her back in minutes. I could tell by the color of her lips and the frown on the respiratory therapist’s face that it wouldn’t last.
I walked over to the room and started looking through her history on the computer. She had been sick for days. There was a positive covid test in her file from days ago. In the room they start chest compressions again. Another round of epinephrine.
I know the ER doc. She’s the kindest soul I know. Her eyes plead with me to take her to the ICU.
“We keep getting her back.”
“Yes, but we can’t oxygenate her”
“But …”
“We both know the mortality of a COVID arrest.”
I cut her off before she tells me about her children.
“We keep getting her back.”
“Yes, but we can’t oxygenate her”
“But …”
“We both know the mortality of a COVID arrest.”
I cut her off before she tells me about her children.
I write a note in her chart. I try not to make eye contact with the paramedics who brought her in, in desperate fear that they will tell me more personal details of this young woman. That they will make her real. Of course I flinch.
“Where are her children?”
“Grandma has them.”
“Where are her children?”
“Grandma has them.”
I reflexively clench my jaw knowing that her children are sick.
“Was grandma vaccinated?”
“Was grandma vaccinated?”
• • •
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