I headed out for the night shift. With surgical mask, Lysol spray, Lysol wipes, and blanket in tow, I headed to the hospital. En route, I realized that I forgot the extra N95 mask from my personal stash, but didn’t turn around for fear of being late.
“I’m going to be caring for the lower acuity patients, so I’ll be good.” I naively thought.
I entered the call room and started the routine. Doorknob: Spray. Wipe. Wait. Chair: Spray. Wipe. Wait. Keyboard: Spray. Wipe. Wait.
The first call was about 20 minutes into the shift. “Dr. Smith, the patient seems altered, can you come examine him?”
I quickly open the chart and my attention was immediately drawn to the word: COVID POSITIVE.
Heading to the patient’s room, I repeat my new mantra. Gown, Mask, Goggles, Gloves. Wait. That’s the wrong order. Try again. Don’t mess up. Gown, Mask, Gloves, Goggles. Again. Gown, Mask, Gloves, Goggles. One more for the people in the back.
I enter the room to see a shell of a man and quickly imagined what a force he must have been in his heyday.
Focused on the task at hand, I started speaking to him softly, hoping that my vibe was transferrable. I convinced myself that the transference worked, but I’m sure my nursing colleagues would beg to differ.
I completed the majority of my exam and was solidifying a plan when I heard the snap. Please tell me that didn’t happen. Broken mask. Internally i panicked and debated whether I leave the room immediately or quickly finish my exam.
Then he started spitting on us. I began wracking my brain trying to remember the data about COVID transmission through saliva and simultaneously scolded myself for not having that information in the rapid fire knowledge section of my brain.
I rushed out of the room. Took off all of my PPE, quickly communicated the plan to bedside nurse and walked briskly back to the call room to enter the orders. Shaky hands. Rapid heart rate.
What if I didn’t leave the room fast enough? What if I didn’t take my gown off properly? Did I wash my hands for 20 seconds? Maybe it was 7? What if I spread something to person I passed on the way to the elevator? Why won’t these darn hands stop shaking?
Deep breath. Pray. Call your mom. You’re ok. Really. You’re ok.
How did we go from spending as much time as we possibly could at the bedside to limiting all physical interaction. It’s not the patients that have me shook. Its public enemy #1 that likes to hang out in their secretions and droplets. Traveling through the air in spaces unseen and taking residence in and on individuals who unknowingly become patrons of disease.
As I work through my mental frustrations, my screeching pager forces me to quickly transition to acceptance of my current reality. The shaking stops, I get myself together and return to job mode. I have more patients to care for and the gentleman’s labs will result soon.
I’ll deal with my emotions later. When I get home. After I spray, wipe, throw my scrubs in the washer, immediately shower, close my eyes and take a few cleansing breaths.
Selah.
Life Seen Through These Brown Eyes 