Suiting Up & Showing Up

Eight months to the day after my return to the Rock, I pulled my car into the hospital’s Lot C just as the first glimmer of dawn, purple and pink, appeared over the Blue Ridge. Two freshly assembled white biohazard tents, each the size of a tour bus and erected in the adjacent parking lot to screen the less severe patients, obscured my regular view of the ER’s rescue squad entrance. I sat in the driver’s seat for an extra minute, listening to the finale of the Foo Fighters’ “Hey, Johnny Park!” and reflected on how rapidly the change had happened. Fortunately, we all saw it coming.
Only two weeks earlier, my shifts were business as usual: fresh coffee in hand, I would put on my white coat and stethoscope, take sign-out from the night shift doc, and begin what I had done over four thousand previous times in my life—see and treat a full shift’s worth of acutely ill patients until my relief arrived in turn.
Today was day one of the “new normal.” COVID-19 was everywhere now, especially in the news and on social media, and our local community was in lockdown. The new hospital infection control measures were all in place. At no time in my career had I seen such extreme precautions— avian flu, SARS, flesh-eating bacteria, H1N1—none of those came close. This novel virus, creating an outbreak of panic and hysteria the modern world had never seen, had spread to every corner of the planet, and the health care community was desperately trying to contain it. We all knew it could not be stopped, only slowed.
Our objectives as nurses, doctors, administrators, and community leaders were far more modest—to control the virus’s spread and limit the loss of life without exhausting all medical resources, all the while maintaining some semblance of a functional health system for everyone. I had no idea if we could accomplish our goals and maintain our own health in the process. As I peered into the distance, I had only a vague notion of what awaited me once I walked into the department. It didn’t matter; I was heading in. Three years sober, I had been given a blessed second chance in my specialty; fear be damned.
What I knew for sure, and with absolute clarity, was that never before in my adult life was I as mentally, physically, and spiritually prepared to play my small part in this global fight as I was that day. Ready for battle, I donned my respirator mask, grabbed my work bag, and got out of my car.
I walked across the parking lot and through the emergency room squad doors. No, I was never more ready.

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