I’m broken, but I’m still here
Covid.
The word divides communities, families, co-workers. Since January 2020, there have been millions of deaths worldwide. America is no different. The toll of death wasn’t just a blip on the never-ending scroll of life, it was a stark reality for so many people.
I was a fresh-faced nurse; I had graduated not long before the pandemic started. I was full of hopes and dreams. I wanted to help people, heal them. Be their hand to hold, when they were in some of their most trying moments. I knew that it wasn’t all sunshine and rainbows, as that just isn’t reality, but I wanted to help so bad. I coasted for a while on that wave of hope, until one day it crashed.
It started with social media post, coupled with news outlets reporting on a potentially deadly virus. Facebook was filled with post of people saying that in the early fall and into the winter that they had some type of respiratory virus that took them weeks to get rid of, no one could tell them what it was. Talk in the hospital halls rumored what was to come and if we should even worry.
“You have nothing to worry about, we don’t anticipate the virus to affect us.”
Those words still echo in my head, like church bells. Those words started the hardest three years of my life. It felt like a blind side from a double decker bus as the cases came in in waves. There weren’t enough beds, staff or supplies to keep up with the high volume of patients. We ran out of medication and saw major complications in people who we never thought would have to fight as hard as they did.
“But I have to. My patients need me more now than ever.” I told myself this over and over, every day. Those days were spent dragging myself to the next room to de-gown and sanitize, check precautions, check vitals, and try to anticipate what my intubated patient needed.
Over the course of 3 years, I saw doctors leave rooms exasperated because they had no answers, tensions flare because there was a growing staff shortage, and because we were all so tired. I saw families mourn loved ones over an iPad, and people in hospital beds for weeks at a time. We were called heroes, but it never felt like it. We just did our duty and pushed aside our well-being.
Ziplock bags will never smell the same, sometimes a zipper on a duffel bag will catch me off guard. I catch the sound of alarms going off in multiple rooms at once present in my dreams. The thought of entering the containment doors and not being allowed to leave until end of shift still makes me anxious. I still have a scar near my ear where the staple that held together my N95 mask rubbed it raw.
I have come to terms with what I saw. But I don’t think that I will ever forget. There are still days that I have to grapple with the reality and how my beloved healthcare field has changed. Nothing is the same as it was before, and I question if it’s for the better. I still see so many people divided over the topic, and so many people dismiss how the other feels.
As I step away from healthcare and start my journey on a new career path, I have learned a few things. The biggest thing is that no matter how tired or beat I feel, I can keep going. I’ve learned that even with the mountain that I have to climb to reset my brain, I can make it.
I’m broken mentally, but I’m still here.
MWillBlog 