From the Front Lines: The Calm Before the Storm
I’ve walked the emergency room hallway here in Austin, Tex., hundreds of times, but now it feels much different. At the nursing station, most people are wearing masks. Blue painter’s tape lines the edges of one closed door, ominously sealing the patient inside. I’m on a trauma surgery team right now and we are far less busy now that Austin is shutting down. Far fewer car crashes, stabbings, and assaults. Surgery residents have not been reassigned, but other residents were already instructed to be on standby in case our workforce is stretched thin.
The list of scheduled surgeries has dwindled to only cases that can’t wait. The dining hall is now quiet. Residents trickle in for coffee and food during a quick break, unable to avoid overhearing the latest Cuomo press conference talking about the dire situation New York.
I feel constant paranoia about my own health. Am I just tired or am I feeling new fatigue? Is the room just cold or am I starting to feel feverish? Nearly one in five people with the virus don’t feel any symptoms and I fear unknowingly exposing others in the hospital.
Our inboxes are flooded with emails about the latest testing protocols, guidelines, and recommendations. Nobody knows what information is up to date and protocols change between the time I come into the hospital and the time I leave.
The waiting rooms on each floor are empty, as visitors are no longer allowed unless patients are in their final days. Shelters are limiting access and our many homeless patients have nowhere to go outside the hospital. While homeless patients are trying to stay in the hospital as long as possible, patients with resources are more eager than ever to leave.
All N95 masks are now under lock and key, and each health care provider receives one mask per day. Our stocks of personal protective equipment were running low until a recent PPE drive, but I’m still not sure how long our stocks will last.
My parents live only an hour and a half away by car, but I don’t plan on seeing them for the next few months. The risk of exposing them is too high while I am going into the hospital regularly. My SO (GSB ‘19er Caroline Giese) and I have been long distance since graduation last year and I’m not sure when we will see each other next.
We are only at the beginning. Our hospital has seen but a few cases, and only a few are hospitalized. We have such limited testing that nobody knows how many cases are in the community, or which patients in the emergency room might be positive. Without adequate testing we are flying blind. I’m not sure when or how bad it will be, but I know it is coming and I don’t think we are prepared. The effects of isolation today won’t be seen for weeks, and that delay is terrifying. We are in a slow-motion car crash and we don’t know how fast the car is going, or if we have enough seat belts.
Hospitals across the country are on this same path and we need help. We need more tests. We need masks and face shields. We need ventilators. We need a vaccine. Above all, we need time and I ask that you continue to isolate until we have a better grasp of this situation.
The doom and gloom can be all-consuming, but I find myself hopeful and amazed by how this has already brought people together (in isolation). Classmates text me asking where to send extra masks or which organizations need donations the most. They have helped with introductions to physicians around the world, and sent frequent texts just to see how I am doing. Challenging days may lie ahead, but these simple things give me hope. We’ll get through this.
