I just had my first experience with receiving an email to tell me I had been involved in the care of a patient that tested positive for COVID-19.
I was already in bed with my partner when I finally had a chance to check my emails. (Whenever something starts with, “This is a courtesy message to–”, it’s usually going to be either completely useless or complete panic-inducing…)
A trauma patient we managed had a pre-OR COVID swab done. They were otherwise asymptomatic from a viral perspective, and the trauma itself was completely unrelated. If not for the severity of the injuries, we would not necessarily have managed in our trauma bay with full PPE and airborne precautions, and we might have seen them in a regular (read: NOT negative-pressure!) room instead.
I can’t quite describe the moment of panic looking at my significant other as I read this email. My thoughts kind of spiraled into, “Oh, shit”, and I was already thinking about all the people I’d seen after that shift. I took public transit to go to my parents’ to do some errands, and I sat with my sister for a bit while she was in her online classes, and with my mom who’s currently undergoing chemo. I went to the grocery store. Then, without my mask, I had dinner with my SO.
Even before I read further, I was feeling so guilty and anxious about possibly exposing my loved ones and any strangers I may have come into contact with that day. I felt guilty for snuggling up to my significant other right before I opened this email. I felt guilty for essentially posing a danger to him and both of our families simply for doing my job.
Then came the gratitude. I was so grateful I had worn my mask the entire time I was with my family. I was so grateful that everyone in that trauma bay had worn full PPE and therefore none of us were actually considered exposed, and that I could continue to go to work without needing to self-isolate.
Now, when I think about what seems like irrational anger or bitterness that rises in me when I see people in public either not wearing masks and also not maintaining appropriate social distance, or wearing masks incorrectly, I sometimes remember to forgive myself that wave of negative feelings because they’re actually quite reasonable. It’s reasonable that I’m f***ing livid that I live in fear of these exact emails that might tell me that, in doing my job and trying to help people the best I can, I may have jeopardized the health and lives of my family and friends, yet on my way to work people have harassed me for wearing a mask on the street for their protection, not mine. It makes perfect sense for me to be bitter seeing people wearing their goddamn surgical-grade, level 2 masks under their noses, on their chins, on their foreheads, dangling off their ears (the worst I saw was a guy folding his in half lengthwise and just holding it over his lips–what the hell did he think that was gonna do? Furthermore, he just contaminated his own face with whatever had been on the outside of that mask?!), while I wonder if my hospital will have enough PPE for everyone that needs to be present the next time a critically ill kiddo is wheeled into our trauma bay. It’s actually a sign that I’m not completely brain-dead from burnout that I can still be angry about stupid s*** like “Hugs Over Masks” (I won’t even link this garbage because it doesn’t deserve additional attention).
It leaves a pretty bitter taste in my mouth that society’s initial response was, “I NEED MORE MASKS FOR ME, TOO BAD FOR THE HEALTHCARE AND FRONT-LINE WORKERS” and now, because they have been told that the masks are to protect OTHER PEOPLE, masks are “dangerous and an infringement on individual/human rights”. People were quick to host parades “in honour of pandemic heroes” and quick to complain about how exhausting it is to try to keep up with their kids’ online school from home, but have been silent for years and years on cuts to healthcare and education funding.
…Sometimes I just realize how much people suck and it makes it painfully obvious why I chose peds; children are just better than people.
