Update # 18 – April 13
Wim and I walk to the nearby
shopping center in Kiryat haYovel via the scenic route, enjoying the sunshine
and nature that starts to bloom its heart out.
Before I enter the big supermarket,
the security guide checks my temperature. All customers must wear a face-mask,
otherwise they are not admitted.
Normally, the security guard doesn’t have to
do much except for sit in his chair at the entrance of the shop. Now, the guy will be exhausted by the end of
the day....
I have been an Emergency Medicine
Physician for almost 20 years. I have worked through numerous disasters, and
I’m used to the daily grind of heart attacks, gunshots, strokes, flu, traumas,
and more. It’s par for the course in my field. Yet nothing has made me feel the
way I do about my “job” as this pandemic has—that
knot-in-the-pit–of-your-stomach sensation while heading into work, comforted
only by the empathetic faces of my colleagues who are going through the same. I
am grateful for their presence, knowing they are both literally and
figuratively with me, that they understand and accept so profoundly the risks
we take each day. I also hope that my friends and family forgive me for my lack
of presence during this time—precisely when we need each other most—and that
they realize that their words, their encouragement, and their small gestures
that come my way daily are the fuel that gets me through each day. This is a
story for all of us.
I met my patient, Mr. C., on my
first real “pandemic” shift, when what we were seeing that day was what we had
been preparing for. He was classic in his presentation, his X-ray findings, his
low oxygen levels… we just knew. And he was the nicest man I had met in a long
time. Gasping for breath, he kept asking if we needed anything, and that it
would all be okay. He told us he was a teacher but that he was learning so much
from us, and how much he respected what we were doing. The opposite could not
be more true.
We had to decide how long we would
try to let him work through this low oxygen state before needing to intubate
him. His levels kept falling and despite all our best efforts it was time to
put him on the ventilator. He told us he didn’t feel great about this, “but
Doc, I trust you and am putting myself in your hands.” That uneasy feeling in
my stomach grew even more in that moment. But he, with his teacher's steady
voice, kept me grounded, where I was supposed to be. I saw his eyes looking at
me, seeing the kindness in them, even as we pushed the medications to put him
to sleep. To say this was an “easy” intubation is an understatement. It was
not. He nearly left us a few times during those first minutes, but he kept
coming back. We fought hard to keep him with us. The patience and strength of
my team that day, truly remarkable.
I handed him over to my friend and
colleague, Dr. Beth Ginsburg, and her team in the ICU, and her calming voice
reassured me that they had it from here. And then for the next twelve days, I
waited and watched his progress, knowing the statistics, and how sick he was
when he got to us. They did their magic, and just yesterday my new friend Mr. C
was extubated. I decided to go “meet” him again.
Mr C. was in the COVID stepdown
unit, recovering, without family. Nobody was allowed to visit him; even worse,
his wife had been home alone in isolation for the past fourteen days, too. My
heart broke thinking of how that must have been for her. I cautiously went into
his room, donned in my PPE, and when he saw me, he stopped for a second.
A
moment of recognition.
I introduced myself. “I’m Dr.
Akbarnia, Mr. C. I was the last person you saw in the ER. You told me you
trusted us to get you to this side. Looks like you did just fine.” He started
to cry. He said, “I remember your eyes.” And I started to cry. What he didn’t
know is that, at that moment, I realized that we do what we do exactly for
people like him, for moments like these. His strength, his kindness, his
calming words to me meant everything. At that moment, my heart (which had been
beating over 100 bpm since this pandemic began) finally slowed down.
I sat down and we talked. I told
him that while he is here, we are his family. He will always have a place in my
heart. And whether he knows it or not, he will be my silent warrior and guide
as I take care of every patient, COVID or not. He will fuel me until the day I
hang up my stethoscope.
(Picture and story posted with full
permission from patient)
