I have been in the business of medicine for more than 15 years and I will never forget the initial surge of the COVID-19 pandemic in Massachusetts.
As a hospitalist, I admitted patients infected with COVID-19, followed them on the floor, and, since I had some experience working in an intensive care unit (ICU), was assigned to cover a “COVID ICU.” This wing of the hospital used to be a fancy orthopedic floor that our institution was lucky enough to have. So began the most life-changing experience in my career as a physician.
In this role, we witness death more than any of us would care to discuss. It comes with the territory, and we never expected this to change once COVID hit. However, so many patients succumbed to this disease, especially during the first surge, which made it difficult to handle emotionally. Patients that fell ill initially stayed isolated at home, optimistic they would turn the corner only to enter the hospital a week later after their conditioned worsened. After requiring a couple of liters of supplemental oxygen in the emergency room, they eventually ended up on a high flow nasal cannula in just a matter of hours.
Patients slowly got sicker and felt more helpless as the days passed, leading us to prescribe drugs that eventually proved to have no benefit. We checked countless inflammatory markers, most of which we were not even sure what to do with. Many times, we hosted a family meeting via FaceTime, holding a patient’s hand in one hand and an iPad in the other to discuss goals of care. Too often, a dark cloud hung over these discussions, a realization that there was not much else we could do.
I have always felt that helping someone have a decent and peaceful death is important, especially when the prognosis is grim, and that patient is suffering. But the sheer number of times this happened during the initial surge of the pandemic was difficult to handle. It felt like I had more of those discussions in 3 months than I did during my entire career as a hospitalist.
We helped plenty of people get better, with some heading home in a week. They thanked us, painted rocks and the sidewalks in front of the hospital displaying messages of gratitude, and sent lunches. Others, though, left the hospital 2 months later with a tube in their stomach so they could receive some form of nutrition and another in their neck to help them breathe.
These struggles were by no means special to me; other hospitalists around the world faced similar situations at one point or another during the pandemic. Working overtime, coming home late, exhausted, undressing in the garage, trying to be there for my 3 kids who were full of energy after a whole day of Zoom and doing the usual kid stuff. My house used to have strict rules about screen time. No more.