Yesterday, I found myself contemplating writing a will. At just 24, working as an ICU nurse in New York City and in good health, this shouldn’t even be on my radar. Yet, the reality of my situation hit me hard: the likelihood of dying from this virus feels more real than ever before.
When I graduated nursing school in 2018, I certainly didn’t envision this chaotic future so soon into my career. I thought I was ready to witness death; after all, I had seen plenty in my first year. But in the past two weeks, I have experienced more loss than most do in a lifetime. Now, the thought of death feels closer, and I question whether I can handle it.
Death has taken on a new meaning. It feels personal.
Just last week, a woman called me about her mother. She believed her mom was stable, but I had to break the news that if we stopped the IV pump, her mother would not survive. I was blunt, knowing the urgency of the situation, and her tears echoed through the phone.
I’ve listened to the sounds of a heart fading away, but never before have I heard it through a phone line.
As I stood there, preparing to enter the patient’s room, I grasped the necessary supplies tightly—medications, tubes, needles—my mind racing while I tried to comfort her. Each time I step into a COVID-positive room, I remind myself that forgetting anything means risking my own life. It’s hard to maintain my humanity when I’m sweltering in layers of PPE and unsure of what to say.
How can you say sorry for not being able to do enough?
I’ve been labeled a frontline worker, but the reality is I’m often the last line of defense. In ordinary circumstances, the nurse-to-patient ratio is two to one, but now, it’s three to one—or worse in other facilities. Some days, I feel fortunate to only have three patients, but those days drain me.
ICU nurses are trained to perform with precision: we medicate, sedate, and provide comfort. Yet, despite the recognition and praise as heroes, I often feel inadequate. I struggle to find time to apply ointment to a patient’s chapped lips before I FaceTime their family for the first time in weeks. How can I be the one to steal their moment of reunion? It feels wrong.
Sometimes, I get so overwhelmed that patients endure discomfort longer than I’d like to admit. How do I prioritize cleaning one patient when another’s heart rate has just flatlined?
Even when I leave the hospital, the pandemic lingers. I carry the virus home on my shoes, clothes, and skin, scrubbing my hands raw to rid myself of the feeling of decay. The sirens from ambulances are a constant reminder of the ongoing crisis; I even received a text that a coworker’s father had succumbed to COVID-19.
Isolation has taken on a new meaning—silence can be deafening.
On my days off, I drown in medical articles and studies, trying to keep up with the overwhelming information. Yet, I walk into work feeling unprepared and leave feeling like I’ve failed. It never feels like enough.
That’s why I urge people not to call me a hero. It feels like an insult. I carry guilt like a shroud, rushing through twelve-hour shifts where I hardly have time for basic needs. Sometimes, I’m not sure what I should be grateful for—being able to eat a meal or the fact that I’m not on a ventilator myself.
This isn’t the healthcare world I envisioned; none of us saw this coming. I entered this profession to save lives, not to stake my own. If I end up in an ICU bed, it will be due to a lack of adequate protection. America has failed its essential workers, and it’s painfully obvious.
We pride ourselves on being the best, yet I’m left to peel off the same N-95 mask after a grueling shift, praying it has kept me safe. Until a cure or effective treatment emerges, the threat remains, and many more will die.
I want people to remember the fear of the past months—the morgue trucks, the panic over supplies, and the anxiety of each cough. Clap for us at 7 PM if it makes you feel better, but know that applause doesn’t change the grim reality we face. My hope is that we can enact real change after this is over so that this never happens again.
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Summary
In this candid reflection, a 24-year-old ICU nurse in New York City shares the harrowing realities of working through the COVID-19 pandemic. Despite being praised as a hero, she expresses feelings of inadequacy and guilt as she faces overwhelming loss and the constant threat of the virus. She emphasizes the need for systemic changes in healthcare to protect essential workers and prevent future crises.
Keyphrase
COVID-19 nurse experience
Tags
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