hen COVID-19 was officially declared a worldwide pandemic, I realized we were about to enter a war unlike anything we have ever seen before. A war where the enemy is invisible and our armor includes a mask, gloves, soap and water. The battle is real, it is raw and it is relentless. It has crossed the threshold into our homes, our streets, our schools and our hospitals. Lockdowns, cancellations, closings and self-isolation have become an ongoing reality throughout the country and the world.
As physicians, our weapons lie beyond medications, diagnostic tools and interventions. Our weapons include our composure, our compassion and our competence. Where there is panic, we provide calm. Where there is fear, we offer courage. And where there is anger, we practice patience. We continue to stand united as a medical community despite having to stand six feet apart.
I admitted our hospital’s first COVID patient. He was alone, the blinds drawn so the city lights formed shadows across his hooded eyes, and his fear was almost palpable. I reached out a double-gloved hand and watched as a small smile began to form. “Yours is the first hand I have had the honor of shaking in this hospital and it’s cold!” he exclaimed in a hoarse voice. I laughed and responded with the old adage favored by my attending physician, “Cold hands, warm heart.” My osteopathic medical education taught me the healing power of human touch and my physiatry training coupled with my cheerleading background taught me the importance of motivation, especially in a rehabilitation setting.
With coaxing, the patient described his medical course along with his personal history. We talked about his extended Italian family, who still set a plate for him at every Friday’s pasta night, and his love for the Philadelphia Eagles. I listened intently, watching while his breathing slowed, his heart rate normalized and his smile widened. I explained the next steps in his care, from physical and occupational therapy to achieving his functional goals of gaining more independence in order to return home. The fear I sensed before soon dissipated, replaced by a new feeling: hope. He squeezed my hand, saying, “Now you have warm hands and a warm heart.”
The stress has been at times overwhelming — for patients and caregivers alike. During one 24-hour shift at the beginning of the pandemic, I had a patient who spiked a low-grade fever but otherwise had no COVID symptoms: no cough, no shortness of breath. She was on a floor where another individual had tested positive, however, so I sent for a COVID test. When it came back positive, the patient asked me if she was going to die. I reassured her that we caught the virus early and we would monitor her closely. However, it was jarring to face the realization that we were grappling with a new disease for which there simply was not enough evidence-based medicine.
The following morning, I stepped out to see chalk drawings all over the ground in front of the entrance to the hospital. There were messages that read, “’Thank you,’ ‘Heroes work here,’ ‘We appreciate you.’” I stood there with my stethoscope hanging from one hand and a paper bag with my week-old N95 mask in the other. I felt both defeated and uplifted at the same time. Reading those notes of encouragement made me cry, and I was not the only one. When you’re a doctor or a nurse, a therapist, aide or technician, this is the work you do every day. You never think of yourself as a hero or a soldier. You never think of the hospital as a battlefield. But this war is far from over and we will continue to fight to save lives. Because that is what we do, and that is who we are.
