Pandemic Parables: Swimming Underwater
I have decided to do a series of vignettes of life (in a small hospital) in the time of Corona. (Forgive me Sr. García Marquéz!)
Stories are swirling all around me and I want to share those that are mine to share. This is the third episode. This post is purposeful. The first two just happened.
It is so odd that I would be working in a hospital at all - that plan never crossed my radar until recently. I was far too busy telling stories and teaching others to do the same. (My year’s stint as a Resident Chaplain is over at the end of August.)
I am in awe that what was going to be a challenging but fairly uneventful season has turned into a front row seat into a powerful, almost biblical world wide event. I want to capture these times with word snapshots so that I’ll be reminded in the virus-controlled, and hopefully virus-extinguished future, that these things really happened.
Pandemic Parables: Swimming Underwater
Swimming underwater- that is how I felt yesterday throughout the day as I did my rounds at the hospital. There was a heaviness in the air, tangible tension. Others felt the same. A Nurse Manager told me that they had less than half the number of patients on their floor but everyone was exhausted. I walked (staggered) out of the hospital at the end of my shift next to a social worker that I had never met before. I mentioned swimming underwater. “Yes! Yes!” She said her eyes brightening, clearly delighted that someone understood. “That’s exactly how it is. Everything has changed so quickly that it’s like having to retrain for your job all over again. It’s exhausting!”
Yesterday was a day of further changes in a season where new best practices have been updated daily or more. In line with other hospitals in the area a new visitor policy was put in place. Basically patients can’t have visitors. There are exceptions. If you are giving birth you can have one person in the room, and one parent can be with a child in NICU and Pediatrics. One person can accompany someone coming in for an emergency. Two are allowed in for end of life or recent death.
One family tried to circumvent the rules in a very understandable way. A much-loved family member was dying and so they went up to their room in shifts of twos. Until they were stopped. It is two visitors within a twenty four hour period. This is a hospital with heart, it is hard, but necessary, for them to put in place these stringent procedures.
The policy was activated at midday. Not long afterwards I saw an elderly man with slumped shoulders heading out of the hospital. I had met him and his wife earlier. They had been married for fifty seven years. She was a patient and he had spent many hours in the chair by her bed. It was clearly hard for him to leave her behind. The visitors understood though. We live in perilous times.
Later, walking through my assigned floor I saw that most of the hand gels that are attached outside every room were empty. So hands have to be washed in a sink before and after entering. Then, as further proof of the way people are adapting, I saw an assistant walking along with an armful of bright fabric masks made by our dedicated volunteer auxiliary.
A nurse who had selected one that coordinated with her uniform told me: “There is a shortage of masks. We are going to wear these as alternatives to keep the others functioning longer.” The nurses, indeed all the medical staff in this hospital are incredible. Exhausted and incredible.
Today though, Friday, the atmosphere seemed to be different, lighter somehow. The staff’s resilience is kicking in. On full view is everyone’s well-honed ability to rise to the occasion and adapt to changing circumstances. One thing that bolstered moral was learning that local communities and businesses have been gathering up supplies and bringing them into the hospital in multiple box loads. Masks and hand sanitizer are among the windfall. God bless every one of who donated!
At lunchtime I went for a walk on the beautiful, deserted, Hood College Campus, which is right behind the hospital. On my way there, in a window in full view of everyone who exits the staff parking deck, was a sign thanking all the staff at FMH. (Frederick Memorial Hospital recently changed its name to Frederick Health Hospital.) I found it very moving - a warm, grateful hug from the community - another boost to sagging spirits.
Although numerous people have been tested there is no one with the virus in the hospital. They are well prepared, though, for a sudden influx that I am praying never comes.
There is one story that symbolizes for me this week of ever shifting reality. An elderly man, not originally from this country, only had a few days left to live. A relative was by his side. Although the patient could hardly speak, his eyes were alert. The relative told me that this man had lived, really lived during his time on earth. There could be few people with less regrets. As I looked at the patient, I saw laughter in those eyes - a twinkle. For a moment I could see the dashing adventurer he had been. His relative said his life had been unusual. And so was his death. He was dying, virus free, in the middle of a pandemic. As his relative said, it was a fitting way to go. The patient nodded in agreement. At the end of the dramatic opera of his life it was the perfect coda.
Why does that story stay in my mind? Perhaps because I am believing that as we adapt to necessary constraints, things will happen in our lives that couldn’t have been brought about any other way. Good things. Prayed for things. After this season of cocooning will come transformation. A glorious coda. Lord - let it be so!
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