When I was a Covid RN, I saw not only junior nurses and doctors, but also experienced medical staff reduced to tears by what we were going though.
One time, when I was a very junior RN with less than a year's experience, I helped to admit a 25 year old man who was extremely sick with Covid. He had an underlying respiratory disease and had caught the virus whilst looking after his sick mum.
The young man arrested, and we worked really hard on him for nearly an hour, but eventually the registrar called it. This was on the back of a brutal week in which the unit had lost more patients than in almost the entire two years previously.
The ICU Consultant who was on, Dr G, had always been a formidable doctor. When I first met him I had been very intimidated by him. He had a piercing, analytical gaze that seemed to read you from the inside out when he looked at you. A brisk walk that made people scurry and jump out of his way. A calm, clear voice that tolerated no nonsense. He had high, exacting standards and was known to, on occasion, be ferocious with juniors who were careless, reckless, or arrogant. But he was kind, too. He held his patients' hands. No matter how delirious they were, no matter if they were deeply unconscious and sedated, he addressed them all by name, explained what was going on, explained what he was going to do before he did it. Even though I was a very junior nurse, and he was the Lead Consultant, Dr G always addressed me by name, talked to me, asked me about myself. He had taught me a lot when I started as an ICU RN. His gentle voice and steady hands had always made me feel safe no matter how bad things got.
But for some reason, during that arrest, Dr G stood frozen, still as a statue during the whole thing, saying nothing. His registrar sensed something was off, and stepped forward to lead the resuscitation. Then suddenly, when she called it, Dr G pivoted and punched a nearby monitor hard enough that the screen cracked. He walked off out of the ICU, his hand dripping blood behind him.
The charge nurse sighed, and wearily told me to go take my PPE off and take a moment to recoup. The patient had been my patient, and he was only 25 - the same age as me, more or less. I was visibly shaken and exhausted. She would look after the body, she said, and would go with the registrar while she told the family.
I did as I was told, and doffed my PPE. On my way to the break room, down the eerily quiet and empty hospital corridors, I walked past Dr G' office. The door was ajar. I glanced in, and what I saw made me freeze.
Dr G was sitting in the fetal position on the floor of his office, head on his knees and arms wrapped around his knees, weeping and rocking. His hand was dripping blood onto the floor.
I didn't know what to do. I was a newly qualified nurse, half his age and with only a fraction of his seniority.
But my instincts - my humanity? - told me not to just leave him there. He was the Lead Consultant but he was also a man, a human being. And he had always been kind to me.
So I went to a nearby storeroom and got some bandages and gauze and saline. Then went to the break room and got some biscuits, water, and tissues. I made two cups of tea (milk for me, milk and two sugars for him - I'd memorised how everyone took their tea by now. For weeks, my colleagues had been the only consistent, daily human contact I got).
I went back to Dr G's office, and knocked on the door. When he didn't respond, I hesitated, then quietly entered. I sat down in front of him, and gently took the bleeding hand.
He didn't stop crying, didn't look up, but also didn't resist. I cleaned his hand and bandaged it, then gently pressed the cup of tea into it. I set the biscuits, tissues, and water beside him. He looked up, eyes red and miserable. Then swallowed, and said, "Thank you."
"You're welcome," I said. Hesitated for a minute, then sat down beside him, back to the wall and tucked my knees beneath me. I sat and quietly sipped my tea for a minute, then asked him, "How many cows do you have?" A few weeks ago he had told me that he had a farm, and worked on it with his wife on his days off.
He looked a little startled. Then answered me: about 150. I continued asking him about it, my voice slightly nervous, but also curious. For some reason, he didn't answer me a first, just looked down at his hand that I'd bandaged. He opened and closed it slowly, then looked at me softly for a moment, a little warm smile on his face. Then indulged me and answered my questions.
We sat and talked for about 10 minutes, until he finished his tea. Then he took a deep breath and stood up, saying he had to go back to work. I moved to stand up and go back with him, but he put a hand gently on my shoulder. "Sit there and enjoy your tea," he said. Then walked out of the room and back towards the ICU.


















