I am in a place far from home, far from my loved ones. Far from the comfort of familiar things I find refuge in. But the pen in my hand knows what I am trying to convey. The paper I write in understands past the blotted ink of words and letters.
I have for many years worked on the frontline in the Philippines and now the Royal Liverpool. But till 2020 I’d never seen so many people die in one shift. Never seen anyone be pulled out of life support while they were still on a ventilator. Never been in the same room where the family had to say goodbye and it hurt so much I couldn’t stop my own tears from falling as I prepared to suction another patient’s airway through the ventilator. I could hear them from the curtains separating us. I could hear their sadness, their longing. But most of all, I could hear in their voice the tiredness and silent despair of losing someone you love. They were not giving up. Rather, they knew they had to let go because it was a battle already lost and prolonging the suffering would hurt everyone even more.
“It’s okay. We’re okay. We’re going to be okay, I promise. Don’t worry about us.” My tears wouldn’t cease. I looked down at my own patient and silently prayed for his recovery. I know you can do it. Tears were now pooling underneath the face mask and I was about to wipe my face when I remembered we were not allowed to do so. I was wearing full protective equipment or PPE. So I quietly wept, listening to all the heartbreaking words the family beside me was whispering, all the while praying that my own patient and the rest of them in High Dependency Unit would make out of this alive. I gazed at my patient again and squeezed his hand.
It was quiet all the time except for the frequent alarms of the monitors and the noisy beeps of the ventilators. Beneath layers of heavy PPE, doctors and staff alike were tired and burnt-out. Most of the time you wouldn’t even know who you were speaking to. It was hard to understand anyone because of the tight FFP3 face masks. The reusable visors were too thick and heavy and had to be worn almost all the time. Our staff room had to be moved to a much smaller space outside the unit. Social-distancing, the government reiterated. But we didn’t even have a proper break room back then. So the staff would huddle altogether in this tiny space. Looking so lost after spending hours wearing all those PPE. We wanted to save the PPE and donning and doffing them also took too much time. So, we preferred not to drink as then we did not have to come out to use the toilet afterwards. Drinks were also not allowed inside. Coming out of the unit just to get a drink felt like you were wasting PPE. The guilt would override the need of keeping yourself hydrated. Those were difficult times.
“It felt surreal. But was as real as the ground beneath our feet”
But all of our sufferings weighed nothing compared to the feeling of helplessness; like nothing else seemed to be working despite everyone doing their very best to try and keep people alive. We were always hanging to that thin sliver of hope that our patients would survive. That someday, they would start recovering and they would be able to spend time again with their loved ones. But things didn’t work out the way we wanted it to.
One by one, our patients passed away. We could only watch in sorrow as the angel of death sauntered down the hallways of the hospital. There were a few who survived. We celebrated them like they were our own family and cried happy tears for them as they made their way out of the unit. The first wave started ceasing and the cases started decreasing. But life was never the same. Life would never be the same. I don’t think I am the same person I used to be back then.
It wasn’t easy. It’s still not easy. There were times I felt like the world could just go on and I’d rather stay hidden inside my own bubble to spare myself from more pain. I avoided talking to people because it felt like they could not understand what I was going through back then. Some laughed at me, some made jokes. Some were not interested. And some just didn’t want to listen. I wanted someone to tell me that it was okay not to be okay. That it was too much for anyone to bear. That it was okay to be weak because I was already so exhausted putting up a strong face in front of everybody else. That it was okay for me to weep for all those lives we tried so hard to save but ended up losing. But through all these trying times, I started to realise nobody would really understand. I was alone. I was my own person. Personal problems be damned. I knew I had to get through this on my own. Writing this was a small step towards acceptance of what had happened and what had changed. I was scarred, but then I thought of all those people who had struggled for their lives and I felt my scars were insignificant. I did not have to fight for my life; gasp for every breath like it was my last. I was truly lucky, but I guess even until now the emotionally scarred part of me still found it difficult to accept that fact. Sometimes I still see faces and hear alarms. Sometimes I wake up with my eyes wet, not knowing the reason why.
Memories come flashing back and I felt small again. With misty eyes, I held my patient’s hand as he teetered between life and death. I stroked his hand and played music near his ear. I fixed his pillows and straightened the linens. There was not much I could do other than offer my comfort and be with him in his final moments. We didn’t want him to go through this alone. I didn’t want him to go through this on his own.
While writing this, I’ve come to realise a lot of things. I’ve stopped watching and reading the news because it would be the same depressing topics. I’ve stopped listening to what others said. Some people thought it was the government’s grand scheme to control the people and force everyone on a lockdown. But I could only tell you one thing: the things I’ve seen back then felt surreal. But they were as much real and definite as the ground beneath our feet. Everything passed by like a blur. But the memories were like painful drawings of different scenes forever sketched at the back of the eyelids.
Being on the frontline in the middle of a pandemic had changed me. It made me look at life in a different perspective. You never know when it’s going to be your last. Being young doesn’t guarantee you anything. Love and cherish those around you with all your heart. Apologise to the people you’ve wronged. Let go of everything and everyone that’s keeping your heart imprisoned with hurt and uncertainties. Don’t change for others. Changing yourself for others will result in you losing a part of yourself. Rather, live the way you want to without stepping on other people’s feelings. Let God be your guide and do what makes you happy.