Behind the Mask

A few short months ago, I would sit at the bedsides of my patients. Unhurried. I used to do this thing where I’d find myself holding a patient's hand while I was auscultating their chest. I don’t know why I did it—didn’t even realize I was. It just kind of felt right. It was a small way of connecting. I’d chat with my patients, learning about who they are as people. I’d draw them pictures to explain their illness. We’d smile. Unencumbered by masks.

Now, I’m hidden behind layers of PPE. Behind masks and shields, gowns and gloves. We healthcare workers resemble astronauts more than doctors. We are faceless. Our patients are faceless too. Behind non-rebreathers and ET tubes. Hooked up to drips with tubes extending outside their rooms, which are quiet except for the songs of vent alarms. No family. No visitors. Just alarm.

I miss telling patients, “You’re gonna be just fine”—and the assurance turning out to be true. We are in a dark cave, trying to feel our way forward. Blindly. There’s no textbook chapter on COVID. No evidence-based treatments. We have none of that.

What we do have, though, is hope. I am hopeful for better treatments. For vaccines. For the day when I can chat, hold my patient’s hand, and share a smile. Unmasked. Hospital admissions are dropping, as are death rates. But we have a ways to go. We will make it out of this dark tunnel though. Have hope. I do.