Yesterday, I found myself contemplating the need to draft a will. At just 24 years of age, working as an ICU nurse in New York City, I should be in good health, yet the grim reality of my job has forced me to confront the possibility of my own mortality.
When I completed my nursing education in 2018, I envisioned a career focused on healing, not witnessing an unprecedented wave of death just two years in. I thought I had steeled myself for the inevitable encounters with mortality, but the sheer volume of lives lost in recent weeks has shaken me. I now realize that death feels closer than ever, and it could easily come for me.
Just last week, a daughter reached out about her mother’s condition. She was under the impression that her mother was stable, but I had to break the news that if I halted the IV pump, her mother would not survive. I had to be direct; there was no sense in sugarcoating the truth. The sound of her sobbing through the phone was gut-wrenching.
I’ve listened to the fading beats of a heart, but hearing it through a phone call was a different experience altogether. As I stood in the hallway, ready to enter the room, I was overwhelmed with anxiety about forgetting crucial supplies: medications, tubes, syringes. The reality is that every time I step into a COVID-19 patient’s room, I am putting myself at risk. I remind myself that any item I neglect to bring could force me to re-enter and expose myself further. It’s a struggle to stay human and compassionate amidst the chaos, especially with a mask on and sweat trickling down under multiple layers of protective gear.
I’ve been labeled a frontline worker, but the truth is, I am often the last stop before death. In normal times, the ICU nurse-to-patient ratio is two to one; now, it’s three to one, and in some places, it’s even worse. I am fortunate to have only three patients some days, but those days take a toll on my spirit.
ICU nurses are trained to handle the technical aspects of care: administering medication, managing sedation, assisting with intubation, and more. We provide comfort in the most distressing circumstances. Yet, while some call me a hero or even an angel, I often feel inadequate. I barely have time to apply ointment to chapped lips, let alone facilitate a meaningful connection with the family members watching their loved ones struggle, often for the last time.
On top of everything, I grapple with feelings of guilt and shame. I rush through my duties, sometimes neglecting basic care, as my attention is split between multiple patients. When I leave the hospital, the burden of this pandemic doesn’t stay behind. The virus clings to my shoes, my clothes, and my hands, which I scrub raw in an effort to cleanse myself of the pervasive sense of decay.
The isolation I experience at home is deafening. On my days off, I immerse myself in research about new treatments and studies, but I still feel woefully unprepared for the challenges I face daily. It’s a relentless cycle of feeling inadequate.
I don’t want to be called a hero. I wear guilt like a heavy shroud, and my 12-hour shifts leave me with little time to tend to my own basic needs. I didn’t enter this profession to become a martyr; I joined to help people heal — not to risk my own life.
I want the world to understand that if I were to end up as a patient in the ICU, it would be due to insufficient protective gear. I believe our healthcare system has failed to protect its most essential workers. We pride ourselves on being the best, the richest, and the freest nation, yet I find myself peeling off the same N-95 mask after a grueling shift, hoping it has been enough to shield me from the virus.
Even when the immediate crisis subsides, the impact of this pandemic will linger. The healthcare system will remain strained, and the risk to patients and healthcare workers will persist long after the headlines fade. I urge everyone to remember the lessons learned during this time of crisis, from the fear of infection to the desperate search for basic supplies.
As I reflect on my life, I realize how important it is to connect with my family. I think of my parents, who are nurses themselves, and I wish I had called them more often. Now, I find myself reaching out to them almost nightly, driven by the anxiety and uncertainty that hangs over us all.
I still have dreams: to enjoy home-cooked meals with my family, watch my nephew grow, and build a life filled with love and joy. So, I ask you — please do not pity me or label me a hero. Instead, remember the struggles we faced during this time, and strive to ensure that future generations are never put in this position again.
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Summary:
This article presents a firsthand account from a young ICU nurse in New York City who reflects on the harrowing experiences of working during the COVID-19 pandemic. With a candid tone, she discusses the emotional and physical toll of her job, the inadequacies of the healthcare system, and her desire to be seen as more than just a “hero.” The narrative highlights the struggles faced by healthcare workers and emphasizes the need for lasting change in the healthcare landscape.
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