Tag: COVID-19

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Full Circle

Covid ICU. Credit: NBC News

A year ago, on Friday, April 10th, 2020, I came off the ventilator in Covid ICU. Last night, one of our patients came off the ventilator in Covid ICU.

I lived. She died. And I don’t know what to make of that.

I was her chaplain. I had just finished praying the rosary for her when I learned she was going on comfort care. Life support would be stopped. Pain and anxiety relief would stay. Very soon, the order came through.

The nurse, the nurse assistant, the respiratory therapist and myself were with her when the breathing tube was removed. The nurse assistant and I held her hands while the respiratory therapist tended to the necessary tasks of extubation. The nurse stroked the patient’s hair.

She had no chance of survival. She couldn’t breathe on her own. I watched as the light faded from her face. I told her, “You’re going to heaven now.” I said a prayer of commendation as the life left her eyes.

Covid patients don’t die alone. They die with us, their healthcare workers. We were her family in the final hours and minutes of life. That was a blessing—of a kind. And yet the language of blessing fails in this pandemic time.

I am blessed to be alive. Or am I merely fortunate? After all, I lived and she died. I don’t know what to make of that, and doubt I ever will.

— Nelsonia

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Side effects. The price of protection.

I’ve just “recovered” from the first dose of Pfizer’s coronavirus vaccine. You are probably curious about that. So here’s a report.

I was vaccinated Monday at 9 am. Shortly after the needle jab, I felt lightheaded in a pleasant sort of way. I sat down, and in 20 minutes I was fine.

After lunch I noticed my arm was sore, and I started to feel cold. I put on my quilted flannel shirt and resumed meeting with patients. By mid afternoon I was tired, achy and feverish. But I felt well enough to finish the workday.

When I got home I took a two hour nap. I had a headache and chills and felt like I had a mild flu. I took my temperature. It was 99.1 F.

I went to bed again. I tossed and turned and woke up in the middle of the night thirsty. On the way to the kitchen I took my temperature, which was up a tenth of a degree. I washed down 400 mg of ibuprofen with a big glass of water and returned to bed.

The next morning I felt sluggish but fever free. The headache was gone and my arm was no longer sore. At work I had some “brain fog”. Everything took longer, and I made more mistakes than I usually do. But by evening I felt back to normal.

I tell you my side effects to encourage you to get the vaccine as soon as you can. The shot might keep you from everyday activities for two days. But Covid-19 will take you out for two weeks— if you’re lucky enough to have a “mild” case. If you have a severe case, count on being gone six weeks, and prepare to deal with very uncomfortable and debilitating symptoms like high fevers that last weeks, body aches like you’ve never had before, extreme weakness and fatigue, complete loss of appetite, losing your sense of taste and smell, and difficulty breathing. Or death.

The vaccine didn’t keep me from working, while Covid-19 put me on short term disability.

I’d rather bet on side effects than symptoms. The one is an unruly cat scratching at my legs. The other is a jaguar waiting to pounce on my back.

I’d rather bet on what will protect me from the jaguar, even if that costs me some discomfort. I hope you’ll make the same choice.

— Nelsonia

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Vaccinated. Doing my part.

“Three. Two. One. Poke.” The nurse said quietly. I felt the jab less than I usually would because I was getting my picture taken. Pfizer’s Covid vaccine was flowing into my arm muscles. I was holding my thumb up while I stood sideways to the iPhone—for modesty’s sake. I had to take my shirt half off to expose enough arm to the needle.

“Looks good,” my colleague said. I buttoned up and stepped away from the injection station.

I felt suddenly light headed. My throat the slightest bit scratchy. Am I getting an allergic reaction? I wondered.

I reported the light headedness and was told to sit down and not leave for half an hour. A colleague came over and sat with me. She wasn’t feeling very well either. Nauseous. Faint. A bit pale.

I was not the least bit concerned for myself. If I had fainted I wouldn’t have worried. Even if I had required an epi drip and a night or two in the hospital, I wouldn’t have cared. Well, maybe then. But I’ve had Covid and I’ve personally witnessed the disease in many others, and I can tell you, almost anything is better than coming down with Covid-19.

Lightheaded is called emergency use. Fainting is called health care workers can’t wait to get the vaccine because of what we have seen and heard. This is called science and gathering data to improve the vaccine.

I thanked the nurses for giving me the shot. “You don’t know how much this means to me,” I said with teary eyes. They nodded. “You’re going to make me cry,” one of them said tearfully. I turned my head. The other nurse was crying too.

Everyone at the hospital knows I was critically ill with Covid-19 back in early April. They know what this vaccine means. Protection. Freedom. Victory.

But the vaccine means still more to me. It represents a means of service.

Yes, I have some natural immunity to Covid-19. But how much and for how long? Is the vaccine safe and effective for those who’ve already been sick? I want to be part of the field research on these questions. I want to do my part.

I’m glad I got vaccinated today. And I plan on getting my second dose on January 12 as scheduled. I hope the vaccine works as well as the data indicates. I hope it’s safe enough that people will take it. I have lots of hope on both counts.

Now let the data gathering begin.

— Nelsonia

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Pandemic Birthday

This year I had a very special birthday. A birthday I almost didn’t have. This was the birthday that COVID-19 almost stole from me. Were it not for the heroic efforts of my doctors and nurses, my birth date would be inscribed on a tombstone, rather than marking a day of celebration.

This year I celebrated my birthday at home. I was given a sushi dinner and an angel food cake decorated with whipped cream frosting and fresh berries. Balloons and streamers hung from the fan blades in the kitchen, the handiwork of my youngest daughter.

I got homemade cards from both my daughters with sweet sentiments. I opened gifts. I smiled often. I walked the dog with my wife. I drove my car up and down a nearby avenue studded with traffic circles, making for an entertaining tour. Then, I went home.

This is where the pandemic has placed me. At home. With those I love. Home is where the heart is. It’s a cliche, but like many cliches, it conveys truth. Where is your heart? There you will find your home.

I know that home is not always a happy place. I know that some homes are homes of one. I know some have no physical home at all. But I hope that, whatever our circumstances, we have some people who count as family, and some place that feels like home–where the heart is.

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The narcissist

Viruses don’t care about us. They are the ultimate selfish person, the malignant narcissist. Viruses only want to use us.

Viruses don’t care if they make us sick. They don’t care if we die. They care about one thing — making as many copies of themselves as possible. Moving from one body to another to do so. One household to another. One city, state, or country to another. They are relentlessly self-centered and mindlessly mobile in pursuit of their objective.

Viruses don’t care about our plans, desires or motivations. All that matters to them is that another body is nearby when they force its host to cough or sneeze. They prey on our desire for connection. They hunt us down as we peacefully enjoy a concert or worship God in his many sanctuaries. These are merely opportunities for narcissistic reproduction.

Viruses don’t care about our values. They have no compassion or compunction. They live without regret. They are alive only in the sense that zombies are — to mindlessly consume people. They are the adversary who must be killed before they kill us. This is war.

We can win this war.

We already know how to defeat this enemy. Isolate the sick. Quarantine the infected. Keep distance from strangers. Shun crowds. Stay home.

These methods are repellent to our human nature. We want to congregate, we enjoy gathering with friends. It’s natural to shake the hand of a new acquaintance or hug an old friend. But these are dangerous impulses now, motivated by our yearning to connect with others, yet co-opted by the virus to further its self-centered objectives.

But it is precisely these antisocial tactics that will ultimately overcome the virus. Because the quarantines and self isolation, the travel bans and shut downs of social gatherings are not antisocial at all. They are how we love our neighbor during these dangerous times. Keeping distance from our neighbor actually helps our neighbor, because it protects them from us, and us from them.

Social distancing is social. It’s an expression of love. For love sacrifices. Love does the hard but right thing. Love thinks of others, before it thinks of itself.

In the battle between the coronavirus and humans, love is going to win. Because like any narcissist, the coronavirus has a weakness. It lives for itself. But human beings live for love.