He was laying on a gurney, unconscious.
The place was very busy, naturally. There was so much going on that staff who would normally be going about their duties in a calm and professional manner were rushed off their feet and looking frazzled. The nurse stood looking down at him.
“Who is he, do we know?”
The other nurse replied, looking at paperwork. “Yes, just came through. Male nurse; in civvies because he was about to go home when his shift ended. Didn’t make it out the door when he collapsed, apparently.”
“OK. Have him wheeled into 5, I’ll be back.”
When she returned, she took his vital readings and asked, “How are you doing there?”
His eyelids fluttered and he whispered, “Coughs and fevers, viral outbreaks, Isolation…” he drifted off again.
After making notes, she tried again. “How are you doing now?”
His eyes remained closed, but his lips moved. “Longer hours,” he murmured. His mouth gaped open. “Information overload,” he rambled, “ “working long hours, day-care closing, meetings cancelled, new rituals, new working from home, long days, double shifts, social media, test results, texts, phone calls, emails, balancing roles, bed capacities, benefits provided, change of shifts, control the spread, disclosure process, drop off samples at the lab, filling out surveys, impossible choices, lives on the line, notifying volunteers, ordering supplies, overworked, palliative care, physical distancing, pulling together, requesting funds, rescheduling, screening patients, twenty-four hour emergency, voluntary shifts, hand washing…” His hands twitched and he fell silent.
“All right, just rest now,” she said and went to move away.
He began mumbling again.
“The … the critically ill, destructive virus, visitors gone, fogged up shields, plastic gowns, alarms, eyes burning, struggling to live, numbers surging, transmitting disease, stimulating the economy, weighing emotions, world struggling, worry for colleagues, mourning patients, oxygen dependent, flatten the curve, front line, clinic, medical community, closed airports, atypical pneumonia, cerebral blood supply, checking profiles, negative results, social distancing, religions, meetings, politics, quarantining, chronic illnesses, elbow bumping, eyelids fluttering, drawing blood, cranial nerves, developing vaccines, crisis, discharges, shift endings, congestions, dying alone…” Again, his rambling stopped.
“All right, I’ll be back soon,” she said.
Shortly after, she was back, explaining the situation to the doctor. “Delirious then?” he conferred. “I know things are tough, but try to keep an eye on him.” He smiled and left.
She was straightening the bedding when he started again. “Goggles and shields, gloves and wipes, cans of disinfectant, masks, hand sanitizer, antibiotics, schedules, screening, respirators, face shields, PPE, trauma centre, sterile room, hospital beds, personnel files, hand sanitizer, masks, suits, nose swabs, tests, endless tests…” It ended with a sigh.
She was taking his temperature again when he grunted and said, “Service workers, parents, doctors, teachers, social visitors, frontline staff, nurses, essential staff, medical assistants, clinicians and leaders, discharge teams, administrators, colleagues… the chaplain.”
She went to say something when he started up again, this time in a louder and more understandable voice. “New found modes of communication across the globe, a truly global pandemic.” He frowned. “All those at most risk, patients struggling, feeling unprotected, the sick and dying, sleep deprived, lung infections, flu like symptoms, anxiety, stress, fear, social distress, cases most likely positive and symptoms of illness, maybe…?” His eyes snapped open and he looked around. He tried to sit up.
She settled him back down.
“Ah! Welcome to this world,” she said, looking around at the general chaos, and paged the duty doctor.