Day 17
Coming back after a long weekend is hard.
I should say that I’m extremely grateful to have had a long weekend, something many (most) healthcare workers can’t benefit from right now. Still, it doesn’t make the transition easier.
On Saturday morning, my 5-year-old opened her eyes next to mine in the bed. She’s been coming into our bed at night, and we let her - pandemic anxiety affects small people, too. Her face lit up with incredulous joy: “MOMMY! You’re HERE!” I smiled back and hugged her, but my heart broke a little bit.
I spent the weekend soaking in small moments with the kids that I’ve been missing: eating breakfast together, digging in the garden, hunting for worms. But the horror of this virus is that even those moments are tainted. With every cuddle a nagging voice asks, am I getting too close? Am I already contaminated? Am I putting them at risk?
When I got the news of my deployment, I was offered the chance to stay in a hotel room, and had to make the difficult decision of whether to try to isolate myself from my family for their protection. I - we - decided against it. I told myself that the trauma of separation would be worse than the risk of infection. I still believe that, but I wonder. Was I worried about trauma for my kids, or for me? What is selfishness, and what is love? The pandemic has turned everything on its head, my moral compass feels unglued.
I tell myself that kids are not badly affected, but then I hear reports of a mysterious pediatric toxic shock syndrome. I think I’m lucky to be in a relatively low-risk job - many days, I don’t interact with patients directly - but then, handing out masks and tying gowns of healthcare workers in a hot zone feels at least as risky as, say, meeting a friend for coffee, which I’m told to avoid at all costs. I have a story in my head about what’s safe at work, and a different story for home. Constantly switching between them is exhausting.
News reports describe a long-term care centre nearby where all the residents and 150 staff members are infected. Viruses detected in the ventilation system. Multiple army volunteers have tested positive after just a week on the job. Another PAB at our site called in sick. It’s getting closer, closer…
I think of the residents, suffering alone in their beds, their families locked outside, and I feel guilty for fixating on my own worries. I love the time I spend with them, I feel privileged to benefit from the wisdom and humour they can share with so few people right now. I want to do more. And I want to run away.
In the night, my daughter slips into our bed and I hold her close to quiet her fears. On the other side of her, my husband lies still with his headphones on. The three of us alone together in the silence, trying to drown out the noise.
Day 18
I should say that I’m extremely grateful to have had a long weekend, something many (most) healthcare workers can’t benefit from right now. Still, it doesn’t make the transition easier.
On Saturday morning, my 5-year-old opened her eyes next to mine in the bed. She’s been coming into our bed at night, and we let her - pandemic anxiety affects small people, too. Her face lit up with incredulous joy: “MOMMY! You’re HERE!” I smiled back and hugged her, but my heart broke a little bit.
I spent the weekend soaking in small moments with the kids that I’ve been missing: eating breakfast together, digging in the garden, hunting for worms. But the horror of this virus is that even those moments are tainted. With every cuddle a nagging voice asks, am I getting too close? Am I already contaminated? Am I putting them at risk?
When I got the news of my deployment, I was offered the chance to stay in a hotel room, and had to make the difficult decision of whether to try to isolate myself from my family for their protection. I - we - decided against it. I told myself that the trauma of separation would be worse than the risk of infection. I still believe that, but I wonder. Was I worried about trauma for my kids, or for me? What is selfishness, and what is love? The pandemic has turned everything on its head, my moral compass feels unglued.
I tell myself that kids are not badly affected, but then I hear reports of a mysterious pediatric toxic shock syndrome. I think I’m lucky to be in a relatively low-risk job - many days, I don’t interact with patients directly - but then, handing out masks and tying gowns of healthcare workers in a hot zone feels at least as risky as, say, meeting a friend for coffee, which I’m told to avoid at all costs. I have a story in my head about what’s safe at work, and a different story for home. Constantly switching between them is exhausting.
News reports describe a long-term care centre nearby where all the residents and 150 staff members are infected. Viruses detected in the ventilation system. Multiple army volunteers have tested positive after just a week on the job. Another PAB at our site called in sick. It’s getting closer, closer…
I think of the residents, suffering alone in their beds, their families locked outside, and I feel guilty for fixating on my own worries. I love the time I spend with them, I feel privileged to benefit from the wisdom and humour they can share with so few people right now. I want to do more. And I want to run away.
In the night, my daughter slips into our bed and I hold her close to quiet her fears. On the other side of her, my husband lies still with his headphones on. The three of us alone together in the silence, trying to drown out the noise.
Day 18
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