Redeployed: A Pandemic Diary

I never planned to keep these daily posts going so long. What started as venting became a tool to help me process, and at some point, it occurred to me that there would be some value in documenting my experience in real time, rather than waiting to construct a narrative out of it after the fact. If you’ve stuck with me all this time, thank you. This whole business of forced redeployments will be such a small footnote in the history of Quebec’s COVID-19 response, but I hope it doesn’t get forgotten. It’s always interesting to think about how current events will be judged in retrospect. Was it a strong, unpopular but decisive action that ultimately brought the crisis to heel? Or yet another example of government taking advantage of an emergency to violate personal freedoms? Did it solve or create more problems in the long term? Those are questions that remain to be answered (although I have some guesses). What about me, was *I* ok with all this? The answer to that is still no. I...

My shift starts at 7am. Getting up early has become a habit, and easier now that the sun is up, too. And honestly, leaving the house in quiet, without all the breakfasts and backpacks, hurry-ups and daycare drop-offs, has been kind of nice. I enter the building, scrub my hands with sanitizer - front, back, between fingers, nail beds, wrists, thumbs - and take a mask from the box in the entrance. There aren’t many left, so I go get a new box from the supply closet. The receptionist greets me and we chat for a few minutes; she brought doughnuts for our last day. The donning station where I spent so many hours has been dismantled. It didn’t take long to pack up; it was never more than a folding table holding boxes of supplies. The stairwell looks empty without it; all that’s left is the shelf for uniforms, bare today except for the largest sizes, which aren’t getting much use now that the army’s pulled out. I hang around until the laundry comes back, then I fold and replace the clean...

This feels like a good time to mention that I have amazing work colleagues, who have been incredibly supportive through all of this. To name just a few examples: a couple weeks ago I received a beautiful care package from the whole team; a few co-workers have dropped off home-made meals; and so many others have reached out to listen, commiserate, and offer support. I’ve missed all of you a lot, but never felt disconnected. But I think this one takes the cake. Way back when I first mentioned the ukulele, one of my colleagues went and ordered me a brand new one, the intention being to have a dedicated instrument for the hot zone. Unfortunately, due to Canada Post disruptions, it only arrived this evening, and there is no more hot zone to play it in. However! I can promise it will get some good use tomorrow on my last day. And more importantly, it will forever serve as a reminder that viruses suck, but people are pretty great. Day 35

Now that there are no more Covid cases in the building, the PPE procedures have loosened a lot. Staff no longer need supervision for donning and doffing, which means I’m out of a job. Heading upstairs with just a mask and face shield feels strange, and exposed, but certainly a lot cooler! With plenty of workers attending to residents on the floor, I’m mostly left to my own devices as to how to fill my day. This turns out to be a combination of folding uniforms, calling families (mostly with good news now!), visiting residents and playing music in the common areas, where they’re now allowed to gather. Mrs. P is watching the news in her room. “It’s just horrible,” she comments, “this virus is everywhere now.” “I know. But you know what? You beat it, and you should be super proud of that.” She looks perturbed. “What? You’re saying I had THAT?” “Yes, really.” “No no. No, that can’t be right.” Day 34

The sudden sound of bagpipes draws residents to their windows and staff out to the parking lot; the military is holding a closing ceremony for their mission here. There are pipes and marching, speeches and flags and plaques, and it is all very ceremonial. It’s impressive, and kind of touching, watching these familiar faces standing at attention in their uniforms rather than folding laundry or feeding residents in scrubs. Their departure highlights just how far we’ve come: as of today, our entire building has been declared a clean zone. They did that. We did that. Handshakes and photographs, and then the soldiers pile into their vehicles, and then they’re gone. Just kidding! They’re coming back for three more shifts this week. Today was only the “official” goodbye. News for us as well! Nearly all the deployed staff are being withdrawn this week; I’ve had official confirmation that this Friday will be my last day. An end in sight! It all seems a little sudden, and a bit unusual...

A resident passed away over the weekend - the first in awhile. It’s the woman I fed on my very first day, who told me about the grand experiment. I never got to know her well, because her condition started to decline soon after. She fought for a long time, even making it to the green floor, but I guess in the end it was enough for her. I hope she’s at peace. More cleaning and moving on the floors today, as rooms are prepared to receive new admissions. A long, sad procession of empty wheelchairs files down the hallway and out the front door. Day 32

Every day now, one or more staff members return after a long absence, to great jubilation. It seems there’s some (good-natured) friction on the floors, as returning workers compete with the new PABs/helpers for the affection of “their” residents. As the number of workers multiplies, so do the stories of the conditions here in the weeks before we, the reinforcements, arrived. Several orderlies tell me they knew early on that something was wrong; their residents were deteriorating before their eyes. They had already been battling a flu outbreak, but this was different. Staff began to push for testing, and to start wearing masks, but were told the risk was low and this would only alarm people. At one point, PPE was locked up in a storeroom. When the first round of testing finally took place, the health board was shocked by the number of positive results. The staff were not. By the time the virus had run its course, nearly 30 staff members were off sick, and a similar number of reside...

The army pulled out their nighttime laundry support, and now there are no uniforms again. Damp scrubs are mildly uncomfortable. It’s fine. There’s a weird sense that things might be ending, but without knowing when or how. The army staff have been told they could be staying for awhile but they could also be called back at a moment’s notice, and I suppose the same is true for many of us. I notice the soldiers lingering in residents’ rooms before they leave each day; they’re not sure if or when, or how to say goodbye. It’s a bit sad, and also sweet. I also find myself lingering with my “favourite” residents, rather than trying to spread my time evenly. I spend a whole hour with my friend Mrs. P today, singing her favourite hymns and chatting about life and death, faith and family, and her childhood in Barbados. She’s back in her old room, with a green sticker on the door. In the afternoon, my friend from the kitchen teaches me her mother’s favourite song. Armed with the ukulele, w...

The army is slowly withdrawing. They’re now coming in only to help with the early rush, and leave by mid-morning every day. It feels very quiet, after they leave. The soldiers lend a brisk, purposeful energy to our work here, which is slowly giving way to the more measured pace of seasoned professionals who show up every day to do the same tasks they’ve done for years. The sprinters are passing the torch back to the long-distance runners. And this, of course, is exactly as it should be. It’s fundamentally a sign of hope, a reminder that this place is not actually a field hospital but a home. We can dare to imagine a future in which the makeshift locker room will be converted back to a recreation centre, when residents will be cared for by familiar faces and not by strangers in space suits. At some point, residents will gather in the dining hall, sit in the sunny garden with their loved ones, enjoy barbecues and concerts that are a distant memory now. Someday, there will be time ...

No update; we are not the main story today. Inside our walls, things continue to improve, but outside, the world is hurting so badly. We are all so tired. Day 28

I can confidently add “potty training while also working on the front lines of a pandemic” to my list of Worst Parenting Experiences. And I’ve only been home for two hours. Day 27