This story is by Sharon Hetherington and won an Honorable Mention in our 2020 Summer Writing Contest. You can find all the writing contest stories here.
Sharon Hetherington lives in London Ontario, Canada. A “story collector” by nature, Sharon credits her experience serving others in the nonprofit sector for her unique ability to feel, rather than just tell a story. “Let us not be afraid to dive deep into the murky depths of inaction to bring forth empathy and compassion.” You can find her on LinkedIn.
In a shadowed corner of the hospital stairwell she sits, crumpled like a discarded wad of paper, arms wound tight around her legs to still their trembling. In time, when her fury is finally exhausted, her body will unfurl, its energy spent. This stairwell is her private refuge, where the sobs that rattle her body and cleanse her soul are heard only by the walls around her. Perspiration beads her forehead, a display of damp patchwork darkening her scrub cap. Her skin prickles beneath it, but she barely notices. She barely notices the smell of stale sweat seeping out from scrubs that should have been changed days ago, if only she had the energy to care. There is no one here to judge, but there is no one here to comfort either.
Any scrap of comfort scraped from under all this misery is reserved for the dozens of people lying in the ICU. Hope drains from their eyes with each labored breath as minutes are suffocated by hours, then days and sometimes weeks. They are truly alone in their fight to survive. Loved ones appear only in drug-induced dreams, swirling in and out like unsettled spirits in the mist.
She is their family here. She and her colleagues are the link to life, the ray of hope. They do everything humanly possible to help their patients. But behind their masks, the doctors and nurses quietly fight their own internal battles. Isolated from their families and the comfort of their own beds, having a shower or a proper meal is a precious luxury. Exhaustion, both mental and physical, simmers in the background, waiting for the break and ready to consume, like a flame licking a dried leaf. Just keep going! flashes in front of her eyes. How many times has she repeated those words?
She, an ICU nurse, is now also a lifeline between patient and family. She feels compelled to answer patient cell phones as they vibrate and ring incessantly throughout the day and into night, filling the ward with musical chatter. Her stomach sours at how misplaced those sounds are amidst the swishing of protective gowns swirling around staff legs and clashing with the never-ending rhythm of ventilators whooshing breath into the lungs of their hosts. She loathes how each bright ringtone hides the fact there is a frantic caller on the other end of the line pleading for someone to pick up. And when she does pick up, her nerves are on edge, knowing that she will have to bear the anguish of telling yet another parent, spouse, son or daughter they must stay away, or their loved one has just been intubated, or worse, is not likely to survive the virus that is ripping out the heart of the world.
She sucks in a ragged breath as she recalls the number of hands she has held through their last moments. Her swollen eyes ache like a battered fighter when she squeezes them tight to black out the grim images. This isn’t what I signed up for! she screams inside her head. She became a nurse to save lives, not stand by helpless, watching them slip away one after the other.
Defeated, her body sags into the coolness of the wall. She tries to focus only on her breath: inhale two three … Why is this happening … hold two three … I can’t take any more … exhale and release. Fat tears spill again, tickling a stream down behind her mask, pooling at the corners of her mouth. She is no stranger to the salty taste on her lips.
Guilt threatens to swallow her whenever she longs for a comforting embrace, a few encouraging words, or something — geez, anything that might help her to see light at the end of this dark tunnel. But these days, even the slightest gesture of kindness would totally wreck her. Her protective walls are cracked and fragile, barely keeping her from shattering into jagged shards of despair. I will not let my patients see me broken! They are in a fight for their very lives. They need her, need all the medical staff to be on their game; to keep them fighting; to keep fighting for them.
Finally, the storm within dissipated, she begins to pull herself together. The sobs of frustration that stripped her to the core have eased. She is weary, but cleansed. She lifts her head and just breathes, eyes closed, willing her heartbeat to slow. Her mind stirs through the embers of emotion, and she again wonders if she too will get sick, if she too will lay isolated in the ICU, relying on her colleagues to keep her going. Her mind’s eye looks behind the masks of the doctors and nurses she knows so well. She relaxes just a little, a fragile smile puckering her own mask. If the plague does get me, there’s no better place to be than here, in my ICU. Her colleagues are dedicated, kind and committed to giving their very best, no matter what.
Pulling herself up, she slowly works out the stiffness that has settled into her bones. What a way to spend my precious few minutes of break time, she muses, looking down at the untouched cup of cold tea on the floor. But she needs this.
“Crap,” she mumbles softly to herself. She’s wearing her last face mask, now soggy from tears and cold against her flushed cheeks. A stark reminder of how bad things are. Today, she teetered on the edge, so desperate for release that she forgot to remove it. Probably a good thing, since she doesn’t have a spare. Tea will just have to wait. “Won’t be the first time, or the last,” she mutters.
She gingerly touches the raw skin behind her ears and on the bridge of her nose, wincing only slightly at the sting. Battle scars. Amid the chaos of these past weeks, she became accustomed to the irritation that is now just another part of her “normal”; another reality to deal with. There are far more important things to worry about than her scabs. Still, adjusting the ear strings for the umpteenth time, she is reminded again of everything this little piece of fabric represents.
Like armor, it protects her from the virus, at least to some extent. And like a veil, it blurs her emotions. Smiles are lost behind the fabric; encouraging words are muted. Tears slide quietly down behind, disappearing quickly from view and the questions that naturally follow. The mask hides her fear, sadness and despair in not being able to save every patient. The storm of emotion that churns behind the thin piece of fabric finds its release only in this stairwell, her refuge.
And in the ICU ward where respirators sigh in melancholy chorus, hoses and tubes join bodies to machinery like artificial umbilical cords. Curtains shroud beds, isolating each patient into a private pod of misery. But hospital staff is also isolated — by their PPE! she thinks, a new spark of frustration flashing in her eyes. Focused only on task, everyone rushes around too frazzled to notice what isn’t there. The warmth of a smile, the comfort of a hug, even the light touch of a high five over a rare success story is now absent. Breaks and meals are taken in solitude, most too tired to eat, some choosing instead to nap or call home or, as in her case, vent. How many other stairwells in this hospital are soundboards to someone’s despair? Looking at the bland walls, she feels grateful that her stairwell is rarely used these days. This is her personal place of self-isolation; where her walls are free to tumble down, unleashing the hurricane of angst that rages within her. She needs this.
Eyes now dry and mask firmly in place, her face and her emotions are hidden from view. She takes a final cleansing breath: inhale two three … I’m ok … hold two three … Just keep going! … exhale and release. Opening the stairwell door, she enters the ward, instantly falling into the frantic pace of colleagues rushing to save the world.
At the doorway to the critical care unit, where every patient is intubated, she carefully adjusts her mask again and inspects her gown and gloves before entering. A new patient lies in the bed where the young woman, the one who was a new mother, had expired only minutes ago.
The man’s lips are bluish and slack behind the oxygen mask. Doctors and nurses are huddled, murmuring about vitals and procedures, preparing him for the unthinkable. His eyes, sunken and watery with fear, roll bleakly in their sockets toward her, fusing to her own eyes in a silent plea for help. She hesitates, swallows the urge to turn and run, and then steps closer. Hugging his hand with both of hers, she hides behind her mask, giving him the comfort that she cannot take for herself. He needs this.
Wow. That really pulls at ones heart. Sadly, this story makes us really appreciate the anguish of our frontline medical workers. They are strong for their patients , all the while fighting their own fears and anxiety. . Well done Sharon Hetherington.
Well done Sharon Hetherington!
Thank you Janny!
Wow. Poignant.
Thank you Tricia!
Amazing Sharon! So full of emotion capturing these trying times. ❤️ Well done!
Definitely tugs at the heartstrings while painting a very clear picture of the day to day internal and external struggles our frontline workers are facing . It shows their humanity , which sadly can be forgotten or pushed aside in times like these.
Very well written Sharon!
Thank you so much Carol-Ann!
My favorite part: Like armor, it protects her from the virus; at least to some extent. And like a veil, it blurs her emotions. Smiles are lost behind the fabric; encouraging words are muted. Tears slide quietly down behind, disappearing quickly from view and the questions that naturally follow. The mask hides her fear, sadness and despair in not being able to save every patient. The storm of emotion that churns behind the thin piece of fabric finds its release only in this stairwell, her refuge – This is just a stunning paragraph.
What a close-up look into this world of the ICU. I love the place of refuge, the stairwell. Your descriptions are vivid, painfully so. Thank you for writing and for posting.
Anita, thank you so much for reading and for your remarks. Truly love the positive comments! I am gaining more confidence with each one:-)
Be well!
This is so heartfelt. Truly a story for our age. I hope it becomes a story to look back on in future times as an historical footnote. Very well written, Sharon.
Darrell, thank you for taking the time to read it. I truly felt it was a necessary piece – while we were safe and sound in our homes watching the storm rage from afar, our health care front line workers were in the midst of it all. This was just my tribute to recognition of their sacrifice.
Be well!
Love this Sharon! You are a lovely writer!
Thanks Sharon, I really enjoyed the words you used to paint a vivid picture of the physical and emotional landscape.
Hi Sharon – your penultimate paragraph was your big pay off and pulled everything together so well.
Very well observed internal voice with nuanced and insightful observations.
Your writing was tight and precise.
Very well done
Thank you so much for taking the time to read my story Ray! Your remarks mean a lot!
Thank you for that affecting story. You did a great job of showing the exhaustion and the determination.
Susan, thank you for reading it!
Sharon, you are awesome! Loved the way you ascribed the (very well deserved) traits of courage and bravery to all medical providers in this crisis through the actions and feelings of just one. I wish there was some way to truly and concretely commend and reward everyone in healthcare who has taken part. You all have sacrificed so much, and I just feel we can’t thank you enough for your work and dedication way above and beyond. Your writing honors both the suffering patients and the providers struggling to give some measure of comfort and hope. I think you’ve opened quite a few eyes with your elegant piece, and I hope you’ll continue your amazing work and keep writing!
wow. this story really lets you into the mind of how nurses are dealing with this whole pandemic. i think it’s easy for people (especially people like me) to become desensitized to it, but you did a great job of bringing emotions to the forefront. the whole thing about her mask hiding her emotions got to me a bit since it’s very true. you can’t really see how someone is feeling if half their face is covered. congrats on getting an honourable mention by the way!
Ellis, thank you. So true isn’t it? I find there is a feeling of disconnect when out in public. Everyone was sheltering in place at home in the early days. Now we shelter in place and isolate ourselves behind our masks wherever we go. A necessary but sad reality. Thank you for reading. (P.s. I think I may have responded to someone else in your comment field. Sorry about that)
Sharon Hetherington
Stephanie, my apologies for the late reply. Thank you so much for your kind words of encouragement. I am not a front-line worker myself but I truly believe that we should hold them in high regard. They are the glue that is holding the world together right now and too many are paying the price for their sacrifice. I hope this reaches at least a few so that they know they are valued and appreciated.
Thank you again!
Sharon Hetherington
Stephanie, my apologies for the late reply. (and I picked up the wrong comment field so my reply to you went to someone else..oops! Here it is again)
Thank you so much for your kind words of encouragement. I am not a front-line worker myself but I truly believe that we should hold them in high regard. They are the glue that is holding the world together right now and too many are paying the price for their sacrifice. I hope this reaches at least a few so that they know they are valued and appreciated.
Thank you again!
Sharon Hetherington
Wow. Your story touched my heart. I have a sister in Bradenton Fla that works in a nursing home. She’s RN. Beautiful story. Touching and deep. You nailed it
Marcia, thank you! My apologies for the late reply. Florida is going through some very rough water these days. Please wish your sister well for me and thank her for her incredible service.
Stay healthy!
Sharon Hetherington
Well done, Sharon. Well done. I especially like the mask as armor and the stairwell as the safe place where she could decompress before reentering the war zone. Congratulations on your Honorable Mention.
Cathy, thank you so much! I’m glad you enjoyed my story. I am just getting ready to enter the fall contest, so hopefully I will have a new story to share soon!
Sharon Hetherington
I cried too. Thank you.
Hi Sheila, I cried watching the news stories that inspired this. It was the perfect theme for me as I felt compelled to be a voice for many.
Thank you for reading.
Sharon Hetherington
So well written. No longer working in the clinical setting, I was an RN in the critical care arena for a long time. I was able to picute everything. Your writing is beautiful, lyrical. I aspire to write this way one day.
Sheilah, thank you so much! I am sure you can do it. I was the kid (way back when:-)) who none of the family remembers teaching to read or write…I just always knew. I remember sitting in the teacher chair reading The Ugly Duckling to my kindergarten class and I think that’s where it all started!
I’m glad my story resonated with you, but sad for the circumstances that inspired it. Thank you for your years of service as an RN.
Be well,
Sharon Hetherington