Yesterday, I found myself contemplating the unthinkable: the need for a will. At just 24 years old, I work as an ICU nurse in New York City, and while I currently enjoy good health, the stark reality of my profession has made the idea of mortality feel more imminent than I ever expected.
Upon graduating from nursing school in 2018, I envisioned a future filled with care and compassion. I had anticipated witnessing death, having experienced enough of it in my first year in the ICU. However, in just the last fortnight, I have encountered more deaths than most people see in a lifetime. The weight of that reality has left me questioning my readiness to confront such loss.
Death has taken on a new meaning; it feels closer than ever. Just last week, a woman reached out, concerned about her mother’s health. Under normal circumstances, she would have received updates from family members, but due to visitor restrictions, I had to deliver heartbreaking news alone. I explained that her mother was beyond saving, and as I shared this devastating truth, I could hear her anguish through the phone. The sounds of despair I once faced in person now echoed from a distance, amplifying my sense of helplessness.
Clutching the essential supplies I needed before entering the room—medications, tubes, vials—I felt the weight of every moment. In these instances, the risk of exposure looms large; any forgotten item could require me to re-enter the room and, in turn, expose myself to the virus. As I stood there, drenched in sweat beneath layers of personal protective equipment, I struggled to find the words to comfort her. How do you apologize for not having enough to give?
While I have been labeled a frontline worker, the reality is that I am often the last resort. Each day, the nurse-to-patient ratio has shifted from two patients per nurse to three or even more in some facilities. I am fortunate to manage three patients on certain days, but the burden of that responsibility can be overwhelming.
ICU nurses are trained to administer care with precision, yet the demands of this pandemic challenge our capacity. Each day, I find myself racing against time, often neglecting the simple acts of kindness—like applying ointment to a patient’s lips—before facilitating virtual visits with families. The emotional toll of these encounters weighs heavily on me.
Sometimes, I become so engrossed in my duties that I struggle to provide basic care for my patients. The reality of the pandemic haunts me even at home, where I scrub my hands raw and disinfect my clothes, desperate to rid myself of the lingering dread that accompanies this disease.
Isolation has never felt so profound. On my days off, I immerse myself in reading about new treatments and trials, yet I often leave work feeling unprepared and inadequate. The sense of failure is pervasive; I don’t feel like I am enough, despite the accolades I receive.
This is why I reject the title of hero. I wear guilt like a shroud, running through twelve-hour shifts with little time to eat or breathe. I grapple with the confusion of what should be considered a blessing—finding moments to nourish myself or simply being alive.
I want to convey that this experience is far from what I expected when I chose to enter the healthcare field. We signed up to save lives, but we never anticipated the risks that accompany this calling. If I were to end up in an ICU bed myself, it would be due to systemic failures in providing adequate protective equipment.
America has failed its essential workers. Despite being lauded as the wealthiest and most advanced country, I find myself peeling off the same N-95 mask after a grueling shift, wondering if it has adequately protected me. Until a viable treatment or cure is found, the crisis will not relent, and the strain on our healthcare system will continue.
This pandemic has laid bare the flaws within our healthcare infrastructure, and I want it to serve as a lesson to us all. I used to tell myself I was too busy to connect with my parents, but now their faces haunt my nightly thoughts. As I witness the struggles of families with dying loved ones, I realize how much I miss my own family.
I have aspirations, a desire for a full life ahead. I want to return to my parents, to share meals and memories, to see my nephew grow, and to build a family of my own. So, I implore you—please, don’t pity me or label me a martyr. Instead, remember this time of isolation and fear. Let it serve as a reminder of what we went through together.
Applaud healthcare workers to ease your conscience, but understand that claps do not change the circumstances we face. This is a plea for change; we must learn and adapt to prevent this from happening again.
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Summary: In this candid account, an ICU nurse reflects on her experiences working during the COVID-19 pandemic. She grapples with the emotional and physical toll of her job, the overwhelming patient load, and the inadequacies of the healthcare system. While she struggles with the label of a hero, she emphasizes the need for systemic change and the importance of remembering this time of crisis.