Weathering a gathering storm

Hey there, time traveller!
This article was published 07/04/2020 (2391 days ago), so information in it may no longer be current.

A long three weeks ago the reality of COVID-19 arriving in Winnipeg was starting to hit home. We knew a plague was coming, and we were in its path. Ordinary affairs of the business day were already beginning to get complicated. Restaurants were closing, traffic thinning, buses emptying, and masks began to appear.

In the hospital where I work as a spiritual health practitioner — an essential service — things were changing, too. Visitors were restricted and “social distancing” was becoming a thing. Possibilities for further disruption were downright palpable and the dangerous unknown loomed like a threatening cloud.

As the hospital became quieter and emptier, staff prepared for what was coming. We learned to respect “physical distancing,” and a flurry of behind-the-scenes activities focused on making routine care both safer and practical. Memos proliferated.

It was especially strange to see a mostly empty ER waiting room. That rare sight highlighted the pervasive feeling of a calm before the storm — a face of confidence furrowed by an undercurrent of apprehension.

As days passed, many were wondering what information could be trusted. Questions about clinical and cleansing procedures arose constantly. Personal worries could not be ignored. Will I be able to stay safe? What innocent act of my own might accelerate contagion?

Last week, the virus finally arrived. Confirmed cases of COVID-19 struck both patients and staff, and the number of likely suspects grows by the day. It’s going to get worse before it gets better.

The clampdown on visitors is very disheartening to most patients. It is particularly tough on people in critical and end-of-life situations. Families are now routinely required to remain separate from each other in their hours of deepest need and distress, and situations that pit pandemic constraints against human compassion are multiplying.

The children of one critical patient, for example, were not permitted to be at the bedside until their parent’s health had so declined that death was inevitable. Only then could family members be present. They missed their loved one’s last lucid moments.

These situations are hard on staff as well as family. They represent a place where people with soft skills (including social workers and spiritual health practitioners) have a growing role to serve.

We are helping to bring technology (e.g. iPads and Zoom) to bedsides so families can at least see and hear their loved ones. And we are doing our best to ensure that no patient is unduly lonely, and that no-one dies alone.

We’re not expecting these circumstances to improve anytime soon. An enormous tide of human misery is starting to roll through, and even as we make our preparations this perilous virus is churning an emotional swath through our ranks. The prospect of contagion enshrouds us all. We are front line.

The mood now reminds me of a big roller coaster. We’re at the beginning of the ride. It’s an excruciatingly slow, steep ascent where anxiety and excitement blend in agonizing anticipation of the thrill of sudden acceleration and the white-knuckled rush that lasts till the ride is over.

All of us are strapped in a car that’s just reaching the tipping point. We are bracing for a run where the twists, turns and pressures are governed by forces beyond our control. We hope and pray none of us gets tossed, and that every patient and family and staff member will be well-served.

Doug Koop is a Winnipeg-based freelance writer and spiritual health practitioner.

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