Key Worker

Another morning. Once again, she walked down the stairs to the platform, clenching her fists and fighting back tears. Her eyes were already red and itchy, but she still dabbed them violently with a tissue. No one must see her crying. That would be so mortifying. Not that there were many people around during lockdown. Only other key workers like her. But still, no one should see her weakness. That would be the Worst. Thing. Ever.

Yesterday at work had been horrible. And the day before. And the days and weeks before that. To be honest, she couldn’t remember a time when things hadn’t been horrible. And to think that this had only started about 4 weeks back. Or was it five? She had lost track of time now. She couldn’t recall a day when patients were not being wheeled in one after the other, with high temperatures, coughing violently and struggling to breathe. She and the other staff seemed to be permanently braced for the worst. She touched the skin behind her ears - it was sore from the rubbing of the elastic band of her mask. The bridge of her nose was bruised and ached with a dull, persistent pain from wearing the protective goggles every day. But compared to the red hot ache in her heart, that was nothing.

She felt her eyes going itchy again, as fresh tears gathered in the corners. She hated herself for feeling so much self-pity. It made her feel weak and cowardly at a time when she knew she should be heroic. But at the end of every day, just the thought of going back to work the following day made her feel nauseous and sent chills down her spine. And every morning, she almost didn’t get on the train as it pulled into the station. Her legs would go heavy, her feet would seem like they were made of lead. Somehow, she would will herself to move forward and get on the train. She would sit down and put her sweaty and clammy hands together. She would fervently hope that the day would be different. That miraculously, the people in the ward would all get better. And no new patients would be admitted. And just like that, it would be over. Ha! Wishful thinking.

Now, as she stood on the platform the same feelings came back. Could she pull a sickie? Why couldn’t she be sick? Sick of the whole situation? Then, she thought of Sharon. Sharon who had been so overwhelmed, that she’d spent the whole afternoon hiding in the cleaning cupboard. Should she add to the pressures that someone like Sharon already felt? Could her department face the workload with another team member missing? She shook her head. She already knew the answer. Mark was already down with corona. And Des didn’t look so good yesterday. You never knew what each night could bring. How many patients would have made it? And how many staff woke up feeling that they were still safe? That the morning hadn’t brought fever, and a continuous cough, like their patients? She shuddered and pulled her jacket closer to her chest. It wasn’t cold - in fact it looked like it was going to be a lovely sunny day when she’d left the house. But there was a chill inside her, one that she couldn’t get rid of, no matter how many scarves and hats she wore and how many duvets she piled on her bed.

She thought about the rest of her team. They were lovely. Always so kind to her even when she was trainee nurse last year, and made a few mistakes. And now if they had time, they were still kind. Incredibly so. She thought of Dr Mark the other day. When she had come into the room where he was having his lunch, her face pale and drawn, after having ‘helped’ a patient who was likely on his last legs, he had stood up and offered her his sandwich. ‘You’re not eating enough, Hannah,’ he said. ‘It’s not that, doctor,’ she replied. ‘It’s Mr Carruthers. You know the lovely old gentleman in bed 17. He reminds me of my grandad. And I’m so scared he won’t make it. He’s going really downhill, really fast.’ There was a catch in her voice which turned into a loud gulp. Dr Mark Preston probably broke some social distancing rule by giving her a hug, but he did it anyway. And then, he gave her his sandwich, and his pot of yogurt. And as he went out he said ‘If he doesn’t make it, it’s not your fault. You did your best. We’re all doing our best. Remember that, if nothing else.’

His words came back to Hannah now and the tears welled up and spilled out onto her cheeks. No stopping them now. There were only two other people on the platform, and both looked like key workers. A man and a woman. Hannah rooted around in her bag for a fresh tissue. Luckily no one had seen the tears yet. Dr Mark was right. Of course he was. Did it make anything any easier for her though? No.

She tried not thinking about Mr Carruthers. Now now. Please God, not now. She didn’t know how the night had been for him. Did it blanket him with warmth and comfort? Or did something cold and sinister come to his bedside and steal him away? She shuddered.

Over the last few weeks she had personally lost so many in her care. And on most days there were more people going out dead, than coming in sick. It didn’t bear thinking about. Had she been equally upset for all of them? Yes of course. ‘Upset’ was a mild word for what she was feeling. But there was also something different about Mr Carruthers. It wasn’t as if he looked anything like her grandad. But he felt like him. The way he seemed to split her name into two distinct syllables - ‘Han’ ‘Ah.’ And the ‘Ah’ was full of the joy and delight of discovering something for the first time. Like the first taste of a new flavour of ice cream, or the surprise of a candy with a soft centre. There was a loving delight in that. Hannah had missed that since her grandad died last year.

She looked up at the display – just two minutes before the train arrived. She must not think about gramps or Mr Carruthers any more. But her mind had other ideas. Just like a sugar addict who says that she must not think about the biscuits in the kitchen, but finds herself with her hand in the cookie jar, again and again, Hannah’s mind kept going back to Mr Carruthers. How he’d arrived at the hospital from the care home 6-7 miles away, one of a group of 13 elderly residents who had been attacked by the dreaded virus. He had looked so disorientated. She looked at his records - no Alzheimers, but a history of dementia and some memory loss. He looked like a lost child, often referring to his Betsy…a daughter? Wife? She didn’t know. And that horrible dry racking cough that seemed like it was tearing his insides. By the third day his fever had escalated and his breathing had become ragged. She could hear, and feel, the pain every time he inhaled. Like a caged bird desperately trying to escape, but stopped by cruel bars, the air struggled to make its way out of his lungs. And the wait – the long wait – for more ventilators. But no new ones arrived and in the end Mr Carruthers only got one when someone in the next ward passed away. Hannah shook her head. Did it have to be like this? In a world of so much abundance why was there so much shortage? She didn’t know. She didn’t get angry about it like some of the others at the hospital. She couldn’t go on marches and write long angry emails. She just hoped and prayed things would change, that they would somehow get better. She had no idea how, though.

The train arrived, and Hannah got on. By now she was clearly seeing Mr Carruthers in her mind’s eye. She could almost smell him. The way he raised his head to look at her before she’d left the day before. ‘See you tomorrow Jim,’ she’d said in what she hoped was a cheerful voice, but even to her own ears it had sounded shrill and slightly insincere. She wasn’t sure she would see him again. He had gone rapidly downhill yesterday, and over the last 3 weeks she’d seen many similar cases. It had been a horrible sequence of events, – fighting back tears, fighting for lives, trying to be cheerful, saying the good nights and then the fervent prayers all through the night, – only to be greeted by the sight of the empty hospital bed the next day. Empty for a few minutes, before someone new was wheeled in – and then the battle began, all over again.

And what if, this morning it was the same with Jim Carruthers? What if she went into the ward this morning and instead of that delighted ‘Hann-ah’ – delighted even in spite of his pain, there was nothing? Only silence. Or the raspy breaths of someone else, desperately struggling to hold onto their life?

It’s not like the hospital hadn’t had any successes. They had. But they’d been either young or feisty. Fierce in their resolve to stay on Planet Earth. She feared that Mr Carruthers lacked that initiative. He wasn’t a fighter. More of a dreamer. A wanderer. Would he be able to hold on to his breath, and will it to enter and leave his body at a steady pace? She didn’t know. She wasn’t sure. And it was horrible that she wasn’t sure. It was her job, was it not, to be a source of strength and inspiration for her patients? What if he saw her now? Hannah caught sight of herself on the dark glass of the windows. Her face drawn. Her mouth pinched, her nose white at its tip, no colour on her cheeks, the streaks of tears still very much visible. And the dark, dark, circles around her eyes. Her hollow, empty eyes. They stared back at her in an eerie fashion. She felt a hot flush creep up her spine, but her hands and feet were cold. Ice cold. She suddenly felt dizzy. Was she going to fall off the seat? Faint? Quickly she looked around the carriage. A handful of key workers, all engrossed in their newspapers and phones, one busy staring down at his own shoes.

Then suddenly the train jerked, and Hannah felt a sharp pull on her neck, almost like whiplash. The sharp streak of pain jolted her right out of her thoughts. And even before it faded, she was suddenly aware of a totally new sensation - of the train moving and swaying as it steadied itself and rattled on. Suddenly she could feel every movement of this train, through her feet. It was like she could perceive every single tiny right, left, forward and backward movement through the soles of her trainers, and the balls of her feet. These movements seemed to creep up her leg, through her thighs into her torso, soothing every muscle that it passed through, caressing them with a soft pulsating rhythm. And her entire body, seemed to surrender to this movement. She gave in to the swaying of the train, relaxing into it in a way that she used to as a child, when she was on a swing in the playground. And the thoughts stopped whirring about in her mind. They slowed, then disappeared altogether. And she was able to look around and see a few things for the first time. The pattern on the blue upholstery of the chairs. Was that the London skyline? Was that the London Eye? Really? How come she hadn’t noticed all these years?

Then she looked up. And right there, in her line of vision, was a poster with a little poem. Each line was imbued with such beauty, how come she hadn’t seen it before? She read each word again and again, drinking them in like a thirsty traveller downing a beer at a pub. They filled and infused her brain, just as a bite of gooey chocolate brownie engulfs the tastebuds with warm deliciousness. All the lines were beautiful, but the last three were the most sparkling of them all:

“I shall walk beside all things

Till all things

Come to know me.”

Could she do it too? Yes she could. She would walk beside whoever was in that bed today. Jim Carruthers, or someone else – it didn’t matter. She would walk beside them all. All the patients. All her team. Everyone.

And suddenly, Hannah realised that for the first time in weeks, she was looking forward to her day.