Life and death.

The days are long. They start early, full of hope.

Getting out of the Jeep in the morning, I breathe free until I walk up to the hospital. Then the paper mask goes on.

Walking up the stairs, my asthmatic lungs protest more each day…but I walk the stairs anyway.

I put my hair in a scrub cap. Wash my hands for the first of dozens and dozens of times.

Behind glasses, only small areas of my face are open to air. I feel anonymous. Adding the face shield, I’m trapped in my own bubble.

I computer chart with my right hand while I hold the hand of a frightened patient with my gloved left hand.

I look deep into the almond eyes of a young girl as I tell her I’m sorry for the unacceptable tragedy that’s come into her life, which will never be the same.

I carry the IV tray into the room and look pointedly into my colleagues eyes as I let the patient know we are starting a couple IV’s, my mind and emotions bracing as we try to get ahead of an emergency.

We work together, masked and gowned, in that taunt reassurance that our carefully modulated voices try to convey, our covered faces the calm before the storm.

Fifteen hours after I first got into the Jeep, I’m heading out of the hospital.

The night is clear and warm. I throw away my mask on the way out, sanitizing my dry hands as I walk away.

I peel away the windows, and pull back the roof. I replace my scrub cap with a ball cap now.

The music I usually listen to is replaced by the wind, rushing freeway speed across my face, whipping my ponytail around my face in a chaotic swirl.

I sigh, breathing in the smells of brackish water as I drive over the bridges, the water still as glass as I race by.

Home now. I take off my shoes and spray them with antiseptic. Piece by piece, I wipe down every object I carry with me with bleach wipes.

I remove my uniform, and place it in the wash. The hot shower and scrub is next.

17 hours after I woke up, I finally kiss my husband as he welcomes me home, and he hands me a plate. I’m eating takeout Chinese that I’m not hungry for, because I still need to eat dinner.

Tomorrow, I’ll do it again.

I long for times before the pandemic. when human touch and expression – so essential! -were taken for granted.

My practice has changed, but the mission hasn’t.

I say things I may have thought or whispered under my breath. I voice my care. I make eye contact – and keep it.

I hope it’s enough.