surrounded by a deep moat.
“Princess in a tower?” I guess. “Waiting to be rescued?”
She shakes her head. “Fairy tales are bullshit,” Beatriz says. “She’s literally made out of trash and she’s stuck there alone.”
With my fingernail, I carve out a back door to the castle. Then I wind some seaweed around a plastic spoon, dress it in a candy wrapper, and set my figure down beside hers—a visitor, an accomplice, a friend. I look up at Beatriz. “Not anymore,” I say.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
The hardest hit are Hispanics and Blacks. They’re the essential workers, the ones who are in the grocery stores and mailrooms and fuck, even cleaning the hospital rooms we’re using. They take public transportation and they’re exposed to the virus more frequently and there are often multiple generations living under one roof, so even if a teenage Uber Eats driver contracts Covid and doesn’t show symptoms, he might be the one who kills his grandfather. But what’s even worse is—we’re not seeing these patients until it’s too late. They don’t come to the hospital, because they’re afraid ICE is hanging out here, waiting to deport them, and by the time they can’t breathe anymore and they call an ambulance, there’s nothing we can do.
Today I watched a Hispanic lady who’s part of the cleaning crew at the hospital wipe down a room. I wondered if anyone’s bothered to tell her to strip in her entryway when she gets home and shower before she lets her kids hug her.
We finally got a new shipment of PPE. But it turns out that instead of N95 masks, which is what we really need, they sent gloves. Thousands and thousands of gloves. The guy who accepted the delivery is the chief of surgery and every resident I know is terrified of him because he is so intimidating, but today, I saw him break down and cry like a baby.
We have a new trick: proning. It’s tummy time, for adults. Its mortality benefit has been around in studies since 2013, but it’s never been used as much as it is now. We do it for hours, if the patient can take it. The way your lungs work, when you’re on your belly they have more room to expand and the blood flow and airflow are equilibrated enough to hold off intubation for a while. We’ve learned that patients can seem to tolerate a huge decrease in air exchange so now instead of only looking at the numbers for gas exchange, we look to see which patients are worn out from breathing, and they’re the ones who get intubated. That’s the good thing. The bad thing is that if someone decompensates, and needs intubation after a trial of no intubation, they will certainly die, because when lungs are already damaged by quick breathing, by the time they’re ventilated, it’s too late. We are basically playing Russian roulette with people’s lives.
One of the three patients of mine that died today was a nun. She wanted last rites and we couldn’t find a priest who was willing to come into the room and administer them.
Sorry if there are typos—I keep my phone in a Ziploc bag when I’m at the hospital. I’m wiping down the bills that come in the mail. A nurse told me she washed her broccoli with soap and hot water. I can’t remember the last time I ate a cooked meal.
I wish I knew for sure that this was getting through to you.
And I wish you’d answer back.
Dear Finn,
I wish I could tell you how badly I’m trying to reach you, although the fact that I can’t is sort of the point. Remember how we thought it would be so romantic to be shut away from the outside world? It doesn’t feel that way when I’m alone on the outside, banging to be let back in.
It makes for some pretty weird self-reflection. It’s like I am in some parallel universe where I am aware of other things going on, but I can’t respond or comment or even be affected by them. LOL, is the world even turning, if I’m not really a part of it?
The girl I told you about, she says that being
“Princess in a tower?” I guess. “Waiting to be rescued?”
She shakes her head. “Fairy tales are bullshit,” Beatriz says. “She’s literally made out of trash and she’s stuck there alone.”
With my fingernail, I carve out a back door to the castle. Then I wind some seaweed around a plastic spoon, dress it in a candy wrapper, and set my figure down beside hers—a visitor, an accomplice, a friend. I look up at Beatriz. “Not anymore,” I say.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
The hardest hit are Hispanics and Blacks. They’re the essential workers, the ones who are in the grocery stores and mailrooms and fuck, even cleaning the hospital rooms we’re using. They take public transportation and they’re exposed to the virus more frequently and there are often multiple generations living under one roof, so even if a teenage Uber Eats driver contracts Covid and doesn’t show symptoms, he might be the one who kills his grandfather. But what’s even worse is—we’re not seeing these patients until it’s too late. They don’t come to the hospital, because they’re afraid ICE is hanging out here, waiting to deport them, and by the time they can’t breathe anymore and they call an ambulance, there’s nothing we can do.
Today I watched a Hispanic lady who’s part of the cleaning crew at the hospital wipe down a room. I wondered if anyone’s bothered to tell her to strip in her entryway when she gets home and shower before she lets her kids hug her.
We finally got a new shipment of PPE. But it turns out that instead of N95 masks, which is what we really need, they sent gloves. Thousands and thousands of gloves. The guy who accepted the delivery is the chief of surgery and every resident I know is terrified of him because he is so intimidating, but today, I saw him break down and cry like a baby.
We have a new trick: proning. It’s tummy time, for adults. Its mortality benefit has been around in studies since 2013, but it’s never been used as much as it is now. We do it for hours, if the patient can take it. The way your lungs work, when you’re on your belly they have more room to expand and the blood flow and airflow are equilibrated enough to hold off intubation for a while. We’ve learned that patients can seem to tolerate a huge decrease in air exchange so now instead of only looking at the numbers for gas exchange, we look to see which patients are worn out from breathing, and they’re the ones who get intubated. That’s the good thing. The bad thing is that if someone decompensates, and needs intubation after a trial of no intubation, they will certainly die, because when lungs are already damaged by quick breathing, by the time they’re ventilated, it’s too late. We are basically playing Russian roulette with people’s lives.
One of the three patients of mine that died today was a nun. She wanted last rites and we couldn’t find a priest who was willing to come into the room and administer them.
Sorry if there are typos—I keep my phone in a Ziploc bag when I’m at the hospital. I’m wiping down the bills that come in the mail. A nurse told me she washed her broccoli with soap and hot water. I can’t remember the last time I ate a cooked meal.
I wish I knew for sure that this was getting through to you.
And I wish you’d answer back.
Dear Finn,
I wish I could tell you how badly I’m trying to reach you, although the fact that I can’t is sort of the point. Remember how we thought it would be so romantic to be shut away from the outside world? It doesn’t feel that way when I’m alone on the outside, banging to be let back in.
It makes for some pretty weird self-reflection. It’s like I am in some parallel universe where I am aware of other things going on, but I can’t respond or comment or even be affected by them. LOL, is the world even turning, if I’m not really a part of it?
The girl I told you about, she says that being
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