I questioned if I needed to be tested in the first place. I had been working on the night float service admitting patients from the ED– only one who was confirmed COVID positive. Then I developed a mild cough and felt just a little more tired than usual. Out of an abundance of caution, I called my chief, who arranged for testing.
The call came a few days later. She asks me how I’m feeling. “Good, thanks for asking” I reply in my brightest voice. But as the words come out, I hear the tiniest bit of trepidation. She continues, “I’m glad you’re feeling well. I’m calling, however, to let you know that your send-out CoVID testing came back positive…”
The facts of what happened made sense, but I start to question myself, wondering if my body betrayed me. I feel fine, right? Sure, I still have a lingering cough and a little tickle in my throat, but allergy season is starting, and I haven’t started my cetirizine yet. And I’m always more tired on night shift rotations. Then again, I did feel short of breath running up those stairs for the code last night. Don’t be ridiculous – I remind myself – I would be short of breath after running up stairs even on a good day. I make a mental note to hit the gym on my next day off. My husband is awake now and listening quietly next to me.
I stay on the phone as we talk about next steps. I start making a mental checklist, the way I always do when I’m overwhelmed. I will need to stay home and call my chiefs to arrange for coverage. I hate calling in my colleagues from jeopardy and the guilt is already starting to creep in – but yes, I can do that. I will need to quarantine at home, including from my husband who is also a physician and scheduled to work this week. One of us will move into the spare bedroom. I will need to list anyone I was within 6 feet of for more than 10 minutes last week so they can also be quarantined and monitored for symptoms.
With every new name the feelings of guilt, horror, and disbelief multiply. I can accept the consequences of my own actions, but the effects extend well beyond myself: The minutes I stood next to my co-resident as we attempted to place an ultrasound-guided IV in a woman with poor access. The well-intentioned hand on the shoulder when I tried to calm a patient writhing in pain during a sickle cell pain crisis. The computer I may have contaminated while trying to place orders during a code. Each of these moments, inconsequential at the time, come back to haunt me.
How ironic it is that a few weeks ago I wanted nothing more than time off to recuperate after a long stretch of inpatient medicine. Now that my wish is granted, all I want is to go back to work and feel useful in the face of this pandemic. Each night, my brain refuses to shut down despite my attempts to numb it with mindless Netflix shows about tiger kings or distract it with YouTube videos of my favorite celebrity puppies. I tell myself it’s the build-up of weeks of sleep deprivation, but my husband and I both know the truth – it’s the beginnings of anxiety and depression rearing its ugly head, feeding hungrily on my thoughts of self-blame and pity.
I slowly start to tell my close friends and family about testing positive for CoVID, and I’m overwhelmed by the response. Texts and calls flow in with offers to pick up groceries. Care packages full of soups and easy-to-make meals appear on my doorstop. Gift cards for take-out pop up in my inbox. I feel simultaneously grateful and completely undeserving. At a time when others are lining up at the unemployment office, I continue to get a paycheck and now have a fully stocked pantry.
As I lay in bed, preparing for another sleepless night, I hear my husband’s voice echo from the spare bedroom below: “What is the best thing about Switzerland?” “Chocolate?” I answer. “I don’t know, but the flag is a big plus.” I chuckle and hug my pillow a little tighter.
