Just Another Lockdown Love Story

 

April 2020, a New York City hospital, Emergency Department

“Hello, nurse, may I speak with my mother Marcia Thomas, please? My name is Braden Thomas. I am calling from London. Please, please do not hang up on me!”

This was just one of the many calls I received that day from family members trying desperately to reach out for any news about the patients in our care. Covid-19 was at its peak, and visitors were restricted in our ER, unless the patient was in imminent danger of death.

The staff had been fielding calls from families who were unable to stay with their loved ones at the bedside. It was a warzone, and we were the warriors trying to save the patients. But the families were anxious, helpless, and despondent for updates about their loved ones.

This call was different. The caller’s voice was a deep baritone with a British accent, and he spoke with an anguished tone. It was an overseas call that was forwarded to the landline near the nurses’ station in the ED. His mother was lying in Room 2 in isolation.

Mrs. Thomas was admitted to the ER last night after she complained of shortness of breath while visiting her younger sister in Manhattan.  The 78-year-old former teacher had lived with her grown children in England since immigrating there in her teens.

I was done giving my report for the night shift charge nurse. All I could think of was to take off my scrubs, clean up, sanitize my things, and then go back home. I needed to sleep; I needed to come back tomorrow for another heartbreaking day of patients getting sick with Covid-19. I had to come back to help my team care for patients who were struggling to breathe and stay alive. I had to be there to help intubate the patients, to give them a fighting chance against this dreaded disease that came from nowhere.

I was tired, but the voice touched me. I thought of my own parents back home in the Philippines (thankfully safe in isolation), so I couldn't transfer the call to the night charge nurse, who was busy fielding other calls for help. He was calling from England and wanted to speak to just anybody about his mom. I decided to go beyond that—one last task for the day. I donned my isolation gown again and entered Room 2.

Mrs. Thomas was breathing better on high-flow oxygen. She was supposed to be going to an admission bed, but there was no available inpatient bed. She would not have recognized me with my mask, face shield, and surgical cap, but she smiled when I spoke.

“My sweet nurse Adriane, I thought you left for the day.” She remembered my “shining almond-shaped brown eyes” because I spent a few minutes comforting her when she became tachycardic from her panic attack.

I brought my personal phone with me so that she can FaceTime with her son. The other iPADs were being used to arrange FaceTime conversations with other families. I had my cellphone enclosed in clear plastic. Just before I entered the room, I gave the son a quick update on her mom’s status as per the doctor’s notes. I did not think of privacy violations; this was a distraught son who needed some news. I told myself it would be the last time I would use my personal phone in that way.

“Well, I have a surprise for you, Mrs. Thomas.”

The phone rang on cue, behind me, and I brandished my surprise.

The look on Mrs. Thomas’ face when her Braden appeared on the screen was priceless. I steeled myself from crying. The night before, I had an emotional phone call with my Nanay and Tatay in the Philippines. I was worried about them and bemoaned the fact that I live another world away from my family. 

Mrs. Thomas motioned for me to look at the phone screen. Her son Braden’s gray eyes twinkled back at me, with relief in his eyes at seeing his Mum still alive.  Dark brown hair, five o’clock shadow, aquiline nose. All he could see of me was my eyes behind the mask and the face shield.

The call only lasted 3 minutes; Mrs. Thomas was tired. That was my last good deed of the day. The patient was waiting for her inpatient bed.

The next morning, I received a text message from Braden Thomas.

“Can I call you, please? I can’t get through her new floor.”

I debated whether to respond. I had a full load of patients, and I just got relieved for lunch break. My nurse manager pushed me out the door; she wanted me to take time to breathe.

I took a quick bite of the sandwich sent for the staff by a nearby restaurant, but I was worried about Mrs. Thomas. I detoured back to 9^th floor where Mrs. Thomas was admitted. I was able to get a quick update from her nurse. Mrs. Thomas was sleeping after a difficult night, but she was doing better. Her vital signs were good, and her oxygen saturation remained high.

I ran to a small park near the cathedral, located just one block from the hospital. The hospital staff had been using it to get some much-needed fresh air, away from the misery and helplessness of fighting a virus that was unknown to all. The employees were socially distancing from each other, even in the park, sitting several benches apart.

I called Braden, mindful of the 5-hour difference between New York and London. The 12 o’clock sun shone brightly as I sat on a bench in the secluded park. Braden answered on the second ring, “Thank you, Adriane, for calling me. I am so worried.” He turned on the video call.

Braden’s face lit up when he heard my news about his mum. His beautiful gray eyes teared up, as he visibly trembled, then shook his shoulders to control the rush of emotions. I took my mask off to wipe my eyes and nose as well.

Braden blurted out, “You have the most beautiful brown eyes, Adriane”. We both blushed, and he stammered an apology. “Oh, so sorry, I didn’t mean to be so forward.”

I just smiled. I felt self-conscious, so I was thinking of how to end the conversation.

Probably sensing my discomfort, Braden smacked his forehead comically, “Duh, please don’t hang up yet, Adriane. Sometimes, I’m a klutz.” He cleared his voice and earnestly added, “I just want to express how grateful I am for your help with my mum. It must be difficult to be harangued by desperate sons like me. At this time, you and the other healthcare workers are the heroes the world needs.”

I looked up at the clear, blue sky above. It looked like a typical day, but inside the hospital, it was a frantic shift as the staff raced against time to save the patients.

“It is overwhelming sometimes.” My voice broke.

“How do you cope? Do you want to talk about it?”

I did not know how I managed to unburden the deep, aching sadness in my heart. His words opened the floodgates of emotion. I cried for the loss of my patients, and even some friends who succumbed to the disease. I told him of my parents in the Philippines, who quarantined themselves in the province, with only my brother’s family to take care of them.

My roommates, who were recruited by the hospital a few years ago, like me, try to comfort each other. The first time we talked about our patients, we all ended up crying for several hours. The trauma was affecting our mental and emotional health. To survive, we had to forget the horrors we witnessed at work. When it got too much, the nurses agreed on the phrase "I need my five minutes"; that was our cue that we needed time to cry, sometimes in the lounge, sometimes in an empty office.

It was with an unspoken agreement that my friends and I focused on different distractions after that. I binged on K-drama and music videos from my favorite supergroup, BTS. My friend Ella became obsessed with plants; we called her “plantita”. June started running through the deserted Manhattan streets. She said that she’s running away from Covid-19.

“Adriane, you don’t know me, but I feel I know your heart. You have a great deal of love for your patients. Please consider me a friend. Call me whenever you need to talk.”

Braden was like an unpaid therapist, offering words of comfort and support. It has become a weekly ritual. He worked remotely at home as a computer analyst, so his hours were flexible. He couldn’t travel to care for his mom in New York; the world was on lockdown. He was my lifeline when I needed someone to just listen.

That was five years earlier. Over the years, we continued talking over the phone.  Braden’s mother survived her Covid-19 ordeal and opted to relocate to Florida with her sister.

Today, I call London my home. I have my one-year-old son and three-year-old daughter cuddling next to me, while my husband Braden is cooking his specialty Pork Sinigang, which he learned from me. He is a much better cook than me.

Oh, he's also a BTS fan like me. Life Goes on.