THREAD:
My son-in-law is a charge nurse in a major hospital trauma center in Arizona. My daughter wrote this on facebook and gave me permission to reprint:

I get a lot of sweet inquiries and sending of support for my husband, a Front Line Hero (FLH) & me these days—as the pandemic keeps building. And to be clear, it is still building. We are still in early days, no matter how tired we might be of dealing with it. The virus

doesn’t care.
I can’t tell you details about FLH’s nights. It’s not my place. And he’s too tired most mornings to share more than the pieces he absolutely must verbalize to let them go enough to settle. So I sit on the front patio with him as he strips down to underwear, puts

his work shoes in a box that stays in the sun for sterilizing and never enters the house. As he tucks his clothes into a cloth bag—these are the second set of scrubs that he changed into at the hospital before coming home, not the ones he wore for his shift—those are already

in the bag. His face has deep grooves on it from the mask he wore all night, a red mark on the bridge of his nose that will still be there when he wakes tonight for his next shift.
I open the door so he touches nothing. The dogs outside barking their impatience to greet him.

I open the dishwasher, the washing machine. He puts the bag of clothes inside and turns it inside out so that the clothes are always contained within the machine. Takes his phone out of the Ziploc bag it’s been in. He will wipe it and his glasses down with alcohol. As he heads

for the shower, touching nothing except with his feet, I start the wash on its three hour sanitize cycle.
I make him breakfast while he showers, scrubbing down. I am grateful every time for all the ways my mom taught me to care for a loved one, for all those

traditionally-feminine (though anyone is welcome to pick them up any time!) skills of loving through cooking and cleaning and listening and creating comfort.
While I cook, , I feel into the emotions and sensations under the matter-of-fact fact sketch he gave me of his night.

The The ambulances that kept coming. The crush of people stuck in the waiting room. The rooms in the Emergency Department full of people who should be upstairs in a hospital bed but aren’t. The person screaming at him because they’ve been waiting for hours in a room full of

other people who have been waiting just as long, or longer, one of whom intervenes to tell the screamer to back off. The fear and impatience that bubbles over into yelling and complaint, into berating FLH and other nurses & staff who can do nothing to fix the situation. The

sick people who keep coming—walk ins and by ambulance. Every time a space opens there’s someone—or someones—to fill it.
And through it all the thread of contagion, his colleagues with the low thrum of worry that perhaps that cough, that shortness of breath is the first

sign of their own illness.
I know how seriously FLH takes his job. I know how important it is to him to take the best possible care of every person who enters the ED. I know how much it matters to him to mentor and comfort the newer nurses, who are full of the desire to get it

right and the fear of getting it wrong. It hurts him to feel helpless. There is little he can do to ease this suffering when it comes in overwhelming numbers. The hospital staff offer their best. But there are only so many of them. This suffering can only be eased by all of us

together.
When at last he’s out of the shower, I offer him pancakes and kisses. He takes his stack of comfort food to the living room, where he will fall asleep with headphones on watching a show, full bellied, head drooping, blinking awake when I check on him, grumpily

asserting that he wasn’t sleeping when I encourage him to go to bed.
Eventually he will sleep, in his actual bed. And I’ll keep dogs and house as quiet as possible, ready his lunch for him to take with him when he wakes, and he’ll head back out the door to do it all again.

Wear your mask. Stay home when you can. Physically distance. Pressure your elected leaders to follow public health experts’ advice—and vote out those who won’t. There is no miracle cure. Just the long slog of all of us doing our best to get the details right in our piece of

it. And the more ways we screw up—whether that’s a product of indifference, ignorance, arrogance, or impatience—the longer we all have to suffer. Because the virus doesn’t care.
********

Please read and RT this just-published NYT Op/Ed. It further describes the horrendous strain on HC workers/infrastructure & threat to the general public from having willfully allowed/encouraged it. https://www.nytimes.com/2020/06/26/opinion/coronavirus-arizona-hospitals.html?fbclid=IwAR0ycEJox-1m-SXFxSEbort4V-wxRtUWYtnBAHWfPr6S_FB9hgk1FDr61lM

This was forecast months ago and seen in European countries. The means to avoid it was defined. Other countries listened.

My daughter contributed her considerable writing talent and first-hand experience to collaborate with Dr. Dreifuss in composing this Op/Ed.