I spent nearly two hours this morning with my patient in a COVID room. The patient was intubated, sedated, chemically paralyzed & the room was silent lest for the hum of my PAPR.

I cleaned the room, gave medications through a feeding tube, drew blood cultures using an ultrasound, emptied drains & changed dressings. Through all of that, I explained every step to my quiet patient, even though they were sedated, because I’d want someone to explain it to me.

It’s in these quiet times, tucked away in the room alone but together with an unconscious patient, that I feel the most grateful to do this work. The patient is entirely vulnerable. Their families have the ultimate trust in us. And I don’t take any of this lightly.

So often lately with COVID patients we can prolong the process, delaying what feels like an inevitable death. We use every tool we have, and they still die. Those who survive seem almost like a lucky surprise. It’s a new kind of grinding, unrelenting exhaustion.

So in these quiet moments when alarms aren’t blaring, families aren’t sobbing on FaceTime, patients aren’t coding & the room is bathed in a dim peacefulness despite the circumstances, I appreciate it. Death may come, but not right now. Today, that has to be enough.