The COVID-19 pandemic has gripped all normalcy in my life by the throat. And kept squeezing.
My mother died on March 20, in a Florida assisted-living facility, unattended by her children. One by one, a cascade of debilitating restrictions suffocated our efforts to join her: a 14-day quarantine for air travelers, no intra-state visitation, and, finally, a complete shutdown.
In her final 48 hours, we even considered moving her to an unrestricted facility, weighing the cost of our comfort against her peace and safety. We finally realized that our determination to be with her had blinded us to the risk that our presence posed to her, her caregivers and the elderly population they protected.
As that hardship settled, I sought to heal my sorrow through service to others and returned my attention to the Southampton Volunteer Ambulance, where I am an EMT-B/Driver.
Here, too, the squeeze was on: The patients we transported weren’t the only ones suffering. My Corps-mates were concerned, apprehensive and drained. As the daily tally of COVID-19 infections and deaths normalized, we realized call-running could be seriously hazardous to our health.
New York State “paused” — gone were the days of the simple slip- and-fall, car crash, and work- or sports-related traumatic injuries, where we followed prescribed protocols and knew where we stood on a call.
The line kept moving, as we assimilated a barrage of new scene and patient protocols, sometimes several a day. Minimize personnel treating a patient; treat every call as a potential COVID-19 case, regardless of dispatch complaint. The patient presenting with an altered mental status might live with a COVID-positive relative who greets us at the door.
Advise patients to consider whether their condition merits emergent care or a consult with their physician. Look out for patients so fearful of potential hospital infection that they disregard life-threatening symptoms and refuse transport. And PPE, PPE, PPE!
My stomach tightened every time my pager toned a “Cough/Fever/Chills” or “Pandemic/Epidemic/Outbreak/Surveillance or Triage” designation. A new mental equation now modified my automatic impulse to respond: Am I placing myself at risk to help my neighbor? Might I bring this back to my family? Is my voluntary service worth the personal risk to me and my family?
To my husband’s relief, underlying health and age risk forced me to recuse myself from running calls, which saved me from a hard look into that moral dilemma.
From the sidelines, I watched the burden I had relinquished fall more heavily upon the shoulders of my friends who now ran even more calls. And the glow of my self-esteem dulled a bit; a trace of shame, an achy regret and a covert relief crept into my bittersweet respect for them. They weren’t simply sustaining our patients — they were carrying me, as well.
By April, we were Zooming meetings and drills, social distancing, masking up at HQ and logging temperatures daily. Duty crews self-assessed prior to shift. Members reported possible exposure to our infection control officer; anyone presenting with fever/cough/chill symptoms self-recused from calls. By then, 25 percent of our call-runners had self-recused due to exposure, underlying health or age risk, to protect high-risk family members, or by employer directive.
We learned nuances of fear. I asked my good friend Sharon Helmsteadt, a gifted EMT and top call-runner, “How do you know when it’s a COVID-19 case?” She said, “Mostly, I see the fear in their eyes, and I know right away. Then, I rely more on my humanity than my medical credentials.”
Some felt the fear from friends, stigmatized by our proximity to COVID-19. Folks might bang their pots and honk their horns, but they didn’t want to get too close to their heroes.
By mid-April, hardship and need presented in new ways. Members lost their jobs, suffered work reduction or found themselves supporting extended families while homeschooling. Many of us are sole providers.
Our families feared for our safety and, by extension, their own welfare. Who would support the family should we fall ill? Does New York State even cover disability relief for front-line responders who fall ill in the line of duty? And, if so, how long would it take that check to arrive?
Now, we had to triage and treat our own. Here was a way I might be able to help. We created a COVID-19 Task Force to provide financial and in-kind assistance to members affected by the pandemic, and to express appreciation to the community. We collected data from members: work, health and call-running status, type and severity of hardship or unmet needs. We asked for help.
The ready and generous response of our community fills my heart and brings tears to my eyes. By May, we excitedly shared a new daily tally — not one of morbidity but of kindness, generosity and hope. Food baskets, meals, plants, homemade masks, donations from individuals, foundations and local businesses now help us provide meals for members and their families, and confidential disbursements to help with hardship.
Embracing COVID-19 has been more than a logistical and team-building process, but a spiritual one, too. Aligning my needs with respect for others. Choosing to manifest abundance over fear. Listening carefully for signs of hardship, often expressed by someone quietly on behalf of another. Expanding the parameters of our generosity and allowing new forms to evolve.
It has been poignant and heartwarming to receive such kindness, and to see how need and generosity walk hand in hand along a two-way street.
This week, I resumed driving.
Adele Kristiansson lives in Water Mill and is an EMT/Driver with the Southampton Volunteer Ambulance, www.townems.org.
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