Some of my written work was recently published as part of a writing project about Covid-19. The book, titled “Creative Writing for Healthcare Workers”, was produced in order to encourage creative writing as a wellbeing exercise for healthcare workers, to support them with the challenges of working through a pandemic. 

My main contribution, a poem, captured my experience of working in a Covid-19 hospital ward during the pandemic. Initial apprehensions about sharing my written work were quickly replaced by a total sense of vulnerability. Despite knowing that the readers of the book would empathise with my work, I felt as though I lacked the authority to verbalise our collective trauma (as it happened though, the final decision* ended up being out of my hands).

Looking back, it all seems so very unbelievable. Sometimes, I would be the only doctor allocated to the ‘red zone’. Often, I felt out of my depth, and emotionally overwhelmed by the things awaiting me. Periodically, I still hear the beeping of the machines, and the fine hum of my respirator as I would try to regulate my breathing. I think about the conversations we had, mostly over the telephone; surreal and devastating. Breaking bad news over, and over, and over again.

The truth is, I don’t feel I will ever be the same. I have seen a new fragility to life, which makes me want to live even more. I find my comfort zone too comfortable, and my fears are frustrating restraints. I don’t want to spend my days on autopilot. I want to be better, even in a small way, each and every day. 

I don’t yet know what my life will hold, nor am I in a rush for years to pass. What I do know, is that my healing has already begun, and I will do everything I can to continue it. 

*I had asked for some unnecessary modifications to be reversed before I would sign the consent form, but unfortunately, I never received a response. I realised once the book had been published, that they had proceeded to print my (modified) poem. I guess now I know how artists feel!