Kimberly Tranchita
Chicago, Illinois, United States

April 2020

I hug my family and leave for work in the ED. No cars on the road. I stop at McDonald’s to get my free “frontline worker” cup of coffee. I no longer bring my own coffee or anything else to work in an attempt to limit the germs I might bring home. In the car, I am steeling my nerves for the day ahead. I get to the hospital and use my badge to unlock the back door. I use my badge to get clean scrubs out of the machine. They are threadbare from washing with the hospital linen and are not flattering. I cover my hair with a scrub cap, cover my eyes with goggles, put on a surgical mask, and leave the locker room.

I check in at the charge desk and get my assignment. I take my temperature and record it in a log. 97.4 degrees—“Just like my cold heart,” I say every day. I arrive early and take a quick walk around the hospital. Eleven flights of stairs and a half mile clears my mind for the day. I check in with my colleagues. They are tired, they have problems at home, they are swearing. A code starts in one patient room. I am trained by an administrator to prepare to make phone calls this weekend to let patients know their COVID-19 test was positive. I get paged. It is a sexual assault.

I speak with the paramedics about the case. I walk the patient back to the room. I introduce myself and lift my mask just for a second so she can see there is a just a girl underneath the mask. She tells me what happened. It is the first time she is telling anyone this tragic story. I keep a straight face and take notes no matter what I think about what she is telling me. I know that anything I say or do might be remembered by her in a negative way. I tell her, “I’m sorry this happened to you. I believe you.”

The police come to make a report, and they are aggressive with me and the patient. I position myself between them and the patient, and I interject a few times to control and pace the conversation, attempting to make it less like an interrogation. I add shoe covers and a plastic gown to my protective gear and begin the exam and evidence collection. I photograph every inch of her body, including intimate parts. I take swabs, label each piece of evidence with time, date, and my name, over and over, about a dozen times. I tell her, “You’re doing great. We’re almost done.” When she finally goes home, it is 5 hours later. I seal the evidence and transfer it to the evidence technician from the police department. I eat lunch. It was donated from the community and a friend set it aside for me a few hours ago. I go back to my previous assignment.

I have five patients. One is a car accident; nothing is broken, she goes home. One is a sprained ankle. X-ray, crutches, and she is discharged home. The other three are all Persons Under Investigation (PUI). The doctor orders a COVID test for all of them. I add an N-95 mask to my other protective gear and don a face shield over my goggles. I put on a plastic gown over my scrubs. I have a buddy check my gear and tie my back. I breathe in and out a few times to check for leaks. I put two pairs of gloves on.

It is the same routine in each room. Put the patient on the monitor, EKG leads, pulse oximeter, blood pressure cuff, and program it all to cycle every 30 minutes. I start an IV and draw blood so lab does not also have to be exposed. I swab the back of their throat with two different swabs. I put them on oxygen, get them a pillow, blanket and tuck them in. I hand them the phone and tell them the doctor will call from outside the room. I run the IV tubing with extra-long tubing and place the pump outside the room, so as the doctor adds on medications I won’t have to go back in, trying to limit my exposure.

By the time I’m done with all three patients and have my buddy take off the protective gown, my scrubs are soaked with sweat. I take my gloves off next and sanitize my hands. Then my mask, face shield, and goggles come off. I put them all under the UV light box for two minutes to sterilize them. While I wait, I drink as much water as I can.

When my shift is over, I give report on my patients to the night shift nurse. I take my temperature again and enter it in the log. I take off the hospital scrubs in the locker room and put on my street clothes. I return the hospital scrubs to the machine and walk over to the hospital gym. I shower in the empty locker room. I am alone and it is completely silent. After my shower I look at my face in the mirror, I still have grooves on my face from the N-95. I get dressed in street clothes and go home. I cry in the car for no particular reason. I leave my hospital shoes on the porch outside and hope to leave the germs and the rest of it there too.