As a journalism student it is difficult to write about oneself, it’s discouraged really. However, as a student, single parent, essential healthcare worker, potentially high-risk individual in the middle of a pandemic, I am compelled to share my story.
My name is Isae Grullon. I am 33 years old. I am the mother of a 14-year-old high school freshman who is currently taking classes online. Her voice lessons are now virtual via Skype. Since October we have been going to dance practices twice weekly for her cousin’s quinceañera. It was supposed to be in May but has been postponed for now.
I am a journalism student at NECC, expected to graduate in the spring of 2021.The pandemic hit the US just a few weeks before spring break. Spring break came and went, and we never resumed our normal schedules. It’s taken some time and some discipline but online is how we will see this semester through.
“Unit Coordinator” is my title at Massachusetts General Hospital. My role is considered essential and unable to be done remotely. At work, policies and protocols seem to change nearly every day. Each shift brings something new to process. Initially it was just hand hygiene and social distancing or “physical distancing” as the president of MGH prefers to call it. On March 19th visitors went from being limited to restricted and only allowed into the hospital under very special circumstances. By the end of March, we all had to wear masks and sanitize our hands before getting past one of the four entrances that were open to only employees.
On April 1st, the COVID Pass app was implemented. We must log in every day before our shifts to confirm that we remain symptom free. When we walk in to the building we must be prepared to show security our ID badge and our COVID Pass. Then and only then are we allowed to move on to the hand sanitizing and mask stations. April 1st was also the day my unit started taking on patients who are waiting on their results but aren’t well enough to be sent home from the emergency room. Those that test positive are moved to other floors designated for positive patients. Patients with negative results are discharged if safe to do so or sent to floors where only confirmed negative patients are being cared for other issues. April 1st…. what an ironically cruel joke.
I am told MGH is all over the news. Friends text me with their concerns. I remain willfully unaware. It’s hard to watch the news when you are actively living the biggest news story every day. Although I am a unit coordinator and do not have direct contact with patients, I feel like I carry the weight of the floor in my bones. By the end of each shift my ribs hurt, my back aches and the toll of deep breathing through my mask in an effort to control my anxiety is evident. I leave the building and can’t remove my mask fast enough. It’s relief and dread all in one because now I’ll go home and remove my clothes and shoes in the hall, get in the shower, wipe down my purse and hope I’ve gotten rid of any trace of disease that could have potentially entered my home. After, and only after this process can I hug my daughter who eagerly awaits her mother’s embrace. She’s 14 and theoretically old enough to understand but she is a sensitive child who likes to hug everyone she is fond of. In the beginning it was difficult, but she is getting used to our new routine.
Some days, while I try to escape in my own mind, I go back to December 31st. While everyone was celebrating the new year, “2020 is going to be amazing!”, I was alone in a hospital room contemplating my new diagnosis of multiple sclerosis; a new autoimmune issue to add to the ones I already had. 2020 was so full of hope. It was the year of “perfect vision”. This was going to be the year everyone got their life together. It was actually quite a rough start to the year: so many deaths, narrowly missing the start of WWIII. I’m sure many folks out there regret uttering, “this can’t get any worse”. It’s mid-April…just look at us now. Hope is but a distant memory of tomorrow.
