The Flood
We welcome guest blogger, Amy Walsh, MD MDP! Amy is an Emergency Physician in Wisconsin. She is a wife and mother of 2 daughters. She is passionate about emotional and spiritual health for healthcare workers, herbalism, and creative expression. She writes on Substack at The Nettle Witch, MD.
When I was 16, I read The Plague by Albert Camus. I admired Dr. Rieux so much. I wondered if I was made of the same stuff.
The questions are the same. I knock on the door to Room 3, but walk right in. I've heard this story 300 times: fever, cough, trouble breathing, weakness. Two questions in, knock, knock. “Cardiology on the phone for you…” “Regional on the phone for you…” “Hospitalist on the phone for you…” I step out of the room, peel off the gloves, drag off the face shield, lower the mask below my chin, and untie the gown. I pick up the phone.
When the pandemic started, my tiny rural hospital waited. While I was waiting, I wrote letters.
Dear Friend 1,
There is a strange push and pull to life right now, the peace of hands in the dirt and slowness, followed by a frenetic, almost shaking anxiety. Everything changes so fast! We even have easel paper on the wall. Shari scrawls across them in blue Sharpie, bulleted lists, when can you wear an N95 mask, when can you wear a surgical mask, who can get tested, how soon will tests come back. When one sheet is full, she tears it down and tapes the next one up, sometimes four times a day.
I watch what’s happening in New York and Italy. I have wondered if I am the type of person who stays or runs. A small part of me wants to find out.
I hope you get a chance to write back. I’m trying to make the best of this and hoping we can become even closer when this is all over.
If you don’t know what to put in the letter, I’d love to learn:
What are you proudest of?
Where is your favorite place?
What are three values your parents taught you? Mine are self-sufficiency, to try your hardest, to be of service.
We saw refrigerated trucks behind hospitals and pots banging on balconies. We saw New York and Italy stretched beyond breaking while we sat in our ergonomic chairs in ghost towns.
Six months later, the wait was over. We were in the thick of it. It was difficult, but in the comforting way that shared hardship unites people. The system was still set up to mostly support caring for people in the right way.
The next summer, it was “Hot Vax Summer,” the summer everyone else moved on. Many people in our community had omitted the vax part. Younger and younger patients were coming into the hospital sicker and sicker. Delta. We were already exhausted from surge after surge; we had some of the highest rates of COVID infections in the country that winter and spring.
“Sure we’ll take him. We’ll have a bed tomorrow…in two days…” Whatever the diplomatic way of saying, “Fuck if I know when we’ll have a bed,” is.
“Did you ever call and update the family on room 4?” asked Emma.
I never knew what I wanted to be when I grew up, not for long anyway: war-zone photographer, FBI agent, attorney crusading for justice. Looking back now, I can see what I wanted to be: a hero.
“Did you ever receive my letter?” I texted to ask Friend 2.
“No.”
I didn’t believe her.
“Hey, can we get together. I have something I’d like to talk to you about.”
She canceled 2 hours beforehand. She never rescheduled.
“No, do we have a bed for room 9?”
“No, unless we can commit her, we’ll just have to keep calling around every few hours.”
“Room 8 wants to know what’s going on!” I hear from across the hall.
“I’ll talk to them once I update room 6 on her transfer and finally see room 3”
I watch what’s happening in New York and Italy, and I wonder, “Do I have what it takes?”
You will begin to step deeper toward the underworld in these next weeks.
I saw a patient for a problem after a procedure that would get better on its own. I thought he left happy. Two days later, he sent the hospital a letter. He threatened to sue.
“When will room 4 be able to go to the floor? And can you talk to radiology, that x-ray for 2 is taking forever.”
“Hey, I’m hosting a story share for my 40th birthday. It’s part of a healing thing I’m doing. It’s really important to me.” Friend 3 canceled because it was raining at his campsite, and he wanted to go directly home instead of to my house.
A patient you saw died unexpectedly. We will peer review the case. My heart was a rabbit running from a wolf. It darted unpredictable directions, evaded capture, and out of the blue, at inconvenient times collapsed completely.
Tears shoved at my sinuses and panic scrambled from my chest to any unoccupied small caverns it could find. A nurse, my friend, walked by, “Hi Dr. Walsh, how are you?” I turned and the tears streamed down my cheeks. She stepped back, unprepared as she was for a response that wasn’t “Fine.” I blubbered something. She grabbed me by the shoulders, looked me in the eye, “You’re one of the best doctors here. We all love you, ” she consoled. All I had wanted was to feel loved, but it was too little too late.
“Room 3’s breathing is getting worse.” I slide the slick, urine yellow gown over my arms and tie it behind my neck. The first red rubber band stretches and falls underneath my bun, the second above it. The blue-violet nitrile gloves slide over my hands and the white cuff of my gown.
“Urgent Care is sending someone over and PD is coming with an agitated guy from jail,” a nurse hollers over the counter as I pull up my mask and knock on Room 3’s door again.
“How are you guys holding up?” I text Friend 1.
No response. For weeks.
“Thinking of you!”
No response. For weeks.
“Hey, I miss you guys. If I did something to upset you, I’d love to have a chance to clear the air.” No response.
I have wondered if I am the type of person who stays or runs. A small part of me wants to find out.
Beautiful Souls,
You have been called by the Wilds of your Soul, the Ancestors, and the beings of the otherworld, who are courting you to Wales for a Vision Fast Wilderness Vigil this September
The Descent has begun. You will begin to step deeper toward the underworld in these next weeks.
Eventually, I would travel to Wales for the Vision Fast. Even before we set out on our own, the land and waters called to me. Mist of the waterfall kissed, coated my skin. My toe hovered above water guarding against the harsh cold that makes bones ache. With a deep breath, my toes dipped into gentle, smooth, refreshing, cool, awakening, enlivening. Afterward, out on the rock, a gentle, pleasant prickle caressed my skin as it air-dried. Alive with the smell of green, wet. Once again submerged into my own skin.
As I sat by the water, I felt the call for deep rest. My back rested on earth, rain on skin. I laid, I slept, I curled into a spiral, into deep stillness. Longed for but never granted. As I stood by the water, I found a stone that served as a spade. The stone, the shape of a human heart, broke in two pieces in my hands. Were my hands that strong? Was my heart that fragile? As I sat by the water, I prayed. I prayed to Mary in her lightness and her darkness.
The river, which had timidly licked the bottoms of my boots on arrival, shoved forward, then back, thrusting around and through my thighs on my return. On the trail, my Wellington boots carried portable puddles, sliding in external mud puddles, into sharp, tangled arms of gorse and hawthorne. Deep red streaked across light blue shirt, a wool shirt that had merged with my skin. I peeled it away along with everything else until dry blanket and warm fire enveloped me. Cold, wet ropes of hair dripped water between my breasts. A handful of scarlet, navy blue, and so black they are purple berries, sweet and tart gently kissed my lips. Salty, heavy miso pushed my spirit back to earth.
I returned centered, connected to my desire, planning to slowly and gracefully make my exit from medicine. Back at home, the most danceable Disney songs rang out. My daughter’s rainbow skirt twirled around and around. I shook my hips and shimmed around the living room. I grabbed my daughter’s hands and swung her between my legs. My daughters and I celebrated my return from Wales.
An envelope on the island caught my eye.
Dear Dr. Walsh:
This letter is to inform you that a formal complaint has been filed against you with the Minnesota Board of Medical Practice. This letter does not make any claim as to the legitimacy of the complaint. In order for us to investigate…
I asked for a leave of absence because it seemed too drastic, too wild to quit altogether. My boss spoke to me about it.
“Just to be sure,” he said, “are you thinking about hurting yourself?
I didn’t have the words to explain that putting on my scrubs and mask each day felt like self-harm. I didn’t have the words for how that mask, gown and gloves built a cage. My voice, my touch, my spirit were trapped inside, and no one out there could hear me anymore. How do you explain to someone that has done the same job that you needed something different than they did, that you stayed, but you should have run?
