Someone asked me to translate Mirela’s firsthand account. I wept as I did, as I had wept when I first read it in Italian. My wife of 31 years is also a nurse. Mirela’s account is raw, compassionate, heart wrenching and heart breaking. I lose it every time I re-read the words she addresses to incoherent “Mario”: “Look me in the eyes! Do you see them? Trust me. You’re in good hands.” This is what health care workers are doing and experiencing. This is what Covid patients are suffering and experiencing. I’m praying for Mirela’s unit and for many others. My prayers include that this pandemia would drive many health care workers to God for forgiveness of sins and eternal refuge in Christ. Please join me in praying for health care workers in Florence, Italy and in your country. God bless you…and may God bless Mirela and all other health care warriors! We are their debtors.
Here’s Mirela’s account. At the very end of this post I’ve provided the link to her original post. Here on the other had is the link to my English version facebook post.
“Today we woke up “Mario”, gradually reduced sedation, as far as lung parameters go he’s ok. We take out the tube (no tracheotomy had to be done)…. Mario slowly regains consciousness, slowly all the Propofol works out of his system, he’s apparently calm, lucid and, as much as possible, has his bearings, given the situation.
We come close to him with a doctor who explains to him whole story, which briefly summarized is. He came to our Covid ICU on March 18 from nearby Pistoia, where he had been in ICU more or less since March 8. Basically a month ago. He nods and seems to have understood correctly. He seems calm and cooperates with me every time I give him meds, take samples and check parameters. We have a brief dialogue every time I attend to him, talking about his children, his work and his wife. And I talk a little bit about myself: who I am, what my name is, why we are dressed like we are. A few brief words.
About 11 pm, with the soft light of the corridor, Mario is agitated and starts calling with his eyes bulging. He’s desperate. “Enough of all this. I’m going insane. Take all these things out of me, including this catheter. Everything! I want to be at home, with my son. Who are you all? Where am I? What am I doing here? What did I do? I’m calling the police. I’m reporting you all! You can’t keep me here!”
“Mario”, I say to him calmly. Listen to me. I know you can’t see me. I know things don’t seem as I’m describing them to you. I’m a nurse, he’s a doctor, even though to you we look like astronauts or aliens. Look me in the eyes! Do you see them? Trust me. You’re in good hands. These good doctors saved your life. You were very sick. You’re going to be back with your son soon.” I squeeze his hand. But with three pairs of gloves on it’s hard to transmit warmth, and to reassure and encourage him. My faced is covered with two masks, googles and a face shield. I’m dressed head to toe in a hazmat suit. For him I’m a mummy, a ghost!
I want to cry when I think that when these people come to after a month of agony, they see mummies, ghosts walking around their beds, each one concerned with the task they’re carrying out. These mummies come into the room, go out of it, and don’t say much. You don’t understand them. It’s hard to hear them. You don’t see their smiles, their tears, their sweat, their anger, their pain….
Then next to him there’s another patient. We weren’t able to save him, even though we had attempted everything imaginable.
5 April 2020, Covid 19”
Seguimi su Facebook: Pietro Ciavarella
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*Ecco il sermone di domenica scorsa su Romani 1:16-17.
Se sei una donna, per te c’è anche lo studio biblico per le donne di mia moglie Silvia