Louise Curtis: A Nurse's Story

I also thought of the bravery I’d seen from my patients who were going through horrors in circumstances that most people couldn’t have imagined as little as six months previously. The vast majority were brave, kind, wise and charming people. I thought of the older generations who had lived through wars and died without the love and reassurance of their families. I had been there as they inched closer to death’s embrace or even as they had slipped away while I, a stranger, whose face was covered by a mask stripping me of most of my humanity, looked on and held their hand. I was humbled by their dignity and courage.

I also remembered the people who had clung on and been saved against all the odds and wondered what they were doing now. Had they fully recovered? Had their outlook changed after such an experience and what were they doing with their lives?

As for me, all year I’d felt as if I were in the process of doing a somersault underwater and had lost which way was up to the surface. My own life had been rocked by my father’s death and then working through what I hoped would be this once-in-a-lifetime health crisis. For the first time, I’d skirted around and occasionally plunged into a black hole of poor mental health. I knew I wasn’t the only one and wondered what toll this would take on the NHS workforce. I felt pulled in all directions at work but also in my personal life. I couldn’t be there as much as I wanted for my grieving mother.

I looked back at the wild rollercoaster ride that 2020 had been so far and laughed at some of the more bizarre elements of it. Had supermarket shelves across the country really been stripped of all toilet roll? I still couldn’t get my head round that. Had people really said, ‘It’s only a flu, why all the fuss?’ Had the president of the US actually suggested injecting bleach as a cure for Covid-19?

I’d seen how this pandemic had brought out the best and worst in people and it had revealed their true nature with blistering clarity. There had been confirmations of what I thought I knew, but also surprises. I’d been moved to the core by people’s outward celebrations of the NHS and their gratitude. I finally felt seen, and to have my job recognized in such a way was life-affirming. Although the weekly clapping had stopped, people still felt passionate about what an amazing institution the health service was. I hoped that line of thought would stick around because it had buoyed me and my colleagues when we really needed it.

I was proud of my contribution. I’ve said before that I don’t have a faith, but some small part of me wondered if there was some higher presence guiding me through life. I couldn’t begin to formulate in my mind why things happened the way they did but I started to feel like my role caring for others at their greatest moment of need was a calling and one of my true purposes in life. Had I been put on this earth to be there with people at their lowest ebb and to help them up and out of one of the worst times in their lives? For me there was no greater privilege, even if it was scary, overwhelming and frustrating all at the same time.

The loss of hundreds of health workers to coronavirus was devastating. A public inquiry was yet to happen but I wondered how many people had been lost because of systemic failings. Seeing colleagues around the country work in dangerous circumstances without the adequate protection had sent shudders down my spine.

I thought about all those people whose lives had been punched by grief. I had a feeling the fallout of people not being able to grieve as normal was yet to come. I also pondered those whose lives had been changed irrevocably during lockdown. People had struggled with loneliness and mental health problems before restrictions hit. How had they fared? We were in recession and the economic consequences of the pandemic meant that more families had been plunged into poverty. With that would come a whole host of health issues. I knew that we in the NHS would be picking up the pieces for months to come and it would be in A&E where we saw the sharp end of the destruction wrought on people’s lives.

Throughout it all, individuals’ generosity and selflessness had been incredible. Communities had rallied to look after the needy. Those of us working in A&E had received hot meals, countless offers and discounts as well as gift bags with freebies. People had sewed scrubs for us. I’d never forget the thank you cards I was sent, or the volunteers who had done all manner of tasks to help out.

Alongside that though ran a stream of selfishness. I guessed this pandemic had given people time to re-evaluate their lives and what they really wanted. I was shocked and dismayed at how many people flouted guidance and lived their lives without a care for anyone else. After everything I’d seen and heard I couldn’t hack it when people of privilege put others in danger because they claimed they were finding lockdown so difficult and so why shouldn’t they break the rules. In reality, their lives had remained almost untouched by the brutalities of the situation we found ourselves in. Many hadn’t lost anyone close to them and had kept their job and a roof over their heads. The sheer ignorance from some of those people about what was really going on in sectors of society was astounding and it made me so angry.

Covid has been a great amplifier of social inequality and I saw that at work in the faces of women who had been beaten up by their partners; single parents who had lost what little support network they had; people who were living with the after-effects of trauma whose safety net had been dragged out from underneath them; and countless others.

To some extent everyone was in it together and a part of something bigger, but there was a widening gulf between the haves and the have-nots in society. Being locked up in a house with a garden was not the same as being trapped in an overcrowded inner-city housing estate. Some people had lost their livelihoods and some were forced to work in dangerous conditions, while others could carry on working from the comfort of their home. Everyone was united in wanting the pandemic to end, but individual circumstances were not the same for everyone. They had never been the same.

As ever, the voices of those that needed to be heard weren’t anywhere near as audible as they should have been. They were being forgotten because it was convenient.

The coronavirus pandemic had been an unimaginable disaster with more lives lost or damaged than I thought possible, but in amongst the sadness and tragedy were tales of survival and hope. It was important to remember all the positives I’d seen as well as acknowledge and work through some of the more unsavoury aspects of human nature I’d experienced. That was an ongoing and lifelong task.

Would this pandemic ever really end? Perhaps, but looking too far into the future was an impossible task. All anyone knew was that the world would never be the same again. That’s the thing about endings. They are complicated. They are long and messy, full of twists and turns, a bit like the pandemic, and life itself.

From Louise:

To my sister, for reading my emotional letter and suggesting I share my story.

To Sarah, for listening to me and turning my speech into prose.

To Macmillan and Luigi, thank you for allowing me the opportunity to share my thoughts and experiences.

To my A&E family – you’re the main reason I keep coming to work. And to the patients, thank you for your experiences that have given me the tales within this book. I will endeavour to do my best for you.

To Ed, for your never-ending patience, love and cooking.

Finally, to my parents for giving me a wealth of experience and always supporting me in whatever path I have chosen to follow. I love you and Dad, I miss you.