Pandemic Patterns: Nurse’s Poem Vividly Describes Emotions of the Past Year

Content courtesy of Verizon.

Janette Sheldrick, BSN, RN, grew up listening to inspiring stories of her great grandmother’s work as a delivery nurse but didn’t immediately gravitate toward nursing. Instead, she majored in Fine Arts before changing direction.

Janette Sheldrick, RN

“I decided to make the transition into nursing when I came to the self-realization of my worth and determination to help others,” she said.

Sheldrick has been a nurse for three years. She credits her family for supporting her on her journey through nursing school.

“My mom and dad sacrificed what feels like everything in order to help me get through nursing school,” she said. “My family and loved ones are truly my sole motivators.”

Sheldrick says reading and writing are tools she uses to decompress after long workdays. “I journal almost every day as a personal exercise to cope with daily stressors,” she said. “Writing is medicine for the soul, and I find poetry a powerful way to portray grand stories in just a few short lines.”

Here is Sheldrick’s Nurse.com poetry debut, “Pandemic Patterns”.

Pandemic Patterns

March 2020 and it begins. Questions and confusion. You’re thinking it’s all an illusion.

The city has a dark cloud over it filled with scare, but the empty streets are still so rare.

Government telling you to mask up, but the world is thinking it’s just a “cover-up.”

My beautiful, magnificent city this disease — not so itty bitty — has made you cease.

I wake up after a short day’s worth of sleep. Dark circles, makeup and weep.

Exhaustion floods in. Hair up, badge on, and I think to myself “the vacant streets feel like a sin.”

Now barren sidewalks, but the crammed streets of loud cheering screams and talks.

As a young woman loudly bangs a pot with gratitude, I see a man not too far off angry with attitude.

We seem divided, when we really need to be confiding in each other to help one another.

Overwhelmed I feel, but to be disease free is a steal. I miss my family, but I’m needed can’t you all see?

Hospital doors, single file, sanitize and mask. So I ask, “How many today? Can we even say?”

200, 500, 700 – the numbers keep rising, yet I feel my energy dying.

I sit down and ask my colleague, “All COVID?” She says, “Yes, I wish it was undid and now visitors we forbid.”

My patient, you’re dying, can’t breathe and sick. So why does my own heart ache like it’s ischemic?

Gown, gloves and respirator. You can’t see me, but I can feel your fear to my core.

You’re lying prone, your medical future still unknown.

100, 90, 80. Your oxygen is dropping, your respirations growing. Labored breathing there’s no unseeing.

We cannot wait. We need to intubate.

Pounding, pounding, pounding. Alarms sounding.

I feel my hands thrust your sternum. My other patients thinking I’m busy is a burden.

Still no pulse. Back on your chest like an impulse.

Pounding, pounding, pounding. Alarms sounding.

1… 2… 3… CLEAR. I don’t want you to disappear.

Shock administered. I question time of death being muttered.

We can’t give up. Back on the chest we resume. Our adrenaline being consumed.

Pounding, pounding, pounding. Alarms sounding.

Dripping Amio, through the urgent IO.

Pushing Epi. Still pulseless but tachy.

Beep, beep, beep. A heart rhythm. Every code feels like an algorithm.

Blood, sweat, tears. It feels like it’s been years.

You’re still hypoxic, but your beautiful soul is atoxic.

They take you away to the ICU. You’re lucky if you get a day or two.

And finally that is my cue. For another patient is ringing and I must go or else HCAHPS will be “dinging.”

I get a minute and scrub my hands. Cracked and dry. I just want to cry.

Suck it up. 10 more hours to go. Put on a show. Fake that smile even though the patient says they’ve been waiting awhile.

8 a.m. I can’t wait to sleep in REM.

I wake up after a day’s worth of sleep.

Dark circles, makeup, weep.

Repeat.