Gathering the words to tell relatives that their loved ones will likely die within days never gets easier. 

It is emotionally and physically draining, and doing it day-in, day-out during the pandemic has left me feeling broken. I handle it by trying my best to give families a last chance to talk to someone at the end of their life – even if just over the phone.

Before April this year, I was working as a community medicine specialist and giving telemedicine consultations. When cases started to snowball in New Delhi, I was posted to a Covid-19 ward in a public hospital, which is where I found myself at the peak of India’s second wave. 

I knew being called in was inevitable as cases were rising so dramatically – but I had no idea how much tougher the experience would be than the first wave.

For instance, in 2020, life as a healthcare worker was hard, but we did not have to write multiple death certificates every single day, recording all the details and causes of countless patients’ deaths, like we have had to do this year. 

The number of patients admitted to the ward I was working on was drastically higher during the second wave too, and the number of staff limited. This made our days far more hectic.

We felt helpless knowing many patients could have been saved if they had only received the care they needed in time. I am convinced some would have made it if they could have afforded a bed in private healthcare settings.

But then, while affordability was a problem for most, many who did have private healthcare still had to come to government-run hospitals anyway because the private setups were too full to take them.

There were no ICU beds available in my hospital and we didn’t even have the facility of parenteral nutrition (intravenous feeding) in the wards, let alone functioning ventilators. I can’t help but think to what extent this could have played a part in patients deteriorating further.

We encountered a bottleneck of resources – either a lack of equipment or manpower.

And, at the same time, the heat – which was around 40°C – felt as much an enemy as the virus.

Wearing PPE in these scorching temperatures, sometimes for extended hours, was unbearable, thirsty work. Patients who couldn’t tolerate oral fluid intake risked dehydration as well.

I burst into tears during nearly every shift. Occasionally, when I could no longer breathe inside the plastic, I would go into the Covid-19 ward to check on the patients without wearing PPE.

I was living in isolation and taking all necessary precautions – and it was just not humanly possible to wear a kit every time we had to go inside.

At the worst point, patients would just lie drowsily on beds across wards that were being used as makeshift ICUs. Staff would be buzzing around, attempting intubations, chest compressions and the administration of various lifesaving drugs and fluids.

We were feeling the pressure even more intensely because healthcare staff were – and still are – the only human contact the patients have. Visits from family still aren’t allowed, even when a patient is close to death, because of the risk of infection.

I personally think, in the Indian healthcare system, attendants play a great role in providing basic care to the patients. Their importance has always been underestimated – that is, until Covid-19 arrived and saw all the responsibility of care falling to the limited number of hospital staff.

There were positives incidents too, though: some patients did recover and go home, which showed light at the end of a dark tunnel.

Memories of one Covid patient I treated have stuck with me – his daughter was calling day and night to speak with him and check on his progress. She complained that he was not answering her calls.

I understood her need for regular updates: just two weeks earlier, my best friend lost his father at a very young age to Covid-19 despite all our efforts. Feeling my friend’s pain and being unable to stop it was agony. I cried for an entire day.

Determined not to lose another patient, I reminded the man of his daughter’s desperation for him to survive and urged him to stop removing his oxygen mask, which he was prone to doing.

Thankfully, his outlook changed. He stopped taking off his mask and gradually began improving. Eventually, he started eating again and, a week later, when he had gathered the strength, I saw him on a video call with his daughter.

Among all the pain and death, I felt elation seeing him discharged.

Still, after most shifts, I return home numb. I have seen more people die this year than ever before.

How do you tell the family members of a patient that they could have been saved if there wasn’t such a dearth of skilled manpower and infrastructure? It’s heartbreaking.

The truth is, the Indian healthcare system was already crumbling – this pandemic has simply exposed the fact to our oblivious society and apathetic governments.

I really hope the lives lost serve as an eye-opener for our government.

Back in 2010, I chose to become a doctor because I wanted to work for the welfare of underprivileged children. Looking after people and saving lives is important to me.

Now I feel like that vision has been blurred, as all my energy is being consumed in the battle against Covid-19.

Vaccination is the only ray of hope we have.

The government is trying its best with the roll-out – more than 352 million doses have now been given out across the country, more than in the USA. I just hope this is enough to protect us from facing the same situation with the potential next wave. 

In Delhi, the situation has improved and the number of cases has decreased, meaning I’m no longer working on that Covid-19 ward. The city is busy preparing for an anticipated third wave and the hospitals are training their staff as the vaccination drive continues. 

Wherever you are in the world, I urge you to not delay your vaccination. It will not only protect you but your community, too.

The only way to beat coronavirus is to break the chain of transmission by wearing a clean mask, washing your hands often and getting vaccinated.

As told to Minreet Kaur.

Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing angela[email protected].

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