By Kate F.
“First glove, gown, second glove, wash hands, helmet, goggles, mask, wash,” Judith explained. She has a soft Jamaican accent and braids that peek out the sides of her hair cover. “Any questions at all dears, I am here,” she explained to us new nurses to the COVID unit. “I can’t believe I was fucking floated here,” a pair of angry brown eyes quipped. “I love you baby, stay safe. Goodnight!” my phone pinged from my mom. Over the last weeks I’ve made friends of pupils, of crow’s feet, of baritones and sopranos. I can recognize a friend by the length of their stride and by the 2-inch space between a blue hair cover and a respirator. Despite COVID overtaking all of our lives, my life has remained unchanged in many ways—I still drive to work at 6PM most evenings, I still stand close to my coworkers in huddle and touch the hands of the people I’m caring for, I’m fortunate enough to still receive a paycheck—I, along with all of us, hang onto the familiar inflections of our best friends voices in the Zoom meeting, the longing tone of texts, the written word of our favorite authors.
When language is what we have left, do words carry more significance than they ever have before, or is the weight they’ve always had emphasized? (Sorry that was the Carrie Bradshaw question I have been waiting to write my whole ass life). Our current situation renders language as our closest form of intimacy. The pandemic makes me hold onto language tighter than before, when physical touch, gift giving, or even doing a favor for someone is out of the question. I’ve been calling people on the phone who I would normally meet at a bar. Now that conversation is all we have to do, I’ve been using it to draw people in closer than I ever would have B.P. (Before Pandemic). We have mental lists of “zoom friends” and “text friends”, moderating the digital peephole into our daily lives. The words and the digital platform we choose to share them on create new closeness and distances.
In truly ironic timing, I recently got into an argument with someone in my life about how I’m having a hard time letting go of hurtful things she’s said to me. “They’re only words,” she quipped back, “when can you move on from just words?” However, I’ve always been one to hang onto sweet notes, write down things I heard that piqued my interests, and save voicemails. I cannot forget words. I cannot forget the last voicemail my dad sent me before he left this world, just like I cannot forget the distinct tones of my friends loving encouragement as I head into work. I cannot forget the strained voices of my patients that struggle to breathe. I cannot forget the words that are directly threatening my life and my fellow nurses lives asking us to conserve a single-use mask to care for known COVID positive patients for upwards of 12 hours, the words our president has used to flippantly disregard the lives of thousands of people dying, and unfortunately I cannot forget the words from a loved one during a pandemic, when words, language, and talking are all we have.
While the pandemic and the events of my own personal life have stretched my capacity for forgiveness, it has reinforced my belief that words do, and always have mattered. Perhaps we should take this time to reflect on the way we use our language, as many of us (including myself) can tend to speak first and think after. Perhaps this time could be used to consider our normal group texts with friends as spaces of connection and healing. Perhaps we could derive a different meaning from a familiar poem or a new book. Using our words for growth, empathetic expression, and kindness are the greatest currency we have.
Kate F. is a registered nurse in California.