Kwan Kew Lai
In February 2020, I took a hiatus from medical practice in Antarctica where only wildlife exists, wildlife and a few lonely, dedicated souls at the research stations, when the SAR-CoV-2 virus spread wildly from China to the rest of the world. I was blissfully unaware of the fury of the virus, safe in the cocoon of Antarctica. On March 11, 2020, the World Health Organization declared the Novel Coronavirus Disease, COVID-19, a pandemic.
In April, the virus besieged New York, which became the epicenter of the global pandemic. I had left Antarctica and was volunteering at Elmhurst Hospital in Queens, the hospital most affected by COVID-19; almost all the hospitalized patients were infected, and the whole hospital was reconfigured into many intensive care units. I was the infectious disease doctor of three units.
The ICUs were surreal, with their sedated ventilated patients lining the walls. The nurses and doctors in their space suits hovered so close to them and yet seemed so distant in their protective gear. Artificial lighting heightened the other-worldly COVID ICUs with the patients suspended in space and time, unaware of their situations; their loved ones caught in this in-between moment were unable to see or communicate with them.
Time stood still for me.
Like many, I waited for things to change, for normalcy to return, for the virus to retreat, but instead, it continued its unrelenting assaults and affected every facet of our lives: family, relationships, school, work, livelihood, food supply, transportation, economy, safety, health, entertainment, government, environment…. Even the wildlife ventured back into territory that was once theirs.
We were all suspended in time and space, in the in-between moments, in a collective liminal space. For those who succumbed, this suspension in time and space ended. But their grieving loved ones, forever transformed by their experiences, remained stuck.
Seasons came and went, and even as summer arrived as dictated by the calendar, I was still waiting for the carefree sunny days of the season to knock on my door. It was as though I was hung up in a state of limbo, suspended in space and time, never moving backward or forward. Summer’s warmth never came to my door. My life had been upended, cheated by the virus.
My patient contact was a mix of telehealth and in-person care. The contagiousness of the virus impacted the patient-physician physical relationship. The patients and I were masked, and my personal protective gear presented a barrier to the healing touch. We were caught between moments that made us acutely aware of our vulnerability and mortality.
The pandemic was an unprecedented time—a time humanity will remember, a time when we fought a common, invisible enemy that sent us subliminal messages:
slow down,
take a hiatus from our busy lives,
pause and listen to nature around us,
listen to the still small voice in our heads,
and enjoy the moment with our loved ones.
Recognize that this luxury of liminal time and space may not come again.
Kwan Kew Lai is an author, a Harvard medical faculty physician, an infectious disease specialist, a disaster response volunteer, an artist, a hiker, and a runner. Find more at kwankewlai.com.