Turning 35

I’ve managed to salvage some sort of routine the last two months in this second lockdown period. I wake up, I ride a stationary bike, I do some figure drawing ( a new hobby). I haven’t worked in two months and I’m eating into my savings. My last fortnight without government assistance I earned fifty (50) times less than what I normally earn. As a doctor, there’s always work in a pandemic. I could work, but I won’t.

During the first lockdown I did work. I worked for the Department of Health in the hotel quarantine program. It’s now widely known as a bungled operation that has given rise to community transmission necessitating this second, harsher lockdown.

My job was to to be the doctor ‘on the ground’ at a hotel, the first port of call when newly returned travellers developed symptoms of COVID or to determine who needed to go by ambulance to a hospital. Apart from that I was filling scripts or dealing with anything medical, written by nurses on whiteboard. Room 405 miscarriage, Room 532 diabetes, Room 700 suicidal ideation. My first day I was personally responsible for 400 people. Not everyone needed attention of course. But still.

I’m sure I’ll write about my time in the hotel quarantine with more clarity in the future. At the time I kept a harried journal, wrote some panicked emails sent in complaint, asking for clarification or more assistance. I haven’t re-read them as yet. For now, my memories of the 12 days in April are more emotional than anything.

The doctors on the frontline dealt with a lot of unknowns. The symptoms (or lack of) were confusing. The guidelines as to who warranted a test were confusing. The false negative test results were confusing. Directions on what to do with positive cases was confusing. I usually work as a medical surgical assistant in elective orthopaedic surgery, the second pair of hands for hip replacements etc. I had deliberately moved towards a career that offered repetition and predictability.

On the frontline I was never unconcerned for my own safety. But doctors are quick to panic, and quick to panic their peers. This paranoid approach can save lives, I’m sure. (It must be good for something.) My colleagues were constantly sharing horror stories about Italy, Spain and New York. WhatsApp groups were busy with photos/videos of hospitals beyond capacity, makeshift beds in corridors.

Most of my friends implored me to get off the frontline. There were stories of young doctors getting sick, ventilated in some foreign ICU. The stories always had some disgusting detail. They were newly married or just had a child. I wrote a will. I decided that my mother was going to get my dog. I’m not sure I have much else of a physical footprint. I thought about dying at 34.

My time working for the Department of Health didn’t last long. It was only 12 days. Far short of a heroic effort. The 12 days were hard. Poor leadership, inadequate resources, constant miscommunication. Chaos was my experience anyway. I quit 12 days in because it stopped feeling like I was helping. At the time it felt like most of the problems doctors and nurses were running into were preventable. I still feel this way. I wouldn’t go back. But there’s no ‘back’ to go back to. The failed Victorian Hotel program is shuttered and outsourced to other states.

I turned 35 during the second lockdown. I hated my birthday especially this year. I don’t think 35 is ‘old’, but I struggled without getting older on my terms. I expected to be advanced in every possible way. Richer, more handsome, more established in my career, more involved with someone else, more invested in life. (The same trauma aging inflicts on anyone.) But writing this, as I take online art classes, walk my dog and wait patiently to go back to my usual job, my preoccupation with what I’ve done can secede to things I can do in the future. A blessing.