Arguments for a COVID-19 Memorial Day

As an infectious disease pharmacist in a hospital, I have been trying to compile a journal of my experience with COVID-19. I thought a detailed account might give me some peace of mind, but every time I sit down to write, the exhausting weight of these memories overwhelms me. The journal is now a collection of notes cobbled together from newspaper articles, personal photos, and isolated memories. I have made several attempts to make something meaningful out of it, hoping to draw lessons for… myself? Another generation? I’m not sure. Either way, I haven’t succeeded. Perhaps that’s fitting, as I still wrestle with what it meant to face the pandemic on the front lines. Although hospital life has resumed its usual pre-pandemic rhythm, I’m not ready to just move on. The COVID-19 disaster still looms over me, a restless presence in my mind that refuses to be ignored.

I’ve had few direct patient care roles, and yet I have many memories that unsettle me. I remember the claustrophobic, slow-motion train wreck feeling in early 2020 as cases spread across the world and neared the U.S. I remember the chaos as exponential growth overwhelmed my hospital and most of the country. I remember the eerily empty hospital hallways, the empty highways on my morning commute, the virtual phone calls with friends and family who never really gave me the support I needed. It’s hard to describe that hopeless feeling, weeks into the first wave of infections, when the number of available ventilators kept dwindling and there was no idea when it would end. I remember a dull, constant pain in my teeth. Gritting my teeth, I suppressed my own despair, usually while replying “I don’t know” to another desperate colleague who asked how to treat these patients. The weeks I spent walking past trailers full of bodies in the parking lot on my way to and from work because there was no room in the morgue still haunt me.

At the same time, angry TV anchors ranted that it was just the flu on TV and tried to convince me not to believe what I was seeing with my own eyes. I remember how my friends and family, who valued my opinion as an infectious disease pharmacist at the beginning of the pandemic, were skeptical weeks later. When politics took over the pandemic, my first-hand experience and years of expertise in infectious diseases were no longer needed; they had other sources of information.

Yet amid the darkness of these memories, there were also moments of light that I will not forget. The crushing weight of the pandemic also revealed our incredible resilience and compassion. I remember how my colleagues, regardless of their training or concern for their own safety, showed up when called. The nurses, doctors, pharmacists, and other front-line workers cared for their patients no matter how many came through the door, and no matter what elaborate personal protective equipment and infection prevention measures were required. I remember the pediatric intensivist who became an adult intensivist. The investigational drug pharmacist who became a critical care pharmacist. The medical students who were deployed in so many areas of care. The enormous effort to vaccinate our communities and the globe. I remember how more and more was asked of health care workers. We were exhausted, shaken, desperate. But each time, we rose to the occasion because we had to, for our patients.

There was recognition on a grand scale, with “Healthcare Heroes” signs on front lawns, letters and posters from classrooms, and donations of food and sanitizer from local businesses. My hospital had a parade of first responders driving around campus to express their gratitude. We received a reward and a pin that said “Heroes of COVID-19.” But I can hardly recall moments of individual recognition, perhaps because it felt wrong to single out one person when everyone was going above and beyond. But failing to celebrate individual heroism doesn’t really do justice to the remarkable efforts. The recognition then feels hollow.

As I look around the hospital today, I see many new faces. I reflect on how they experienced COVID-19 very differently, perhaps as a massive disruption to school and social life. Their presence also tells a different story about those who replaced them. A story of burnout and mass exodus from hospital medicine. The pandemic has not only taken lives; it has also destroyed careers, hopes, and in many cases the passion that brought people into healthcare in the first place. These colleagues weathered the storm, bore the burden of impossible decisions, and then left in the aftermath. Burned out and underestimated, who could blame them? To my other colleagues whose COVID-19 scars look similar to mine: We kept going. But I wonder: Have you really processed and accepted what happened? Or are you just not talking about it, like I am?

I remember my own experiences pretty well. They were extraordinary, but no more extraordinary than those of my colleagues. More importantly, there are so many of my colleagues’ stories that I don’t know. That’s because I haven’t heard them. As I was writing the feel-good paragraph above, trying to highlight our many heroics, I was struck by how woefully inadequate that section is. Where are the stories about the individual heroics of nurses and respiratory therapists and infection preventionists and nursing technicians and physician assistants? Of pharmacists in the community and other settings? But my ignorance of those perspectives is exactly why I feel so compelled to write this. Who had the bandwidth back then to appreciate or even understand all that everyone was doing? And once things peaked, everyone was ready to move on. So when exactly is the right time to reflect on and share those stories? It won’t happen on its own. It has to be created. For a field that prides itself on its science and concepts like reflection, learning, and self-improvement, I find it shocking how little our field has done to acknowledge and learn from what we’ve been through. How is it possible that we can go through this harrowing and once-in-a-lifetime experience and just… move on?

I don’t know if I’ll ever fully process my COVID-19 experience, but I do know how we can cope: in the same way we overcome any tragedy. Remembering. Acknowledging. And reflecting. We have been tested in ways none of our predecessors have. No colleague, mentor, respected veteran or hallowed hospital legend has gone through what we have. I must mourn the tragic human suffering experienced by so many, including those who have made sacrifices in service to others. I must celebrate the tremendous efforts we have made to make a difference in the lives of our patients and others. From the tremendous efforts to find treatments and vaccines to the small heroic sacrifices of individuals, like staying an extra shift and comforting a patient, loved one or colleague, I want to embrace these stories and be proud of our field.

Healthcare workers created with AI | Image credit: Sasint | stock.adobe.com

I, too, will not find peace until we learn lessons that better prepare us for the next time. In the not-so-distant past, the idea of ​​a global pandemic was a science fiction thing. A scary story told by infection preventionists to force you to wash your hands. But that is no longer the case. We have experienced a devastating global pandemic. We will hope that this was a one-off event, but if not, we must not repeat the same mistakes. We must use our experiences to prepare for the next pandemic. There is no shortage of important lessons from COVID-19 that can save lives: topics such as clinical humility, public health communication, the resilience that comes from collective support, and others. If you look, stories of recognition and valuable lessons are not that hard to find. But these stories should not have to be searched for to find them. They should be held up, celebrated as the very best of what we do, and highlighted as the path to becoming even better.

The impact of COVID-19 on health care workers and our communities cannot be overstated. A COVID-19 Remembrance Day would be an opportunity to remember those we have lost, recognize the efforts of health care workers, and reflect on the lessons learned for the future. A resolution has been introduced in Congress declaring the first Monday in March as Covid-19 Remembrance Day. Regardless of the fate of the resolution, there is nothing stopping hospitals, organizations, or individuals from observing it if they choose. I would like to urge others to simply raise their voices. Just as we managed the pandemic through collective efforts, we can mobilize support for this remembrance day. March 2025 will mark the fifth anniversary of the first wave of the COVID-19 pandemic in the United States. It is overdue. Let’s turn the spotlight on ourselves and start healing.