I remember the early days of the pandemic- signing up for my free crocs and free slippers, showing my badge at the chick-fil-a drive-thru for free lunch. My neighbors rang bells and cheered at night. For a few short minutes, I thought I felt like a hero. But the reality quickly set in that I was pregnant, I was working on the front lines, and I was fighting for the very thing people are now celebrating the end of- wearing a mask. During the first few weeks of the lockdown, we were told we could only wear a mask for Covid positive patients or those with known exposures and symptoms. As a community care nurse, I was walking the halls of nursing homes and assisted living facilities and going into patients' homes with no protection. Once we were allowed to wear masks, they needed to last the whole day, the same paper-thin masks we were told to dispose of after each patient in the past. They needed us to collect our used masks to be cleaned so that we didn't run out. They ultimately asked that we stop wearing makeup because it prevented the masks from being re-used. I did not feel like a Hero. People were scared; I was scared. The facilities I worked with were receiving little to no guidance. They didn't have access to masks and supplies, and even if they did, they didn't have the money to afford them. I had caregivers calling saying they couldn't find toilet paper or soap to provide basic services to their clients. They would ask me if I had masks or gloves to spare, but I didn't. I would sit in my care and cry that I was having to choose my safety and my unborn child's safety over giving the mask off my face to another person in need. A memory care I visited required the nurses to stand outside and spray their bodies with Lysol before entering. I mentally started calculating if the risk to the frail elderly inside from my visit was greater than me covering my pregnant body in chemicals. I did not feel like a hero. I struggle to find the words to describe what it was like walking into a nursing home with biohazard signs and caution tape on the door. Visibly pregnant hoping my mask was enough to protect me as I pushed through the plastic. Seeing fear on the faces of the staff as they went room to room helping me swab noses. All of us hoping the results came back negative. I did not feel like a hero. I'm not sure ultimately what was worse, the fear of COVID or the sheer pain of the isolation placed on our elders. They were separated from their families and shut behind doors. I was often the only conversation or connection to the outside world they would experience that day. As time went on and people had "pandemic fatigue,” they had the choice to resume activities and socialize with friends. As they stared at me in the grocery store still masked, as my family shook their heads when I declined their invitation to a party, as my kids stayed inside, I did not feel like a hero. I carry the torch for the ones I cared for that still don't have a choice. I carry the torch for the pregnant healthcare workers, people who are immunocompromised. I carry the torch because I cannot forget the fear I felt and the fear I saw in others. As I look back and reflect on the pain, loneliness, and isolation over the past years. I shed tears over the hands I held at the end; their last words, thoughts, and breaths were witnessed by me and not by their families. I am grateful I was there when others were not able to be. I am grateful for the child I brought into the world amid the chaos. I am grateful for the choices I made to protect those around me when the rest of the world moved on. But as the Hero signs have come down, the free lunches are long forgotten ... I do not feel like a Hero ... I don't think I ever did. 8 Down Vote Up Vote × About Brooke Schmidt, BSN, RN Brooke Schmidt is a registered nurse with 10+ years of experience with a focus in geriatrics and palliative care. Brooke spends her free time with her two young children exploring the Pacific Northwest. 2 Articles 14 Posts Share this post Share on other sites