Working on the frontlines during the pandemic was akin to emotional whiplash. The days on service in the ICU were chaotic and relentless, and I barely had time to meet my most basic physiologic needs, let alone emotionally process the horrors I was seeing play out in front of me. Twelve hours would pass in what simultaneously felt like an instant and eternity, and I'd leave the hospital, pry open the back doors of a largely empty CTA bus (aimed at protecting the drivers, that was the recommended method of boarding the city buses in Chicago during the height of the COVID pandemic) to take a socially distanced seat among the other essential workers, many of them also donning the accoutrement of careers in healthcare. Once home, I'd remove my clothes at the door and hop directly in the shower, seeing the concern on my (now ex-) husband's face.
He hadn't signed up for the extra risk, and the ICU stories I tried to recount only made things worse -- 5 years later, I still struggle with the thought that maybe we'd still be together if it hadn't been for the distance wedged between us by my being a frontline worker in the pandemic. Physically and emotionally exhausted, with my top layer of skin dutifully scrubbed off, I'd isolate in silence, mentally reeling as the events of the day ran through my mind in a seemingly endless loop.
I was increasingly unwell, and I feared the immediate- and long-term tolls the stress and grief would take if I didn't find an outlet. I was aching for a form of catharsis, and I found it in painting.
I had taken formal art classes as a child and continued until I moved away to start college. Since then, the skillset had largely languished as the demands of undergrad, then medical school, and ultimately residency and fellowship training took precedence over other endeavors. Nevertheless, in my moment of desperation I was able to return to it, and it provided the solace I desperately needed.
At the start I was rusty, and it took significant time and effort to reacquaint myself with the techniques I had honed during my youth. But the process of relearning was therapeutic in and of itself and provided a welcome distraction from the darkness of the outside world, almost like an old friend waiting to embrace me, even after spending ages apart.
Moreover, I had always gravitated toward oil paints, which are forgiving by nature -- slow to dry and relatively malleable as a medium, all while maintaining the ability to imbue a unique depth to the final work. And these attributes allowed me the flexibility to paint with a stream of consciousness, dumping lines and plains, highlights and shadow onto the canvas until a given piece revealed what it was destined to become.
The works that followed served as meditations on complex issues I was grappling with throughout the pandemic: my personal unease with the loss of autonomy in the face of critical illness (Self Portrait: Intubated & Cannulated); the sacrifices we make as healthcare workers (Morning Commute, Peak Pandemic: Stop Requested); and the simultaneous humanity and banality at the base of even the most basic clinical interventions (PERRLA and Cricoid Pressure).
Each painting contains a world in its brushstrokes, swirling with lived experience, raw emotion, and deep contemplation. In the same way that our favorite songs can have a special effect on us, these works still hold the unique power to transport me to a quasi-spiritual headspace and, despite their often-morbid subject matter, bring me peace.
As the pandemic ebbed and the world reopened, my ex-husband and I came to terms with the fact that our marriage was terminal and not to be revived. The loss of my partner of 10 years cut deep and left both an emotional and physical void. And while filling the former has been an ongoing project, it turns out the paintings did a relatively good job filling the empty apartment.
Now, whenever I'm at home, I'm surrounded by canvases overflowing with vivid colors, and they remind me to engage when I would otherwise shut down, and to eschew numbness in favor of feeling deeply.
The grief of the pandemic endures, but so do we.
is a pulmonary and critical care specialist at Northwestern Medicine in Chicago.