Think Fiji is too far to travel with kids? Guess what, it’s not. (Especially if you live on the West Coast.)
It was Thanksgiving 2022 and I was cleaning up the kitchen with family and friends after a bustling holiday dinner. I took a break to check Facebook, and saw two friends and their families on a pristine beach with their young children. They were waist-deep in clear blue water, wishing everyone a Happy Thanksgiving!
This place looked like paradise. I was buried in dishes. Where were they?
Fiji. They were in Fiji. In a magical place called Castaway Island!
I looked back at my messy kitchen, and thought: that’s where I’m going next year. We’re going to Fiji for Thanksgiving! If they could do it with their little kids, I could do it with my two girls!
Fast forward a couple of weeks, and I’d booked the trip. Except they were already full for Thanksgiving, so I booked August, which was supposed to be a great time to visit…warm and sunny, clear blue skies!
Flying Air Fiji.
There’s basically one option (that I could find) from Southern California without flying for 36 hours and stopping three times: Fiji Airways.
Fiji Airways flies direct from Los Angeles to Nadi, which is on the island of Vita Levu. The flight from LAX to Nadi is just under eleven hours. I researched the plane, and it looked newer and nice. (I don’t like flying on janky planes.) So, it would be a long trip, but just manageable.
We live in San Diego, and my husband had to work in L.A. the day of our trip, so we met him in L.A. via train. (The train, by the way, is an excellent way to cruise up the coast stress-free. Business class seats give you a free snack pack–kids love it– and free bevies, including a glass of wine!)
When we got to the airport, we had to exchange our boarding passes for the REAL Fiji Airways boarding passes. Apparently, the ones you get when you check in online at home aren’t the real deal. So, make sure you do this.
I insisted that we travel with only carry-on bags because I have an intense fear that our luggage will be lost. And my kids (12 and 15) are big enough to wear their own backpacks and roll their own luggage behind them. Also, it’s a beach vacation so we didn’t need to pack much besides bathing suits and flip flops. It worked out great. For the most part, everyone managed their own stuff. (Well, 50% of the time, they managed their own bags, every time.)
Right before the trip, I decided to buy a new carry on. I found the top-ranked choices, and was delighted to find that Amazon offered up a cheaper version of the high-end bags. I got this Amazon rolling bag and love it. It actually fits a ton of stuff. It also rolls really well. My girls were jealous and I promised to buy them each one for our next trip.
We booked economy tickets, because I wanted to save money and I’m no travel snob. (Guess what…turns out, I am. See the end of this post for more.) When we boarded the plane, my kids turned left into business class (which looks amazing!) but sadly, we had to tell them to turn right for economy.
The flight was 10 hours and 50 minutes. I’ll let that sink in: 10 hours and 50 minutes.
It was a red-eye, which in theory should be great, because you sleep most of the way. HA! We boarded at 9:55pm. They brought out a dinner shortly after takeoff (so-so) and then I passed out the melatonin. My oldest, Marley fell asleep. My husband fell asleep. Holland, not so much. Which means it was a grueling trip with Holland elbowing me every five minutes to tell me something exciting until she finally passed out three hours until arrival. By then I was so delirious I just sat up with my eyes glazed over. A couple of hours before we landed, the crew turned up the lighting and served a breakfast.
When we arrived in Fiji, it was 5:45am in the morning. Still dark. As soon as we got out of the plane, I could feel the fresh Fijian air…slightly cool and damp and wonderful and green and fresh. The way you think it should smell.
Customs didn’t take more than 30 minutes, and then we were in the very small lobby of the airport in Nadi.
Ferry to Castaway Island
It’s a twenty-minute transfer drive and a two-hour ferry ride from Port Denarau, the main port on the island. We booked our ferry tickets and transfers ahead of time through South Sea Cruises. The biggest hiccup in our trip was waiting for the van arranged by South Sea Cruises to take us to Port Denarau, where we would board our ferry. Like I said, the airport at Nadi is tiny, and we were told to wait in a small (air-conditioned) room, dedicated to South Seas, for 1.5 hours while we waited for our pre-arranged transfer. The van was late so we sat around without much to do (and very tired) for two hours.
The saving grace: the coffee at the airport is amazing! But next time, I would just take a cab.
When we finally boarded the van, there was lots of traffic, so by the time we arrived and checked in, it was time to board the ferry. The boat staff told us that we could sit inside in the “Captains Quarters” which was very nice, comfy, and air-conditioned. Because I get deathly sea-sick, I had my Relief Band geared up to the highest level, and I’m happy to report that I did not hurl, despite some bumpy conditions. Hooray!
About 90 minutes later, the clouds in the skies parted, and the approach to our island commenced. We could see Castaway Island in the distance, beautiful in the morning light, surrounded by beautiful aquamarine water, protected by the reef. We were giddy! (I patted myself on the back for excellence in vacation planning.) Two smaller boats pulled up alongside our boat, one for humans, and one for the luggage, and before we knew it, we were making our way to the island.
Probably one of the most iconic things about arriving in Fiji is that the locals will serenade the arriving visitors in song! A warm welcome indeed! We couldn’t help but smile as we jumped off the boat into ankle-deep water and embarked on our magical stay on Castaway Island. “It’s so beautiful,” said Holland, crazy-eyed from no sleep but still bursting with excitement.
Amidst cheerful greetings of “Bula bula,” we were escorted to a lovely table inside the restaurant where we soaked up the views, sipped on a refreshing welcome drink, and were taken to our beach bure. (Spoiler alert: it does not suck.)
Needless to say, our bure on the South Beach was stunning. We were just a few steps from the ocean which was, when we arrived, a clear blue pristine lagoon. The setup for the bures are perfect for a family of four, a king-sized bed in the main area and two small twins at the entry. We immediately threw on our swimsuits and jumped in the water.
One of the first things we found when we jumped in the water was a beautiful, bright blue starfish! How could this trip go wrong?
First things first. As I said above, the rooms (or bures, as they call them) are individual free-standing structures decorated in true island-style. Most sleep four people. There are options for more space as well. There is one grand bure with two bedrooms and two baths, which sleeps up to six, and one family bure that sleeps up to ten. But since there are only a couple of these, if you went nuts and had a bunch of kids, you better book early.
The biggest thing to consider when booking a bure is the location. The island bures are tucked away from the beach, usually surrounded by lush greenery. The ocean view bures a short distance away from the ocean, and the beach bures are beach front.
The South Beach bures are closer to the ocean and felt more private to me, but all the action happens on the North Beach. That’s where all the kayaks and paddle boards are located, and some of the best snorkeling.
For the most part, the North Beach had better conditions when we visited. For a few days it was crazy windy on the South Beach. But we got a couple of pristine days where the water by our bure was absolutely perfect, an aquarium of teeming with sea life! So I really loved our South Beach bure and wouldn’t have changed it.
Honestly, my favorite parts of the trip were just relaxing in the warm water or dangling in a hammock!
Snorkeling, Kayaking, Paddle Boarding, Etc.
But if you’re looking for action, this island has everything you’d want in a tropical beach vacation. It’s a small island, about 174 acres. It’s bursting with hilly, lush greenery and is completely surrounded by coral reefs. This creates a calm, gentle shoreline, perfect for snorkeling, which happens to be one of best things to do on the island.
Like I said, you can grab a mask and fins from the activities desk and easily make your way into the water. We saw lots of bright colorful fish, purple and orange brain coral and stingrays in addition to the aforementioned blue starfish. We even saw reef sharks and eels!
I’m a total snorkeling snob, and unless the conditions are perfect, I refuse to submerge. Why jack up my hair and makeup and get cold? Needless to say, I spent hours snorkeling in the ridiculously-clear water. I could have snorkeled for days. I didn’t get cold.
We spent a lot of time kayaking, and my husband and I even kayaked around the entire island. Well, he kayaked, and I scanned the water for sea life. (This took a couple of hours and it happened to be during a storm which kind of freaked me out, but I would do it again on a clear day.) My husband paddle boarded quite a few times, and he took out the Hobie Cat as well. Check out more of the activities here.
Day Trip to Modriki Island.
Castaway Island also offers lots of day trips, including trips to Shell Beach, the Sand Bar, and Modriki Island, where the movie Castaway was actually filmed. My husband booked the Modriki Excursion, which got me a little nervous because: sea sickness! Alas, I wore my faithful Relief Band on full-blast, and looked forward to the part of the trip which included the champagne brunch.
The excursion to Modriki ended up being a highlight of our trip. The water was relatively calm on the way out, making the boat trip to the island (which we could see in the distance) about an hour. Our guide, “Shrek,” who also headed up the Kids Club and happened to be a great musician, accompanied our family along with the captain.
He took us on a tour of the island, pointing out fun scenes from Castaway: where Tom Hanks buried the dead flight attendant, went spearfishing, and the cave where he knocked out his own tooth. (We couldn’t actually go inside the cave because the tide was too high.)
Turns out, Castaway wasn’t actually filmed on Castaway Island where we were staying. It’s called that, because that’s where Tom Hanks stayed when the movie was being filmed. The actual island, Modriki, is where most of the action in the film takes place. It’s uninhabited and wild and beautiful. A few small tour groups arrived as we were leaving, other than that, we had the island to ourself. On our short hike, Shrek grabbed several coconuts for us and we enjoyed marshmellow-y goodness from inside the older coconuts and the juice and soft meat inside the younger ones.
Then, we set up camp in a protected space at the foot of the hill and just steps from the beach. Conditions weren’t perfect (it was windy) so I was loathe to snorkel. But Ian and Holland jumped in the water right away, with Holland proclaiming at the top her lungs, “This is paradise!” So of course, I had to get in.
The first thing I saw? An octopus. A freaking octopus! It sat in the reef, chillin’ below me, looking up at me with one eye. By the time I surfaced to tell everyone what I saw, it was gone. But wow, was it beautiful. And it made me so happy that I had sworn off eating octopus after watching My Octopus Teacher.
We enjoyed a tasty champagne lunch under the thatched-roof hut and lounged on the mats. Then of course, we got the token pictures with Wilson!
The coolest part? The owner of Modriki Island stopped by. Shrek told us he does this, to make sure everyone is having a good time and all is well on the island. He seemed happy that we enjoyed our visit. Of course, I told him all about the octopus.
Back on Castaway, one of the cool things you can do on the island is the Bush Walk. I’m not sure how long it is, but it’s a path around the island that takes up to a pretty spectacular view. Ian and I decided to venture off on the bush walk on one of the rainy days we got on the vacation. It was perfect because we didn’t get hot, but we did slip and slide around a bit in our flip flops.
It was beautiful and lush and steep, and when we got to the top we were graced with beautiful views. We took the beach trail down and it was definitely a bit perilous. But we did see a family of goats on the other side of the island! We took the long way down so it took us a couple of hours. In only slipped and cussed really loud and cursed my husband a handful of times. Probably not a good idea with little kids. Even my girls would have complained, so we left them in the bure.
There are two main pools on Castaway Island, a kids pool (that has the Nuku Mari Pool Bar and Grill eatery attached) and the “adult pool” with a swim up bar. I say “adult pool” because the entire time we were there, kids were swimming in it, and no one cared.
The pools are refreshing and delightful on hot, sunny days and a bit cool on cloudy days, and there’s no real hot tub, so some days we elected not to submerge.
The bartender at the adult pool made delicious drinks, including fun and festive kids drinks. Getting the “Cinderella, icey-style” was a highlight for my girls. I loved the “Stay Chill” and the “Island Girl,” in addition to my standard choices of pina colada and sauvignon blanc.
The Kids Club at Castaway Island is special and appealing for all. It was so fun, Ian and I even joined in on some of the activities. They don’t do stupid, boring kiddie things. They do cool things like egg throwing and watermelon bashing and Fijian headdress-making and crab catching. The best part? The frog hunting, which we did with Holland the rest of the kid’s club. Imagine two dozen kids, most of them barefoot, tramping through the jungle in the dark with flashlights, screaming and yelling and catching frogs with their gloved-hands. (Of course, Holland caught a ton of frogs.)
Then in the bar that night, they did an “International Frog Race” where they named the frogs and assigned them a country, taking bets on who would win, all to benefit a Fijian environmental group. (Don’t worry, no frogs were harmed, and they were all returned back to the wild after the race.)
We also joined the kids club to make hookah shell bracelets which was decidedly more peaceful, but just as fun.
The food on Castaway Island was for the most part, good. My girls loved the buffet at the main restaurant for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. For breakfast, they served up the fluffiest French Toast you’ve ever had, and lots of tropical juices and delicious papaya. Holland noshed on lots of pasta, rice, and fries, while Marley loved the salad bar, shrimp and clams. Both of them enjoyed the desserts.
Ian and I ordered off the menu some of the time, and when the fish was fresh and local, it was delicious. The island hosted a special Fijian buffet which was festive and wonderful, and one of the nights they made Pad Thai right in front of us, which was great.
My favorite food, honestly though, was at the Sundowner Bar where they made wood-fired pizzas. They were delicious every single time.
We enjoyed some meals at Nuku Mari Pool Bar and Grill, which is located at the kid’s pool. My girls loved the kids Bento boxes and shrimp sushi roll, and Ian and I liked the tacos. They made us fish tacos upon request, which were great!
Lots of guests did the meal plan, but we opted not to, as Ian and I usually split a lot of meals. I didn’t do that math so I’m not sure…the meal plan may have been a better deal for us. But my diet is limited, since I’m allergic to crab, shrimp, lobster and squid, and I also don’t eat meat. But whatever. The food, for us, was not a highlight of the trip, but it sure was for the kids!
Other fun stuff, and things to consider.
This is an island teeming with life. You can legit grab coconuts right from the beach and, if you’re determined enough) peel back the outside until you can bore hole into the coconut, drinking the juice and eating the delicious meat.
In addition to all the beautiful fish and sea life, we found giant crabs, the aforementioned frogs, and bats. We loved all the critters we stumbled across.
The stars at night are mesmerizingly beautiful. Do yourself a favor and drift away in a hammock and watch the night sky.
This resort is designed for good weather. When a storm rolls in, its windy and a bit cool, and there’s not much to do. Bring some cards and a good book and snuggle in with your family. We did, and had a blast!
The staff at this resort is the absolute best. They are so kind and welcoming and will do anything to make your stay more enjoyable. Most of the people perform multiple tasks. Shrek, for example, led the kids club, the Fijian dance performance, played music at the main restaurant, led the dance party, and was our guide to Modriki. I hope they pay him well!
This is a kid-friendly resort. Almost everyone brought kids. Which means there are kids running around everywhere. EVERYWHERE. We didn’t mind this, as we brought our girls. But at 12 and 15, they were some of the oldest kids on the island. For us, it worked out great. But I wouldn’t come here if I didn’t have kids.
Most of the families are from Australia or New Zealand, as the plane ride is only like five hours long. (It’s like what Hawaii is to us West-coasters.) They were delightful and fun, all in all, a jolly group of travelers. The best part? Overhead on the frog hunt, a little Australian boy said…
“Back home, I always have to say ‘Good day’ to my friends and people I see. But the truth is, sometimes I don’t want them to have a good day.”
We did stumble upon one other family from Hawaii, and on the very last day, two other American families arrived.
Finally, the trip from the U.S. is burly. If your kids are angels then you will be fine, but I struggled with my girls, even though they were older. Which brings me to a point I made early in this post: I’ve realized that I am a travel snob. Never again will I fly economy with my kids if the flight is over 10 hours.
If you’ve got kids and can handle a long flight, I absolutely recommend a visit to Castaway Island. It’s practically paradise. Your kids will have a blast, you’ll have a blast, and you will be so glad you went. 100% recommended. Just go.
I really hope you enjoyed this write up! And stay tuned for our next family adventure…to Japan!
What to do, what to do? Is the COVID quarantine leaving you with a little extra time on your hands? Are you feeling stuck at home? Are you looking for a healthy, outdoorsy family-style project, but not sure what to do? Are you interested in eating healthy, and saving money?
How about planting a home garden? Can you think of a more genius idea? I can’t.
I just had to learn more. Like, is planting a garden…hard? Especially for a newbie and a bona fide plant killer like me?
I caught up with Roberta Lenert, a local garden specialist, who—in addition to being a Robotics Coach at CMS and a marine bio and zoology whiz—has her own flourishing “Mermaid Organic Garden.”
We chatted about the “dos” and “don’ts” of planting your first garden. Check it out.
Q: It’s almost fall, can you believe it? What are some of the best fruits or vegetables to plant in the fall?
A: In San Diego we have the perfect climate to grow year-round! Fall is actually considered San Diego’s 2nd spring planting season. You can plant fall vegetables in late summer to harvest in the fall, depending on weather.
Some of the best fall crops include:
Tomato (year-round in Coronado)
Q: Where do you buy the seeds?
A: My favorite seed company is San Diego Seed Company. You can order online! I grow all of my vegetables and fruits from seed or scrap, and I make certain it is all organic and pesticide-free. San Diego Seed Company grows all organic heirloom seeds on an urban micro0-farm in San Diego. Buying local seeds is important to the heartiness of your crop. These seeds were produced in San Diego, which means that they are area specific to our environment, growing conditions, soil structure, and climate.
Q: How much space do you need?
A: In Coronado, we don’t have much space, but don’t let that deter you! You can make planter boxes, hanging wall gardens, tower gardens, rooftop gardens and in-ground gardens! Be creative and use your woodworking skills to create the perfect shape and space for your home. If you would prefer to buy premade planters, you can find them at Lowes, or online at Eartheasy.com, Gardeners.com or Wayfair.com.
Q: How do you know what to plant, where?
A: Remember the rhyme for alternating plants in your garden! “Beans, roots, greens, fruits.” Rotate your crops to maintain soil structure and increase nutrient levels.
You never want to plant the same plant in the same area two years in a row. In my raised garden bed, I tend to plant beans, peas, swiss chard, herbs, and artichokes. In the ground, I have tomatoes, squash, carrots, beets, radishes, rutabaga, tropical flowers, palm trees.
It’s good to be mindful of “Companion Planting”…some vegetables actually have a beneficial companion plant.
Tomatoes can be planted with basil, carrots, celery, lettuce, spinach and parsley.
Peppers can be planted with onions, spinach, basil and tomatoes.
Green beans can be planted with corn. (Beans will use the cornstalks like a trellis and fix the nitrogen in the soil.)
Squash can be planted by beans, peas, radishes, or marigolds.
In pots, I have milkweed (I grow this to raise Monarch butterflies), broccoli, smaller tomato varieties, peppers, bell peppers, basil, green onions, dill, cilantro, and parsley. I grow most of my herbs (parsley, dill and carrot tops) to attract Swallowtails to my garden. The Swallowtail caterpillars eat those plants.
Q: How do you prepare the land? Do you buy a certain type of soil?
A: In my garden I have plants in the ground, in pots, in a raised garden bed, and in hanging planters. I also start seeds and regrow scraps in my kitchen windowsill in jars of water.
In raised beds, I use 40% compost and 60% soil. For pots, you can buy potting soil sold in bags at a local garden store. In the ground, I add compost 3-4 weeks to the top of the soil before planting and use the layer method.
Q: What gardening tools will you need?
A:You don’t need much to start, and you can build up your garden tools as you go. To begin, invest in some good gardening gloves, hand trowel, pruning sheers, and organic seeds. You can make your own garden labels out of popsicle sticks, painted rocks, wine corks, old wood or anything you can come up with. Being creative in the garden makes it special!
Q: Anything special to know when it comes to watering?
A: Water (soak) your inground garden 3-4 times per week long enough for it to reach the roots. If you are watering pots, use about 2-3 cups of water. Check your soil often. Remember, as the temperature changes, so do your watering needs. The warmer the weather, the more water needed.
There are some things to watch out for to determine if you need to adjust your watering.
If you see dry soil, wilted brown leaves, and slowed growth, then you are under-watering.
If you see yellow, wilted leaves, browning edges or pests, you are overwatering. (Pests love damp places.)
Q: Speaking of pests, how do you prevent them?
A: To prevent pests…I use all- natural, organic methods!
One thing I do is raise praying mantises. You can order praying mantis egg case from NaturesGoodGuys.com or on Amazon. Two eggs are about $18.99 and will hatch 200-400 praying mantis. As soon as they hatch spread them all over your garden! They will take care of most of your aphids, spiders, crickets, grasshoppers, beetles and caterpillars. Praying mantis will also eat each other, so disperse them quickly. They live for about a year.
Be careful if you are raising Monarch and Swallowtail Butterflies to bring their eggs inside and raise them in a habitat to protect from praying mantis and T-Flies. Live ladybugs can be purchased from Natures Good Guys as well. They will eat aphids and small plant bugs.
Plant flowers to attract paper wasps. They are great to have in your garden and they will eat all the cabbage loopers, hornworms and army worms that attack your foliage! I have three resident wasps in my garden and they are keeping it looking lovely! Make sure you have a water station for them to drink. I use a bird bath with a small fountain pump for them to crawl up on if they accidentally go too deep.
Get a bird bath and bird stand in to attract local birds. They are a beautiful addition to your garden and they will pick off garden pests like caterpillars, insects and spiders.
If you are having trouble with mice or rats, get yourself a garden cat.
Q: Anything special you do between planting seasons?
A: Between planting seasons I always enrich my soil with compost from my backyard tumbling composter. Spread a thick layer of compost on top of the exposed soil. This will replenish nutrients, prevent weeds, and help soil retain moisture. I do not till my soil, as it destroys soil structure. Instead, I let nature do its things. Worms, rain, watering and microorganisms will break down organic matter, producing carbon dioxide and heat, thus producing a richer soil that promotes plant growth and health!
We compost all of our fruit and veggie scraps, shredded paper, toilet paper rolls, dead flowers and leaves, and grass cuttings (we get those from the gardeners). We try to not waste anything!
This replenishes micronutrients in the soil and give your fall plants a strong, healthy start!
Q: Do you have any other planting tips to prevent beginner mistakes?
READ SEED PACKETS AND PLANT LABELS so you don’t over crowd your plants! Make sure you space out your seeds according to their recommendations. Overcrowding your seeds can hinder root growth, increase development of disease, and deplete your plants of essential nutrients needed to grow successfully.
ADD COMPOST & NUTRIENTS about 3-4 weeks prior to planting to replenish soil.
WATER PROPERLY! Always water in the morning so plants have time to dry before nighttime. Many beginners like to sprinkle their soil or leaves from above, and often throughout the day. In reality, you want to give a good long soak to your garden 2-3 times a week, from below the leaves to make certain you prevent disease and the water reaches the roots. Most plants, like tomatoes, cucumbers and squash do not like to get their leaves wet. It causes disease and powdery mildew.
HARVEST OFTEN! Many crops will only produce maximum yield if they are harvested often, like tomatoes, peppers and beans. Harvesting these encourages more production.
USE SUCCESSION PLANTING to continue to have produce month after month!
Q: Any other tips?
A: Definitely remember use succession planting in order to harvest more from your garden. This also allows for multiple harvests. If you plant all of your seeds at the same time, you will likely get a huge harvest with too much food to eat all at once. Essentially, if you want to plant a few rows, wait a few weeks and then plant a few more rows. Your harvests will be spaced out and you will enjoy a long maximum yield from your garden!
Q: I hear you raise Monarch butterflies. Can you tell us more about this?
A: I have tons of tropical and native milkweed plants to attract the beautiful Monarch Butterflies, as we are on their migratory path. As soon as I see a Monarch laying her eggs on the bottom of a milkweed leaf, I snip the leaf off and place it in my indoor enclosure. (I raise the Monarch Cats in an enclosure because nature can be rough. Tachinid Flies will attack monarchs and lay its eggs inside the caterpillar. This never ends well. ) Plus, I get to watch the amazing stages of metamorphosis from egg to Monarch Butterfly.
Here are the Monarch Stages:
Egg (will hatch in 3 days)
Larva (caterpillar): Monarchs go through 5 Instars (time between molting) before they make their chrysalis!
Pupa (Crysalis) 2 weeks
Eclose… A Monarch is born! They will hatch with crumpled wings, and that is ok! Let them be. They will pump their wings and strengthen them to get ready to fly. This may take 1-4 hours. Once they are strong, it is time to release them for their first flight in Coronado!
Q: If you’re looking at gardening as a family activity, what are some good gardening tasks for kids?
A: Gardening with kids is good for the soul! Gardening can improve confidence, fine motor skills, bug recognition, butterfly metamorphosis and the importance of patience. Start small so they don’t get overwhelmed and can feel a sense of accomplishment!
Here are some ideas:
Garden Journal! Take pictures, draw and document everything from their point of view! You will be surprised at how much it changes over the weeks and months.
Start small: Make a fairy garden.
Let them get dirty! It feels good to have your hands in the soil and to dig. Teach them how to make holes for seeds with a stick or chopstick. Have a dirt path where they can just play and create!
Have them drop in the seeds and label what you planted and where! This can be really fun to make the labels together! I love the idea of painting rocks with pictures of what the vegetable or fruit will look like at harvest, color code popsicle sticks, create vegetables out of clay, or even make wood signs to label together as a family.
Get them their own gardening tools so they can feel included. Skip the kids tools, as they can break easily. Get a sturdy gardening set like Fiskar or Tacklife, so they don’t get frustrated with broken tools in the garden.
Compost: Have them be in charge of adding the food scraps and paper items to the composter. They will feel included and accomplished when they can add their very own soil to the garden!
Let them raise and release the garden protectors and pollinators. Have them check on them and document their growth in their garden journal.
Raise Monarchs! They can watch the entire life cycle in about 30 days, document it daily and release their very own Monarch Butterflies! They will be helping the Monarch population, creating new pollinators and making Coronado beautiful!
Q: How long have you been gardening for?
A: I have been gardening for years, but it wasn’t until Covid-19 that I had enough time to really do my research and dive in headfirst! My ultimate goal is to be able to open my back door and hand pick 80% of my meal. I also am supplying seeds and starts to friends and Coronado locals who would like to start their own gardens.
I have always had a tropical plant garden with a few veggies thrown in here and there. I am usually always on the go adventuring, so I would plant what was easy and not very time consuming. Now that I am staying home and have all the time in the world, I decided to do as mush research as possible to grow the best vegetable and fruit garden I could.
A: Plumeria. We raise plumeria from seeds year-round. It takes 3 years from planting a seed to the plant maturing enough to bloom. Each seed pod takes nine months to mature.
Plumeria do amazing in Coronado. They have leaves and blooms from May to November and lose their leaves and are dormant for the remainder of the year. We have over 40 Plumeria plants and enjoy the smell and beauty of Hawaii in our garden!
My favorite varieties are:
Q: Do you think gardening is a challenge, or is it easy? And what are some of the benefits of gardening?
A: Gardening takes time and it is a bunch of hits and misses, but it is oh-so-rewarding! Gardening can reduce stress, give you a sense of purpose (I run out to my garden every morning to see what has grown or ripened), boost immunity (with Vitamin D and all the veggies that you will be eating!), help combat loneliness (Plants thrive when you talk to them) and increase your overall happiness!
Well, there you have it! What do you think? Do any of you garden yourselves, or has this article inspired you to dig in? I know I’m excited to give it a go. I promise to keep you posted!
Thanks Roberta for the amazing and helpful tips! Happy gardening!
Rebecca Sauer is a critical care nurse and local mosaic artist. She lives in Coronado with her husband, David, and her son, Andre. She flew to New York City to work in the intensive care unit of New York Presbyterian Hospital of Lower Manhattan during the COVID-19 outbreak. These are her diaries.
I’m in New York, and it’s surreal. All week I haven’t been able to believe I was going, and now, I can’t believe I’m actually here. I had done everything I could to prepare Andre, my seven- year-old sweet son for my leaving. A few nights earlier, I had held him in my arms in the big bed as he cried hard, sweating, and begging me not to go. I felt like a ghoul.
Why was I doing this? Nursing has never been a ‘higher-power’ type calling for me; I don’t have a Florence Nightingale complex. All week since announcing my plans, I’ve been getting the whole, “hero/angel” bit. It has made me absolutely cringe with discomfort. I’m neither.
I have the mouth of a sailor, the sense of humor of an 11 year old, am outspoken often to my detriment, and have faults too numerous to count. My husband, David deserves to be dipped in bronze and immortalized in song for putting up with me.
So again, why? Why am I leaving a family that needs me, to help strangers, and very possibly get infected? I’m overweight and have asthma. Covid-19 would probably be a death sentence. I’ve felt irresponsible, reckless, and foolhardy, but definitely not heroic. How can I explain my compulsion to go?
How can I explain that, where I work, they’ve cut back on elective surgeries to the extent that there’s practically no work to be done? All in preparation for a surge that, thanks to aggressive and early isolation and social distancing, hasn’t really hit yet. How can I explain that I’ve been antsy, twiddling my thumbs, marinating in the news and Facebook, not sleeping well, and just overeating out of anxiety and boredom? How can I explain my sense of aimlessness, purposelessness, and the feeling like my skills are going to waste here? The action is elsewhere, most urgently in New York City, and I feel like I just need to be there, plain and simple.
It’s where I should be right now.
Critical care nursing fulfills several needs for me. It’s unbelievably challenging at times, physically, emotionally, and intellectually. I need that stimulation. It gives me a sense of purpose and usefulness. Like I’m not just taking up space and wasting a carbon footprint. Forget Sudoku. I’d rather solve a puzzle that saves someone’s life, tweaking IV medications, adjusting someone’s airway, figuring out that the patient is crashing for a reason unseen by the naked eye, but that can be deduced by a series of actions, tests, skills, and experience.
I like the intimacy. I like being able to put a patient at ease when they’re at their most vulnerable. To me, it’s an honor. To comfort a family through the worst time of their entire lives- what could be more of a privilege? And to be there for fellow colleagues in their moment of desperation; that’s the calling. I can’t ignore it.
I want to go- feel compelled to go because they need help. And why shouldn’t it be me? (By the way, most of my colleagues think I’m nuts. They’re worried about me and don’t think I should risk it.) To each her own I guess when it comes to motivations. Luckily, I have a few closer ones who are behind me one hundred percent.
At the Jetblue check-in, it all started to close in on me. David heard my breathing quicken and could see the tears forming over the top of my mask. I had reassured him earlier that I had every intention of keeping it together for Andre. We feared that Andre would pick up on my emotional state. No dice. I began to hyperventilate slightly, and that started the sweats. I was starting to melt down. Andre noticed and came over to me, putting his little arms around me. “You’ll be okay, Mommy” he said.
The roles had reversed. He’d had his meltdown, and seemed to understand that now, I needed mine. As Andre comforted me, a sharply dressed man in line behind me offered kind and encouraging words. I had explained my situation to the ticket agent so she wouldn’t think I was bananas, and the man had thanked me for going to New York to help. When Andre and David and I sat down at a table to eat a little lunch together before parting, I told David about the kind man and his words, to which Andre piped up, “maybe he was looking for a date.”
Yeah, kid. Probably.
After an extremely pleasant flight with about 10 other people on board, some of whom were also healthcare providers, I got into my Uber for the trip from JFK into lower Manhattan, the night clear and brisk. I’d seen video of the Empire State Building, its upper third lit up in red and pulsing like a heartbeat- a tribute to healthcare workers. When it came into view I couldn’t help but choke up to see it in person.
I feel humbled being here. And disoriented, anxious, insecure and scared. Scared of buckling under the sheer physical stress of the job. Afraid I won’t hold up under all the PPE, which sucks to wear at the best of times. Afraid that I’ll pass out from dehydration from sweating, the hypercarbia that ensues when you wear an N95 mask for an entire 12-hour shift, rebreathing your own exhaled C02. I know of a nurse who passed out mere hours into her shift, having to get tested and sent home.
I don’t want to be a liability instead of an asset. I’m afraid of getting claustrophobic, of vomiting, of having a panic attack. I’m not prone to that, but anything can happen in this kind of high stress circumstance. Afraid I’ll screw up. These patients are SO fragile, they have to be chemically paralyzed to keep their vital signs stable. They can’t afford for me to be slow, or incompetent, or incapacitated.
My apartment is furnished and fully-equipped. It’s in Tribeca, a fantastic neighborhood in lower Manhattan, and my building is right on the Hudson. I got in at 9pm, and was grateful to find a 24-hour deli a block away. As I was looking for the deli, I still managed in my fatigue, to get slightly lost. Unconsciously, I found myself singing ‘’Me and Julio Down by the School Yard,” by Paul Simon. For one thing, I was walking past a school yard. Laughing to myself, I sang:
I’m on my way…
I don’t know where I’m goin’
I’m on my way, takin’ my time, but I don’t know where
Goodbye Rosie, Queen of Corona…
The queen of Corona, indeed. Oh, and my middle name is Rose. Could this be my new nickname? Anyway, I found the deli, and got a bagel with smoked trout. Even though my hands still stink after washing them like Lady Macbeth, it was worth it.
Today I walked most of the way to my hospital, New York Presbyterian of Lower Manhattan. It’s a nice walk of just under one mile. About 95% of storefronts are closed and shuttered, so it’s unnaturally quiet. You can imagine how this neighborhood must bustle with vehicular and foot traffic; the Freedom Tower and WTC memorial are only about 4 blocks away.
The relative quiet was broken by a street construction crew. A worker complained about a pipe being too shallow, and his coworker responded with an authentic New York, “Fuggetaboutit!” I grinned under my mask in childish glee.
My walk takes me through the heart of Tribeca, and to my delighted surprise, through the small park that surrounds City Hall, home of audacious pigeons and fat brazen squirrels looking for a handout. Administering the handout today was Ron, whom I now think of as The Squirrel Whisperer. A lifelong Tribeca resident, he told me that feeding the squirrels is his therapy. While they ate out of his hand, sometimes scampering up his pant legs, he told me interesting details about the neighborhood and its architecture.
It was great. When he ran out of nuts, he told me he had to go to another park to feed “the professionals.” Apparently those squirrels sit on his lap. I love fuggetabout it guy. I love Ron. I love Tribeca. I love New York.
I didn’t go out today. The weather report called for rough windy thunderstorms with hail. They kept saying it was going to hit any moment. I absolutely adore wild weather, and it’s something I miss, being in Southern California, so I was psyched. We did get some rain, wind and a couple of lightning flashes, but it was somewhat of a letdown.
I set my alarm for 6:55pm, and went up to the roof. I had heard the tribute to the essential workers the evening before, but nothing prepared me for hearing and seeing it from the 19th floor. At 7pm in New York, the people go wonderfully, loudly, joyfully goofy. They bang pots and pans, howl like wolves, shout, blow air horns, car horns, whistles, and generally whip up a cacophony. It was hard to not get choked up.
Elderly folks and little kids join their parents, shouting, “I love you, doctors and nurses!” They sustain the clamor for about five minutes, and it’s hard not to fall in love with them. I felt moved beyond belief, and for the first time, like I really am doing the right thing, and should be here, and am here for the right reasons. It’s the first time I’ve felt a sense of calm resolution in my purpose.
It’s still incredibly hard to not be able to hold Andre in my arms. He’s a pretty emotionally-attached and cuddly little guy. I’ve been video calling with them multiple times a day. Even in San Diego, I have to often say goodnight to him over the phone on days when I’m working, so it doesn’t seem that abnormal. He seems happy and his normal self. It’s still hard to not be able to mommy him in person, and to help comfort him through the distress of a loose tooth (Andre’s kryptonite). I know it’s hard for David as well. He’s teaching via Zoom and working on his master’s degree. I shopped like crazy and left them in a clean, well-stocked apartment. Still, I know full-time daddying is hard. I know that David is extremely worried about my welfare, but to his credit, he has supported me throughout this endeavor.
Not much to report today. I start my online orientation tomorrow. It was a beautiful day today, clear and crisp with blue skies, but cold- in the low 40’s. I made my way to the neighborhood Whole Foods (any money I make from this contract will go right to them). But I need to get good food- fruits and veggies to keep myself healthy for what I’m about to go through. I can’t just eat bagels and smoked fish, as much as I’d like to.
The highlight of my day was meeting three- year-old Cooper and his lovely parents on the rooftop deck. Coop had a drum and drumsticks, and contributed to the din very nicely. The neighbor who comes out to the deck and howls, let out a “YABBA-DABBA-DOOOO” tonight. I love them all, and am determined to do my very best by them.
Today I went to my hospital for the first time so I could get my badge. The hospital looks somewhat old and dated, and a far cry from Coronado or La Jolla. The other nurses I’ve spoken to, both of whom work at different hospitals, have warned me about what I can expect. Old equipment, lack of equipment, and questionable dynamics between medical professionals. Patients unimaginably sick. It’s not my first rodeo. I’ll do whatever I can with whatever they have.
I began my online orientation. It took all day to complete computer modules. I spoke with one of my managers, who seems very nice. The peak of this initial surge appears to have passed. To put it into perspective, NY has gone from over 700 deaths/day, to over 400 deaths/day. I see it as having gone from an unmitigated catastrophe, to a mere disaster. They were bringing out a body to a hearse as I was leaving the hospital. At least it was a hearse, and not the 18-wheel refrigerator truck parked outside.
Make no mistake, it is a disaster, and these workers are whipped. They’re so tired. PTSD will be rampant- epidemic when this all calms down.
One of the reasons I hate the whole, “hero/angel” thing, is that, although well-meaning, it’s dehumanizing. We’re not fictional idealized characters, we’re actual people. We’re people who haven’t been trained to encounter anything remotely on this scale, but who have been thrust into it nevertheless. We’re people with feelings, who can only take so much. We’re people who have families that we’re terrified to infect. We’re people who get justifiably angry when we’re cheated out of protective equipment, and expected to just keep going in and taking it, as if signing up to be a nurse was to sign up to be a martyr. We’re people who are angry at being treated as disposable, sacrificial, and expendable. We are doing the best we can to protect a public, in many cases, from itself, and enduring some vicious verbal abuse while doing so.
Today I finished my online orientation. Unfortunately, I’ve been so jet-lagged, I ended up nodding off halfway through the presentation. I spoke with a UCSD colleague who’s working at another hospital here. The other day, they ran out of oxygen. Let me repeat that: a hospital ran out of OXYGEN! She’d never heard of anything like that before, and frankly, neither have I.
I’m nervous about tomorrow. I haven’t worked anything like this before.
In the movie, “The Right Stuff,” Alan Shepard (played masterfully by Scott Glenn) sits in his Mercury capsule, ready for the countdown that will launch him into space. He says into an open mic, “Dear Lord, please don’t let me f#@% up.” That about sums it up.
It was an eerily quiet and calm first shift. I’d expected the 9th circle of Hell, but it seems like that eased up in about the last week or so. A week ago, New York finally saw less than 500 deaths per day. It’s hard to know the true numbers. Of course the conspiracy theorists opine that the number is inflated, but in truth, it’s probably pretty accurate- maybe even higher. We may never know the exact number, but hundreds upon hundreds a day is unspeakable. That we are becoming inured to that, is a testament to how altered our world has become. I continue to maintain that it’s improved from being an unmitigated catastrophe, to a mere disaster.
New York Presbyterian is a private hospital system that includes Columbia and Cornell- the bigger flagships. The Lower Manhattan location is a smaller outpost with the feel of a community hospital, and is driven by PA’s, not residents. Technically, I’m in the ICU float pool here, but since there’s only one ICU, I happily have a home base.
It is tucked into the southeastern onramp to the Brooklyn Bridge, on the edge of Chinatown. There is a beautiful old copper-roofed orange brick firehouse across the street with a huge Chinese tiger on the garage door. It reminds me so wistfully of the House of Dragons, my one-time home away from home in Philadelphia. I now have another reason to feel sentimental about Chinatown firehouses, and loved watching the guys in their turnout gear, playing street hockey in the preternatural stillness.
The unit itself is interesting. Physically, it’s worn and faded. Not the state-of-the-art I’m used to in La Jolla, or as flat-out shiny and full of art installations as Coronado. The layout is like a capital “H,” but with a few more connecting horizontals. The two long parallel corridors are the patient rooms, big glass boxes essentially.
In normal times, they would be visually separated from each other by curtains on the common glass walls in between, but those curtains have been removed, so you can see down and through the whole aisle of rooms at a glance. This is imperative, because when you’re in head-toe PPE and in a room and you need something, you want someone to see you waving right away. People are VERY good about visually checking each other regularly. You don’t want to have to rubberneck to get attention.
There are plenty of staff now that the travelers are all here. I only had one patient today with my preceptor. She was a sick patient for sure, but one that I could have taken paired with another one if they’d needed it. I didn’t see nursing assistants (although I think they have them) but what I did see were med-surg nurse travelers who are assigned to the ICU as helpers. I thought that was amazing.
There are fewer patients than just a week ago, when there were two patients in each single room. Today only one room had two patients. Almost every patient in the ICU has Covid-19, and almost everyone is very, very sick. To minimize the amount of time clinicians have to venture into a patient’s room, the IV pumps and CRRT machines (a continual non-stop form of dialysis for patients too critical to withstand big fluid shifts) sit outside the patient’s rooms in the hallways. Each pump requires about 3 lengths of IV tubing to reach the distance. It’s a huge tripping hazard in the room when in PPE, so you have to move about carefully. I’m no ballerina, so I have to be vigilant and tread purposefully.
My patient today was my age, only a few months older. Ventilated, sedated and on a IV pressor drip to keep her blood pressure stable, in spite of a ton of sedation, she was easily arousable–not a good feature when on a ventilator. If a patient is not well sedated, they’ll become desynchronis with, or fight the vent. Having a tube down your throat and a machine forcing you to breathe against your own body’s rhythms is panic-inducing. The urge to rip out the tube is irresistible and most, if not all have to be restrained for their own safety. Agitation also uses up metabolic reserves that the patient doesn’t have. The problem with over-sedation is that Propofol (aka, “the Michael Jackson drug”) is fatty. It’s looks like whole milk. The patients who are on this medication for too long have extremely elevated lipid profiles, which is problematic.
All the meds have side effects and adverse effects. Nothing is without risk. Even being intubated for too long can lead to tissue breakdown in the mouth and throat, and in the usual world, after ten days to two weeks, the patient would receive a tracheostomy and wean off the vent that way.
These patients aren’t weaning, however, they’re dying. They’re developing microscopic blood clots that occlude blood flow and therefore, can have impaired function to their lungs, brains, hearts, kidneys, and everything else. I heard about a patient somewhere who lost a leg due to Covid-related clotting. So you put them on blood thinners. And that causes other problems.
My lady today was on 60% FiO2. Room air is 21%. So by rights she should have terrific blood oxygen levels. Nope. Her blood oxygen, or SpO2, should have been 99-100%, but it was 95%. Normal on room air, not good on 60%. And then we laid her flat to turn her. Sedated critically ill patients need to be turned every two hours at minimum to prevent pressure ulcers. No matter how terrific the air mattress, they have to be turned. Pressure ulcers can kill. It’s a constant battle in the ICU. Nothing is worse for creating pressure ulcers than having the patient sitting up and not moving.
The flatter the head of the bed, the better, because that takes pressure off of the sacrum, the most vulnerable spot. Unfortunately, that’s the absolute worst position for the lungs to expand. The more the patient is sitting up, the better their lung expansion. And blood pressure, what about that? Sitting up makes the blood pool in the legs prompting thrombosis, and away from the brain when the pressure is unstable. The first thing we do when the blood pressure tanks as a stopgap, is to lay the patient flat so they can continue to perfuse their brain. We’ll elevate the legs, too. ‘But wait, you said that laying the patient flat was bad for the lungs…’
You’re getting it.
It’s a constant game of robbing Peter to pay Paul. And that’s just one tiny aspect of critical care medicine. There are skills and nuances that take years, a career to acquire. So when the understandably uninformed public thinks it’s all about the number of ventilators, it’s dangerously short-sighted. You could have enough equipment to treat every patient, but who’s going to run it?
So going back to my lady, we laid her flat to turn her. NO ONE is getting turned every 2 hours in Covid-World, but we decided to try. We gave her small sedation and narcotic boluses, put on our PPE and went in. Upon the head of her bed being lowered, her SpO2 dropped to 79%. I could hold my breath until I turned blue, and probably couldn’t get it down to that before gasping for air.
She wouldn’t come back up. We turned up her FiO2 to 100% and suctioned her, but some of these patient’s lungs are full of infection, not mucous, and so far, there wasn’t much to suction. We called the PA and doctor and respiratory therapist (unsung champions) to the bedside and made adjustments to her breathing tube and obtained chest X-rays. We got blood gasses and changed ventilator settings. It took her forever to come back, and by the end of the shift, she was only up to 92%.
Basically, laying her flat de-recruited her alveoli. Her lungs collapsed, but on a microscopic level. The pressure settings were increased to re-inflate the little tiny grape-like clusters of minute air sacs.
Like I said, these patients are sick. Mouth care every 4 hours to prevent VAP- ventilator associated pneumonia? Apparently not that either. They can’t handle the stimulation. This patient’s blood pressure was hanging in a sweet spot on meticulously titrated doses of IV medication. And the clinicians quite frankly, can’t afford to spend so much time in the room due to the increased risk of contracting the virus due to prolonged exposure to increased viral loads.
Speaking of exposure, my N95 didn’t fit well. For one thing, I wasn’t fit tested. Fit testing is important. They have you wear the mask for a few minutes and then put on a clear hood. They squirt some aerosolized saccharine into the hood and have you move your head all around and speak. You absolutely should NOT smell anything. Well, I went into the bathroom and thought, wow, this bathroom is really clean! I can smell the bleach… uh oh…
Then, I went into an adjoining patient’s room to cover her with a warm blanket. She wasn’t intubated, so her room was full of Coronavirus in spite of the negative pressure. The patient smelled bad. Really bad. And I could smell it. Again, uh oh…
They gave me another type of N95. It worked better. I could still smell a little, but the straps were so tight they left marks and gave me a headache. I’ll still wear it on my next shift. It’ll hurt though. I’d rather be uncomfortable- massively-so, than catch this heinous disease.
The highlight of the day was unquestionably, the firefighter tribute. My preceptor urged me to go outside to the front entrance to witness it. A full battalion was parked outside, and all of the firefighters were there in their turnout gear. Four of them held flags- a full honor guard. The lights on the rigs were all flashing and they were working the sirens, “whoop WHOOP!” And then they started blasting music. I have always thought the Journey song, “Don’t Stop Believin’” was heinously cheesy, and have a private bad association with it. But not now. They blared it. And cheered. And the civilians cheered and clapped and held signs. And we cheered and danced and clapped for them.
And I took the worst video of the proceedings possible, because I was ugly-crying behind my eyewear and mask. I was overcome with regret that I hadn’t come sooner, when the need was so much more desperate. All I can hope for is to be of service to these clinicians to the best of my ability.
I don’t think a few weeks is going to be enough for me to feel in any way worthy of this level of tribute from New York’s finest. I just hope that my best is enough and to be useful. I guess it’s something for me to be part of the relief effort. If my presence means that another nurse has a lighter assignment by even one patient, that’ll have to be enough. By the way, the nurse orienting me said that the firefighters do this with different music, but the same enthusiasm, every single evening.
Not much to report today. Just feeling contemplative about everything. Last night was a really rough bedtime for Andre, missing me. He was crying and in utter heartbreaking despair. David cuddled him in the big bed while I sang to him, “Somewhere Over the Rainbow.”
He seems a lot better today, but it’s really hard to be apart from my baby and my husband. I always tell Andre that he and his daddy are the two halves of my heart. They are my heart, and I can only be away from them for so long. Three more weeks is an eternity, that hopefully, will go by quickly. I can’t write too much about it without getting depressed.
It was nice to do my laundry and go back to Zucker’s Bagels and Smoked Fish, where Chris (one of the guys who works there) remembered my name after just one visit. I guess I was goofy enough to make an impression. He called me, “Becky,” a moniker I loathe from just about anyone but my Philly firefighters. I told that to Chris, and that he can be a part of that select few.
Tomorrow I go back to the ICU, this time on my own. Heaven help me.
Exhausted. So much I’m shaking. I’ve just forced myself to eat dinner- usually NOT one of my challenges.
I’m confused by this disease. My patient today was an 82 year old woman who fell down at home and hit her head, causing a brain bleed, luckily not a terrible one. She also has Covid-19. She has it in the way that I have blue eyes. It’s an incidental finding, asymptomatic, contagious for sure, but not to her detriment apparently. She’ll finish getting treated for her neurosurgical problem, and hopefully go on her merry way back home.
The patient in the room next door is my lady from Saturday. My age, with only one well-controlled comorbidity, she’s gotten far worse. She’s now chemically paralyzed in preparation for being pronated. Pronation is when a patient is positioned on their stomach, face down- face turned to the side actually, to maintain their intubated airway.
This is a last-ditch effort. There’s almost nowhere to go on the ventilator settings, and pronation allows the bottom and rear portions of the lungs to re-expand, and for any drainage that’s been just sitting there, to mobilize. They stay on their belly for 16 hours, and then get turned back over onto their back again. Arterial blood gasses are taken every 4 hours to evaluate how well it’s working.
The problem with Covid-19 and why it’s nothing like the flu, is that the flu can lead to pneumonia. Your lungs get junky, you get secretions. You either get over the viral part of it with time, or take antibiotics to combat the secondary bacterial component. Then, usually, you’re done.
Covid-19 is insidiously nasty in ways we’re just beginning to understand. With Covid-19, the lungs aren’t always full of secretions, they’re full of infection. And then there’s the micro-clots. The micro-clots can affect every system, including the brain, heart, lungs and kidneys.
There’s not just a temporary condition that resolves with time and treatment like with the flu; there’s damage. Often permanent debilitating damage. The kind that leads to pulmonary fibrosis- irreversible lung scarring, cardiac damage, impaired kidney function, and strokes. And because it’s brand new, no one really knows what the long-term effects are for the lucky survivors of critical Covid-19 infections.
Some are reporting that those who go home after these prolonged ICU stays aren’t quite right. It’s ugly, and it’s unfair, and there seems to be no rhyme or reason for who gets a mild case, and those for whom it’s fatal. I feel like I’m getting the education of a lifetime, and the nursing experience of a career, but at a terrible cost. They didn’t want to prone this lady initially. Because she’s so tolerant of the sedation- hard to fully sedate, they’ve been reticent to paralyze her. There’s probably no more horrifying predicament than to be paralyzed but alert and aware, and unable to communicate. It can lead to debilitating PTSD. But she’s going to die if they don’t, so they place her on some different sedation drugs and snow her with them.
In spite of the sheer gravity of the situation, I’ve never had a more positive experience in my entire nursing career. The physical plant of the hospital may be old and run-down, but the culture is incredible. I’ve worked at my San Diego hospital for over ten years, and I’ve never met the Chief Nursing Officer. I wouldn’t even know her if I ran into her.
Today was my second day in the NYP ICU, and I met the CNO and COO. They stopped at our workstation and asked us about ourselves, where we were from, what brought us here, and how we were doing. They expressed their sincere appreciation.
The unit is overstaffed, but they’re not even thinking about cancelling travel contracts. They know their staff and round regularly, greeting them by name. They are the senior-most management, but their offices are, by choice, in the basement. This is because they want to be in touch with everyone, including the janitorial staff. I’ve never experienced this kind of leadership before. It starts with them and filters down to the middle and lower management.
Everyone is hugely supportive. These managers know what time of day it is on the ground, and they are committed to supporting their traumatized staff. They are consciously over-staffing because they know that their clinicians are shell-shocked and need a break. And the staff are magnificent. The cohesion is there, and they work together seamlessly. It would be easy to feel proprietary when overrun with temporary workers, but they are appreciative and welcoming. They are grateful for the help.
I’m scheduled to work on Mother’s Day. I won’t be able to celebrate with my own child, so I’m glad to enable at least one staff nurse to enjoy the day with her own. I continue to feel so incredibly humbled.
I hope my lady makes it through the night. Saturday she was following commands and interacting. That’s how quickly patients can take a turn for the worse. On Saturday I thought of her as “stably-unstable.” Now she’s just unstable. Her body is under attack, and I just hope to God she wins. I’ll find out tomorrow morning when I go back in. For tonight, I’m exhausted. And maybe a little proud of myself for performing well. That’s been my goal from the beginning. I feel like my fatigue is earned.
Exhausted. Don’t feel like writing.
I recovered an ICU admit today, an RRT from the floor. The Rapid Response Team is called for various criteria outside the ICU- indicators that the patient is declining. It’s a precursor to calling a Code- an attempt to avoid a Code.
The criteria are usually: a sustained or unusually high (or low) heart rate, a dangerously-low (or high) blood pressure, a change in mental status, a decrease in blood oxygenation, a decreased urine output, and my favorite, the intuition of the nurse that something is wrong.
A nurse spends more time with the patients by far than the doctors. We know our patients, and that 6th sense should be honored. If it turns out that nothing is wrong particularly, the RRT is ideally seen as a teaching moment; no one is ever (or should ever) be chastised for calling one, as we don’t want floor nurses to ever hesitate to make that call.
The activation of an RRT goes above the immediate 1st Call resident, and calls to the bedside an attending physician, a respiratory therapist, and a critical care nurse. They ensure adequate IV access, obtain 12-lead EKGs, labs, and provide increased support at a higher skill level. Usually a transfer to the ICU ensues, and that critical care nurse stays with the patient until that happens.
My patient was found to be unresponsive with an SpO2 of 26%. To put that into perspective, a donut will usually have one of 50% or so, even if without a heartbeat. 26% is lower than an inanimate object- not even a reliable number. The patient has Covid-19, but they think he also may have aspirated. He has a feeding tube in the right place, but if he has an insufficient esophageal sphincter, some regurge isn’t unthinkable, however unlikely.
It’s likely to be a turn of his Covid-19, but he had (and has) a lot of secretions that do look suspiciously like tube feed, so aspiration is the going diagnosis. Still, secretions and coughing and Covid-19 are less than appealing conditions to go into, even in a negative pressure room, so I didn’t want to bring my helpers, two med-surg nurses into the room any more than I had to.
These young women are fantastic and have lightened my load considerably. One helped me to do an epic repositioning, cleaning, and linen change on the patient. It mobilized a ton of secretions so I could suction them, and mobilized other bodily processes as well. He was a tall guy, not huge, but not tiny. He was also incredibly stiff, so it was hard to turn him. I put my back into it more than I probably should have in order to spare hers. For the rest of the shift, I turned him myself, to further limit her exposures.
The patient who had been unresponsive previously, groaned through the big repositioning ordeal. We reassured him. At the end, he murmured his thanks. We asked if he felt more comfortable, and he said yes. It felt wonderful. This is why I do this. My gift to him is really his gift to me. I made a difference in his life. I gave him dignity and comfort. I’ve earned my carbon footprint for another day.
I ended up getting my N95 fit test, and passed without smelling the saccharine spray. Back in the ICU however, I can still smell the bleach, sanitizing wipes, poo and pee. Luckily, my colleagues assure me that so can they. I feel a little better about my protection.
At 7pm, I went down to the nightly firefighter tribute. This initial surge is declining. The tributes have to end sometime, and these will end on Thursday. It might be my last chance to see it and film it. I did so.
No music tonight, but instead they blared their sirens on full blast. I probably lost some hearing, but it was worth it. I took a picture with a firefighter named Frank. He gave me his number so I could send him the video. I ended up friending him on Facebook so he could see them all. He is the father of twins who are exactly the same age as Andre. His ladder company is directly across the street from the WTC.
How can he be applauding me? It’s ass-backwards. I try to explain that I’m just here for a few weeks to take some pressure off the REAL combat veterans, after the peak of the battle, no less. He’s not having it. He’s insistent on giving me my due, and I feel like a fraud.
I crawled home, my lower back protesting every step. I passed a really New Yorky pizza place, and even though I had food at the apartment, I bought a slice.
I ate it in the bathtub.
I woke up early this morning. I’d taken ibuprophen, magnesium, and a muscle relaxant last night, so I slept hard. But when I started to get out of bed, my thigh cramped up like a rock, all the way around- inner, outer, front and back. I punched it with my fist in desperation. Finally I was able to get up and take more of the same as last night. I forced myself to drink a ton of water. Even though I’m trying to drink a lot of water, I think I’m dehydrated.
As the day’s worn on, I feel under the weather- foggy, scratchy throat. I have a tiny pulse oximeter with me. Some Covid-19 patients feel fine, but their SpO2 is in the 80’s and their chest X-rays look heinous. I chastised myself as I measured my blood oxygen. Normal, of course. I’d have to have been exposed on my first day to be symptomatic. I feel just as shitty after a hard shift and muscle relaxants at home. But of course, nothing is normal now.
I’ve spent the day watching TV and taking a nap, but at 6:30pm, I’d like to walk to work and experience one last firefighter tribute. I won’t go tomorrow night. That last tribute is for the core staff, as far as I’m concerned, and for them only. It would feel unseemly to attend.
Then again, maybe I won’t go tonight. I’m tired and a little down. I miss David and Andre. I miss my own, albeit less comfortable bed. I miss our cat, my friends, and my little island home. I want to feel those two precious pairs of arms around me and my arms around them. I want to hold that little body and breathe in his hair, kiss those chubby cheeks.
The local news is on TV. A hospital far away is having one of those happy celebratory discharges of a Covid-19 patient. She was on a ventilator for 2 weeks and is now going home.
Why is this making the news? Because it’s so goddamned rare. The public sees these encouraging feel-good stories and gets the wrong idea. Also on the news, the Department of Defense is dispatching mental health professionals to New York. Ones that specialize in combat stress.
I didn’t go to the hospital tonight. When I got downstairs, it was raining, and given that I don’t feel great, I decided to call it a day. Hopefully I’ll feel better tomorrow.
Again, too exhausted to write. So exhausted that when I got home, I tried to get into my next door neighbor’s apartment. I fiddled with the key, confounded as to why it wouldn’t turn in the damned lock, until the occupant banged on their side of the door, startling me out of my reverie. I stammered an apology and slunk to my own apartment. I slept well.
Today was a good day. My lady is soldiering along, but she’s in for a lot of suffering no matter what her outcome.
From the beginning, she’s been a tank with regard to sedation. Although she has no history of drug or opioid use, she really requires a lot. On Saturday, with pretty significant amounts of sedation, she was responsive and following commands. Although she was on a ventilator, she was able to indicate that she was comfortable and didn’t need increased sedation. It was pretty interesting. Over the next day she declined, requiring more and more oxygen, and the decision was made to paralyze her and deepen her sedation so she could be pronated.
Even so, she still has managed to follow some commands, like opening her mouth for oral care, which is crazy. She’s on steroids to combat the inflammation. That causes her blood sugar to go sky high, necessitating epic amounts of insulin. She’s about 8 liters positive, and to diurese her at this stage would kill her.
We keep track of every drop of medication, water, and tube feed that goes in, and every drop of urine that comes out. She’s gotten 8 more liters of fluids in than she’s put out, and that means she is terrifically swollen. The swelling follows gravity, and she’s face-down for 16 hours out of 24, so it’s particularly pronounced in her neck and face. Her eyes are nearly swollen shut, and her poor lips are a Kardashian nightmare. Her tongue protrudes, because it’s too swollen to fit inside her mouth completely. We’ve started Benadryl today to help with that, but also, because she has a rash over much of her torso. This could be from the medication, or it could be from microclotting in her skin. We’re not sure.
She also has random blisters. We bathe her daily with antimicrobial solution and sprinkle her with antifungal powder, and cover the blisters with foam dressings. There are foam dressings on the front of her ankles, feet, knees, nipples, shoulders and clavicles, and sternum. These are to prevent pressure sores when she’s on her stomach.
She’s on a fentanyl IV drip. This is a narcotic for pain control, and she’s on a lot of it. A side effect is constipation, and possible impaction. She hasn’t had a bowel movement since I started taking care of her, which was 5 days ago. I really don’t know when she last had one. I approach the PA about the need to get more aggressive with her bowel regimen. The tube feed is going in, and it has to come out. Plus, any impaction in her belly will press up against her diaphragm and lungs. She has to poo.
We increase her stool softener and add 2 different laxatives and a suppository. I hope it will work. I tell the PA that although this will make my job a lot harder, it’s what the patient needs. She is prone when I start my shift, and at about 9am, we supinate her- or place her on her back. This requires at least 5 people. 3 are physical therapists. They have morphed into the pronation team. They do the lion’s share of the work. They know where to put the foam dressings, how to take off the EKG leads (they will be placed back on the patient’s chest), and how to sandwich the patient between sheets, paper chux, and a turning/sliding mat. I manage the arterial line, the multiple tubes going to the central line in her neck, the urinary catheter, and the peripheral IV’s. The respiratory therapist controls the breathing tube and makes sure that it never gets dislodged or occluded. Additionally, another ICU nurse stands outside the room with the IV pumps, prepared to bolus sedation if the patient stirs, or to run and get needed supplies.
In the afternoon, as we prepare to turn the patient back onto her stomach, I send the outside nurse to get a rectal tube. The bowel medication has worked, and the patient has had a bowel movement. I get to work cleaning her. The PT’s lift her legs and even the PA is helping to turn her. As I clean her, just as one would a baby, her reddened angry fragile skin sloughs off, tearing away no matter how gentle I try to be. I wince with contrition and apologize to her. I’m hurting her, but there’s not much I can do about it. I have to clean her. I cover her poor skin with a thick white barrier cream, and insert the rectal tube. It is held in place by a balloon that I inflate with water, that keeps it in the rectum. This is essential. Her skin can’t afford to be in contact with any more stool, and she can’t be easily cleaned on this turning schedule.
We continue to draw labs, make adjustments to the ventilator settings, and titrate medications. We will start her on Remdesivir tonight. It’s a clinical trial, and she meets the criteria. Her family has consented. I look it up to see if it needs to go through a central line, and if it’s compatible with other IV medications. There’s no information to be found, because it’s brand new. The PA gives me some guidance.
The PA’s are fantastic- knowledgeable, approachable, and available. I love working with them. As we do these turns, especially this last one, my goggles build up so much condensation from my sweat, I can barely see. I am soaked. After I take off my PPE and leave the room to wash, I am fatigued. I stuff my headband- designed for wicking away sweat with yoga, into my pocket. I can’t reuse it today, because it’s sopping wet. My scrubs are sticking to me. I sit.
And then the realization sinks in.
I’ve been busy with this patient all day, and I’m tired. One patient. A few weeks ago, these nurses were taking care of FOUR just like her simultaneously. No wonder they’re traumatized. To deliver the highest standard of care to this patient has kept me busy. How would I do it with four? Not well. Not to basic standards. Not to my standards, just like it undoubtedly wasn’t to theirs. How would I feel if I couldn’t give my lady the level of mouth care she needed, and had to leave her gargling on secretions because I had three others who each needed something more pressing to keep them alive?
I feel tired, but proud of the care I delivered today. How must they have felt, as their patients declined around them, deprived of everything but the sheer basics? How could they not break from the stress of just managing blood pressures and airways for that many, who could each, in a normal setting, be one-to-one assignments. They are traumatized, my NY colleagues. They did the best they could, a herculean effort, knowing that it wasn’t enough, and probably wondering how much better their patients might have fared had there been enough staff to really meet those patient’s needs. It’s heartbreaking.
This morning, I left a note for my neighbor, apologizing for the attempted break-in. I explained briefly my situation. This evening, I came home to an incredible card from him. He had written:
Thank you for your note, you don’t have to apologize. I should say thank you to you for your dedication and coming to New York to help us.
I found you a quote which I hope you will keep in mind every day. It says…
‘“Helping one person might not change with world, but it could change the world for one person.”’
My one exception to this quote is that I believe in your case and in the case of all your colleagues, you ARE changing the world. In fact, you’re saving it and you’re saving lives, so thank you!
Please be well, stay safe, stay strong, keep your spirits up, and may God bless you always!
I’m so moved. His words were beautiful. A stranger, but with so much caring. I am stunned by the beauty I’ve discovered on this trip.
I usually don’t write in the morning, but it’s such a gorgeous one today. It’s sunny with blue skies, balmy, and I’m OFF today!
I’m doing laundry, but when I’m done, I’m going to go try and pick something up for Frank’s firehouse and drop by for a visit. I just shot him a text to see if his platoon is working this weekend. The Philadelphia Fire Department goes on a platoon schedule, A, B, C, and D. They alternate from 10 hour day shifts to 14 hour night shifts, 2 days, 2 nights, and then 4 off. Not sure if NYFD does the same thing.
In San Diego, all firefighters are paramedics, but the east coast is different. The roles are more delineated. The old school firefighters hated being forced to be EMT’s. Those guys are probably all retired now. It’s been 25 years since I was a paramedic and steeped myself in that culture, and I imagine a lot has changed.
I’m still blown away by the card I received from my neighbor. I was prepared for a heinous clinical experience here in New York, but I was completely unprepared for the human component. The people. I’m staggered by the warmth, compassion, and frankly, the love I’ve encountered here.
The strangers who make noises of every kind for the frontline workers every night at 7pm. The guy who goes up to the rooftop garden to howl his gratitude. The pregnant couple who brought their 3 year old up to the rooftop to beat his little drum. The nice guys at the bagel shop and the pizza shop. The man on the street last night who shouted, “Thank you!” to me from across the intersection as he saw me walking home in my scrubs, and the ladies with the dogs who did the same. The doormen of my building who knew my name within moments of arriving and never forgot it, buzzing the door open for me the moment they see my approach. The endless battalions of firefighters who alternated in giving tributes, probably not only to my hospital, but all the others. The neighbors of the hospital who showed up along with the firefighters, holding homemade signs and waving madly at us. The nurses, PA’s and doctors who welcomed the travelers with open arms and appreciation.
The management, who assured us that no matter how low the numbers fall, they will not cancel contracts. Those same managers who brought us all in to relieve their traumatized staff, and have taken the time to get to know us, from the CNO down to the assistant manager, endlessly supportive of their staff. Those same managers who have supplied the clinical staff with 3 meals a day, endless snacks, and water, ensuring that I will not, unfortunately, lose weight on this assignment. The unit clerk who offered me different N95’s until I could find the best one, and encouraged me to change it when it got soaked with sweat and condensation and stretched out of shape.
The other travelers, who are also supportive of each other as well as the staff. And the long-distance support from Coronado. People who want to help document my experience, strangers who inquire about my well-being and want to send me a care package. The small handful of colleagues who have reached out to check in and support me.
I expected to get battered, but instead I’ve found only warmth, appreciation, gratitude, and support. It’s mind-blowing, and amazing, and life-changing. It’s something that I can never forget.
Well, I took my walk. It is 73 degrees out, and although nothing has reopened, NYC has awakened to greet the Spring. I regret not bringing my flip flops. The chilly grey ghost town that first greeted me is asleep no longer, and it’s a huge change from 2 weeks ago. The trees that were budding and flowering are now gently leafing out. The tulip beds that surround some of the trees and parks are losing their petals and beginning to wilt.
The nearly silent streets have more vehicular traffic, and the locals are out on bikes and on foot. Teenagers and young adults rattled by me on skateboards, and I actually had to wait a minute or two before I could cross my neighborhood bike path, so many bikes were zipping by.
I went to the site of the WTC memorial at Ground Zero. It was roped off, the fountains were off, and the museum was closed, but I could still get very close- close enough to read the names engraved along the edges. Someone had stuck a couple of white roses in the grooves of the names. To actually see it in person was sobering, and I’m sorry I won’t be able to go into the museum on this trip.
Across the street, as Frank had said, was his firehouse, Ladder 10. Right there, at Ground Zero. Affixed to the outside of the station is the 911 Firefighter Memorial Wall.
A huge bronze relief, approximately 5 feet high and 50 feet long, depicts the tragedy. The towers are in flames and billowing smoke in the center, and on either side are scenes depicted of first responders attending the disaster. On the bottom, stretching the full length are the names of the hundreds of firefighters who perished, including their officers and a chaplain. A couple of the guys were standing outside and I chatted them up for a minute or two, thanking them for their wonderful tributes at the hospital. When I explained that I had missed the worst of the surge and was just visiting to provide some support, one said to me, “we’re all in this together.”
And so we are. As I write, the 7pm salute is louder than ever. It’s as if the Yankees have won the pennant. I hear someone yell, “We love you!” I yell back, “I’m a nurse, and I love you, too!” And I do.
I chilled out most of the day, and then took a long walk in Battery Park, along the Hudson to the southern tip of lower Manhattan. Flowers were in bloom, the trees in freshly unfurled new leaves, and the water was lapping along the edge of the waterfront.
A ton of people were out, with no evidence of social distancing. Only about half were wearing masks, and of those, only about half were wearing them correctly- over nose and mouth. When 7pm rolled around and people started cheering, I felt irritated. I wanted to carry a sign proclaiming, “If you’re not going to wear a mask, don’t bother cheering for healthcare workers.” I tried not to let it get to me too much. It was nice to see the Statue of Liberty, the Staten Island Ferry, and an NYPD fireboat chugging along.
Tomorrow begins my third week at NYP. I have no reason to feel nervous, but for some strange reason, I feel a sense of unease. Maybe seeing all of the New Yorkers flaunting social distancing took some of the shine off the Big Apple. I still love it here, and am still very glad to be helping, but I miss David and Andre and my more familiar life. It’s a honeymoon period here right now. Everyone loves and supports everyone… for now. I don’t know what the future will bring, either immediately or in the longer term.
I firmly believe that my time here is in the trough between the first and second Covid-19 wave. I also worry that the next wave will hit soon, and hit hard. It did in 1918, and there’s no reason why this should be any different. If today’s observations are any portent, the warmer the weather and the more the city opens up, the more this virus is going to spread like a pinball machine.
The city/the country/the world can’t remain in lockdown indefinitely, but people need to realize that when it all opens back up, we’re in for some real pain. I’ll be sorry to be unable to come back here to help with the next surge. I’ve promised Andre that I won’t do this again. My bosses wouldn’t let me if I wanted to.
A large handful of nurses came in sort of a delegation from their hospital in Utah. What’s wrong with the culture of my hospital that it doesn’t have the humanity and generosity of spirit to support the same? I’m tied to my hospital with what we refer to as “the golden handcuffs.” The benefits, pension, and pay, as well as the security of being protected by a strong union, are too good to leave. The fact that we NEED a union to protect us however, is demoralizing. It is an institution that sees us as expendable and easily replaceable. It’s all about numbers and revenue. I’m comfortable there, but I don’t exactly feel supported. Maybe that’s too high an expectation of an employer, but after seeing how they do things here, it’s a little depressing.
Anyway, it’s the second eyewall that really does the damage in a hurricane, and I think that when it hits with this virus, it’s going to knock the world on its ass. I’m sure I’ll have plenty to do in San Diego.
I skipped 2 days of entries. Because I was bloody wiped out.
On Monday, my lady got extubated. We lightened her sedation and watched her get more and more restless and agitated. We tried to reorient her, reassure her, explain everything to her, but even though she was with it enough to follow commands, she was just panicky and impulsive.
We explained to her that we needed to try her on a different ventilator setting for an hour (it had been only 10 minutes) to make sure she was able to really breathe on her own. She insisted, indicating “Now! Now!” while banging her arms and kicking her legs and glaring at us, to the point where the PA said “just do it.” We expected her to calm right down when the tube came out, but nope. She continued to be incessantly restless and irritable.
We still had her maxed out on Precidex, a continuous IV sedation drug that doesn’t affect the respiratory drive. I’d be obtunded on it, but she, as I’ve mentioned, is practically untouched by sedation. I continued to try and reorient her, providing emotional support and holding her hand, trying to explain that she had tubes in her bladder, rectum, internal jugular vein and the radial artery (in the wrist). Not to mention all of the monitoring wires to her chest, finger and arm. She wasn’t having any of it. I secured her lines as best I could and alternated with restraints on/off for the rest of the shift, sometimes having to don my PPE as fast as I possibly could to run in and try to get her to chill the hell out.
There’s a phenomenon called ICU delirium, where after long stays and tons of drugs, these patients lose all sense of a circadian rhythm. Day and night get reversed, and they hallucinate. This wasn’t it. At least not completely. She knew who she was and could tell me she was in the hospital. She could follow commands in the moment, but just couldn’t sit still for a second. I asked her to. “Please,” I begged, “I need you to NOT move for 5 seconds while I untangle this,” and she wouldn’t make it past 1. So I went home exhausted. Too tired to write.
Yesterday was worse. She was oriented completely, but just as restless. We titrated her sedation off, gave her Haldol (an antipsychotic) and Ativan (an anxiolytic), but they didn’t touch her any more than they did the day before. Ditto with the Benadryl. She was oriented now to everything, but her behavior was, simply put, crazy. We wondered if she had some sort of pre-existing psychiatric component to her alarming level of restlessness, impulsivity, and neediness. She simply couldn’t lay still.
I went in COUNTLESS times to reposition her, change and straighten her linens, and make sure she was snug as a baby. And like a toddler in a temper tantrum, she would roll and wiggle and scoot around until her lines were tangled or coming off, and her pillows were on the floor, and then she’d bang against the side of the bed for me to come in and pick them up. She wanted her cellphone. I gave it to her. She wanted her glasses. I gave them to her. She wanted the call bell, insisting I’d lied to her and never gave it to her, although I could produce it from the disheveled linens right next to her.
She alternated between telling me I was treating her like an animal, and apologizing. She said, in a rare moment of lucidity, that I’d saved her life because I was such a good nurse. I teared up and said it was because she was so strong, and she cried. She said that when she was out of the hospital, she would come back and stand outside the hospital to thank me. I explained that I had come all the way from San Diego to take care of her, and that I wouldn’t be here for that moment. I promised to visit her in her new room when she left the ICU. We held hands.
We had our tender moment, and then she proceeded to make my life a living hell for the endless hours until the end of my shift. I removed as much stuff from her as I could. The restraints had been discontinued at 2am that morning. I removed the arterial blood pressure line from her radial artery. Her blood pressure had been stable for a while and she no longer needed frequent blood work, and she was going to rip it out and spray blood all over the room eventually, no matter how much I shellacked it down with tape. I removed the rectal tube, opening the door for her to roll around in her bowel movements. Thank God, I was inserting an IV next door for a colleague when she did just that, and my colleague dealt with it admirably. I could have kissed her for taking it on, and she, a former psych nurse, said, “no problem, I appreciate you getting that IV.”
At one point my lady was on all fours in the bed, reaching over the side rail looking for her call bell so she could use it a few hundred more times. It was in the bed next to her. I pointed this out as I ran in to make sure she wouldn’t fall out of the bed. “You treat me like animal,” she retorted.
The attending opined that she may well be encephalopathic. Covid-19 causes microclots, and her brain is probably showered with them. She’s being anticoagulated with medication, but who knows if it will help. She’s making a lot more sense than the day she was extubated, but that moment of love between us, the one where I left the room elated with her progress and feeling like all my work was worth it and that she is truly one of the few success stories, was long gone.
I felt abused, taken advantage of. We’d all explained to her multiple times that because of her Covid-19, we cannot go in the room every 5 minutes because each time is an exposure. She couldn’t be reasoned with. She could talk on the phone and text, and answer every question appropriately, but her behavior was anything but, as she pulled her gown up to her waist, legs spread, not a care in the world, continuing to bang on the bedrail every other minute for me to attend to something else of a non-urgent nature. I couldn’t get into the room quickly enough to pour her more water, so she spilled it all over the tray table. That kind of thing.
I went home with my back threatening to spasm, and feeling dejected, bordering on depressed. I’d left my family and traveled 3000 miles to care for her, straining my back and risking my life to care for this woman, and was run ragged by her with almost no indication of appreciation (she said “thank you,” just a few times, but never “please,” when demanding that I do whatever she commanded).
Here was one of the biggest success stories of the ICU, and I couldn’t even revel in it or take joy from it, because my resentment was so deep. I had to force myself to think “Covid encephalopathy” over and over and over, because by the end, I hated her, and felt enormously guilty for THAT. At the end of the shift, I had one of the helper nurses go in to do the honors when she had a bowel movement. If I’d had to do it just one more time, I would have started crying from what’s known as “compassion-fatigue.”
That’s where I was. Over it. I simply couldn’t even look at her at the end. I hid behind my computer for the last 15 minutes of my shift, watching her surreptitiously while she restlessly undid the helper’s hard work in moments. I gave my apologetic report to the night shift RN, and she took it in stride.
I limped home and focused all of my energy on being careful to not slip in the shower, I was so tired. I was in bed by 9:30 and asleep when David called me to wish Andre a good night. I’d asked him to. I’d rather be awakened than not tuck Andre in, and I did so however sleepily.
And now it’s a new day. It’s back to being grey and chilly. I bought cookies on my way home- 8 packages of Pepperidge Farms to bring to Frank and the rest of the firefighters. The firehouses are all closed to the public, but Frank laughed and said he’s been on the job longer than almost anyone, and he’ll give me a tour. It’s probably the most historically-significant firehouse in the world, so I’m looking forward to it. I know that seeing these guys may make some tears fall, but they’ll understand, and I’ll feel better for it. I’m going to get ready and go, but at this moment, I just want to go HOME.
One highlight of the week, was when I FaceTimed with Andre while at work. My colleague- she of the psych-nurse background, was sitting next to me, so she overheard it all. I’d wanted to send gifts to Andre from New York, to lighten his mood. Unfortunately, everything was closed. I decided to Amazon him a present, since he wouldn’t know the difference. I settled on getting him a stuffy, and picked out a squirrel holding an acorn. It was a terrific one with lots of detail, and reminded me of all the squirrels in the Manhattan parks. So when we FaceTimed, he held it up to show me, and I asked him what he’d decided to name it.
Andre said, “I named him ‘Nut!’ I wanted to name him, ‘Nut-S-A-C-K,’ but Daddy said it was a bad word.” I just shook with laughter, unable to speak, while Andre looked at me quizzically and my colleague guffawed next to me. Since Daddy had refused to explain what it meant, I took it on, while my colleague giggled away.
Andre was delighted to have potentially named his squirrel, “Scrotum,” and then we had to have that discussion when he started to run with it.
All’s well that ends well, I guess…
I never made it to the firehouse yesterday. The weather was cold and rainy and poopy, and my mood matched. I just stayed in. Also depressing, was the almost complete lack of support from my hospital and unit at home. One of our nurse educators wrote a beautiful email, with pictures I’d sent her, and sent it to the whole department. Almost no one responded.
Compared with the love and appreciation and support I’ve witnessed and experienced here at NYP, it’s bloody depressing. I know that the managers at NYP MUST care about the bottom line, but so far, it’s never shown. Just unparalleled generosity, much appreciated by the staff. I haven’t witnessed an IOTA of gossip here amongst colleagues. Only cohesiveness and support.
The only bit of negativity I’ve seen is that geared toward a certain physician. He talks to the staff as if they are his minions, and idiots who just fell off the turnip truck yesterday. When we extubated my first patient, I told a colleague, “I’m so excited! We extubated Ms. Doe this morning!” He piped up from behind me, “I extubated her. The respiratory therapist was just my arms.”
I could have vomited in my mouth. He’s really the lord of the manor. He’ll tell people in the break room, who are actively eating and drinking, to put their mask back up, and five minutes later he’ll bop into a Covid room sans PPE as if it’s the ten-second rule. Other than him, it’s Shangri-La here.
Today was better. My lady went to the med-surg floor. She was apparently a lot more appropriate yesterday, so they were okay sending her upstairs. I had two new Chinese ladies. Many of the patients, maybe most are Chinese, since Chinatown is very close. One of my new ladies was very stable and lovely. I transferred her out.
The other new lady is very sick, and had to be chemically paralyzed and pronated. We’ll see how she does.
Two patients died today on the unit and many are horrendously sick. I’ll write more tomorrow.
Yesterday was more of the same. Same patient, but once we supinated her in the morning, she was a little better, so we didn’t have to pronate her in the evening. She’s still sick as a dog though.
Overall, the ICU is fairly divided between patients who are crashing and burning, and those who are limping along and getting incrementally better, however slowly. It’s sad to see someone trached and vented who’s sitting up and completely lucid, and dying to talk, but can’t. Bored out of their gourd and missing their loved ones. I didn’t get a chance to visit my initial patient on the floor, but I will.
More pressing is Andre. He’s breaking down now every night, crying pitifully for me to come home now. My heart is breaking, and I looked to see if Jetblue can get me on an earlier flight, but they can’t. It’s killing me to be a source of pain for him.
I felt great about being here three weeks ago, because I was sorely needed. Now, I’m needed at home, and that’s where I want to be. The ratios have improved dramatically here, and they don’t need me like they did. I want to buy him something to tide him over, but I don’t know what. Something for him to get excited about. I asked him what he wants, but he can’t think of anything either. He wants me, and that’s the one thing I can’t give him for a week.
And now I have a cold. I hope.
Sunday, 5/10/20- Mother’s Day
Today was a good day. I worked.
I was assigned to an empty room for the first admit, but none came. I just helped out. I put a large-bore IV into a thrashing alcohol-withdrawl patient, helped with the tanking blood pressure of another, and tried to just be helpful in general. I started my day in the ED. I still felt under the weather, and although I wasn’t really concerned about Covid, I still thought it would be the ethical thing to do to get rapid-tested. 2 hours later they confirmed that I’m negative. Like I said, I wasn’t particularly worried, but it was nice to get the confirmation.
It was Mother’s Day, and of course this jewel of a hospital supplied each unit with several dozen loose roses of all colors in a big vat of water. We put them in urinals all over the unit.
The best part of the day was going up to the med-surg unit to visit my original patient, the lady we extubated who drove me bonkers. It was awesome. She was normal, not on any oxygen, and remembered a LOT. She even remembered that I was from San Diego. I brought her one of the roses, and we both got a little emotional.We FaceTimed with her mother who was elderly and didn’t speak English, but kept tearfully thanking me over and over. I told them both that it was her strength that had saved her life as much as my nursing, and I was really overjoyed.
This patient is really one of the few success stories of this pandemic, and it’s amazing that I had the opportunity and privilege to play such a key role. I was excited about it for the rest of the shift.
The hospital inundated us with food and treats from great restaurants, and I practically rolled home. Upon arriving home at my building, I was greeted with a vase of beautiful flowers from David and Andre, and a wonderful little package from some UCSD healthcare workers I’ve never even met. A PA and some nurses at the infusion center. The PA just knows me through a mutual acquaintance. It had a whole bunch of little niceties.
All in all, a really good day. Only six more days until I’m reunited with the two halves of my heart in Coronado. I can’t wait. I really will miss all of these special people here. I’m guessing it will all seem like a dream when I’m back at home.
It was another very good day at work.
I cared for a very sick older Chinese woman. Unlike my lucky lady, this one probably won’t make it. She’s been in our hospital for over a month, has a tracheostomy, and is almost unresponsive on zero sedation. She was on CRRT, Continual Renal Replacement Therapy for weeks. It’s an extremely slow continuous form of dialysis. These patients are way too unstable to tolerate substantial fluid shifts.
She underwent regular hemodialysis in the morning, and it was touchy. She’s swollen. Her flesh resembles that of an overripe tomato. It’s scary to handle these patients because you’re always afraid their skin will tear. Although she has a ton of extra fluid in her body that’s causing all that swelling, she’s actually intravascularly depleted. There’s not enough fluid inside her blood vessels to maintain her blood pressure; it’s all leaking outside the vessels into her flesh, known as “third spacing.”
I have the dialysis nurse stop pulling off fluid, and put the head of the bed down, first pausing her tube feedings so she won’t aspirate. Her legs are already elevated. I ask the PA to order 25% albumin. Albumin is the white part of the egg- pure protein. When a concentrated form is infused, the protein pulls the fluid back into the blood vessels. It doesn’t last all that long, but it buys her body some time to adjust to the loss of fluid from the hemodialysis. She’s supposed to have 1.5 liters removed, but we hold at 1. She’s bleeding from somewhere. I’m suctioning blood from deep in the back of her throat. She’s had multiple bowel movements. I suggest testing them for blood.
We do, and it’s positive. She’s been anticoagulated with Heparin- a common blood thinner. Covid-19 causes all kinds of micro-clotting problems. Although she’s been off the Heparin for a day or so, she’s still losing blood. We gave her a unit this morning, and we keep monitoring her blood count. We’re also adjusting the ventilator constantly. Whenever we do, her blood pressure drops and we do that dance.
I’m careful drawing labs from her arterial line. This hospital doesn’t have a certain bloodless device that we have in San Diego, so I draw the waste blood into a syringe, instead of a tube to be thrown away, and once I get my samples, I reinject the waste blood back into her artery. She needs a ton of labs, and she can’t afford any more blood loss than necessary.
After her 3rd bowel movement of the day, I insert a rectal tube. I still find a little time to put a good IV into the hand of my next door colleague’s patient. She couldn’t find a vein, but I employ an old trick of packing the patient’s arm in hot packs and a blanket. After 15 minutes, I go back in and there’s my vein. I love putting in IV’s. Each one is a little challenge, and a little victory. It’s a big IV, so the nurse can get blood samples from it and give whatever meds she wants.
It feels good to help a colleague and we rely completely on team work. I helped get that same patient from a chair back to the bed with a special lifting device, and cleaned her poop. The nurse appreciated it, just like I appreciated having another colleague’s help cleaning up my patient’s three ‘Code Browns’. It’s all hands on deck, and because of that, things run smoothly and with good morale.
The patient looks a smidge better when I hand her back to the night shift nurse who gave her to me in the morning. Her CVP (Central Veinous Pressure) is better than before the albumin, which means there’s more fluid in her blood vessels, which means that her blood pressure is better. The rectal tube makes things better for the patient’s skin, and far easier for the next nurse to take care of her. The patient is relatively stable, and the room is clean and neat, and I go home to my apartment. Tired, but feeling good.
A quiet day off today. Still feeling under the weather with a headache, malaise, and some congestion. I’m taking my vitamins, trying to drink water, and otherwise just chilling at home. Some laundry and a nap and TV. Of course I’m FaceTiming a lot with David and Andre. I’m just counting down the days now! I’m glad I tested negative for Covid, because I feel cruddy.
Another good day at work. I took care of a pretty special patient- another success story.
This woman was a tiny bit older than me. She’s been in the ICU for about 7 weeks, and she’s been through the wringer. She’s been vented, pronated and on CRRT, and today, I sent her upstairs to med-surg. A sweet woman with a psych and drug history, she looks bad on paper, but in spite of her being incontinent of stool and urine every single hour of my shift, including when she was out of bed in a chair, and it all went on the floor, it really was a pleasure taking care of her.
People- the general public, have absolutely NO idea how much the words, “please” and “thank you” can make a difference. A little simple civility and appreciation goes a LONG way. She was physically and mentally exhausted from such a lengthy and heinous ordeal, but managed to still be appreciative.
She was embarrassed and apologetic about me having to constantly clean her up, and half of my nursing care was giving her the emotional and psychological support she needed. I’d tell her what a rock star she was, how proud we all are of her, and I’d blow her kisses from outside the doorway. Her face would light up. Her poor face, with a huge deep pressure ulcer on one cheek from the endotracheal tube holder while prone and face down.
When I got to the unit almost 4 weeks ago, the unit was over-full, and she was in one of the double-occupied single rooms. She looked none too good then, and it’s kind of amazing to see her moving forward today.
Many others still aren’t. We had 2 deaths on the unit today, and a couple of others are circling the drain. One was a DNR, do not resuscitate. The other was a long long code.
As I’ve said, this is virus is no joke.
In other news, I’m going back WAY fatter. They’ve been feeding us constantly. Every morning, croissants, danishes, and fresh fruit cups, as well as yogurt and breakfast bars. Lunch has been anything from salads to sandwiches, to killer pizza, lasagna, and the other day, chicken piccata. A few days before that, it was pasta with pesto or bolognaise. Dinners have been taco bowls, Caesar salads, and on, and on, and on. There’s just tons of food, and the majority of it comes from terrific vendors- local restaurants.
On days off, there’s GrubHub for better Chinese food than we have in San Diego by a long shot. With the city closed, chilly, and with me being tired from work, there hasn’t been a whole hell of a lot to do other than watch TV and eat. So, I’m fatter.
I also haven’t been feeling all that well- like a cold at low ebb for a while. There have also been a few concerning “change-of-life” symptoms that have been dragging me down, that I’ll refrain from elaborating on. The weight gain probably isn’t helping. Hopefully I can get my shit together when I get home.
Three more days. One more day of work tomorrow. At this point, I’m so ready. NYC has a thousand fabulous things to do in a normal world, but during lockdown, it’s just me working and eating and watching TV and going out for the occasional walk. I just want to be home.
My bittersweet last day at work. I had my first non-Covid patient, a 29 year-old guy who’s alcoholism is so severe, he’s about to lose his liver. Giant distended belly full of ascites (fluid) and covered in visible blood vessels, skin mustard-yellow with jaundice, and hallucinating and disoriented from hepatic encephalopathy. Basically, his ammonia levels are so high, he’s pickled his brain, along with his liver.
He was a handful. 29 and has drunk himself almost to death. Aside from that, it was a good day overall. My colleagues threw me and a couple of other travelers a party, gave us each a fleece blanket with the NYP logo, and that was that.
While still at work, I wrote the following letter:
Friday, May 15, 2020
Dear Esteen, Joan and Juan,
I am writing to you in a quiet moment here on the unit, on my last day of my 4-week contract. I haven’t been shy in voicing how impressed I have been with my experience here at NYP of Lower Manhattan, and as promised, I’m putting it in writing.
I am based in San Diego at a large university hospital in the PACU. As the surge in New York was reaching its peak, I, like so many across the country was riveted. I was marinating in the news and in Facebook groups devoted to Covid-19 healthcare professionals. My hospital, anticipating our own surge, began cutting way back on elective surgeries. As the days wore on, things got less busy, and people were increasingly urged to flex. I began to get more and more antsy, feeling like I wasn’t needed in San Diego where the surge seemed to never come, but WAS needed by my brothers and sisters in New York City, where the horrors were apparent. I’d heard about crazy ratios, running out of medications and equipment on top of sketchy PPE. I heard and read accounts of nurses being run ragged, and some dying from Covid-19 in the process. The stories were a siren call for me, and I called my old travel recruiter. The last time I’d travelled was 11 years ago, when I went out to San Diego and stayed. I really just wanted to shoot the breeze and get a feel for what was going on, but an hour after talking with her on the phone and sending her an updated resume, I had an offer, and it became real. I went through all of the machinations of getting my ACLS and BLS up to date, applying for a NY license, doing a mountain of paperwork, and the ordeal of making the necessary arrangements through my work. They were reluctant to let me go, and didn’t even have a policy in place for such a leave of absence. I figured out a place to stay, flights, and did some recon work about the neighborhood. From the time I made the first inquiry to my arrival in NYC, it was a week and a half! My husband was worried that I was going to get exposed to Covid and die. He kept it to himself, but I was able to wheedle it out of him. Leaving my 7 and a half year-old son who is very dependent on me was going to be the worst. I felt beyond torn.
I fully expected to get run into the ground here. I was afraid I’d have to fight for PPE, and that once I had it on, that I’d pass out running from room to room with 4 or 5 critically ill patients. I was afraid of exposure. I was afraid I’d be rusty in my ICU skills and wouldn’t be able to handle the load. I figured I’d probably lose a ton of weight due to dashing around and not having any breaks. Boy was I wrong about everything! I was completely unprepared for what I did find.
I arrived to find extremely tired but incredibly welcoming staff and management. Instead of being proprietary about being overrun with a bunch of travelers- strangers in their midst, they were friendly, appreciative and helpful. I was amazed at the purposeful overstaffing. Any other hospital (at least that I’ve ever worked at or heard of) would have cancelled those travel contracts the very second the surge began to let up. I’ve never seen managers and administrators so protective of their staff’s well-being. Lip service, sure, but to literally put their money where their mouth is, is unheard of. I have been at my hospital for 11 years, and I wouldn’t know the CNO if she sat down next to me. I met the CNO at NYP on my second day, and her interest in me and in all the staff seemed genuine. The same for the COO. I was blown away that they converted the entire unit to negative pressure. I was grateful to find easily accessible PPE, and that it was not being micro-managed, but that the staff was trusted to be good stewards of it. And now, I am going home far fatter, thanks to first-rate meals being provided three times a day, not to mention the other goodies.
I would like to thank the following:
The incredible nursing staff and my fellow travelers. I’ve never worked in a more laterally-supportive environment. Not only have you supported me, but it has been inspiring to see how you support each other. Your sense of teamwork is exemplary. The way you have managed to keep your heads in the game at such a high level after enduring so much trauma, is astounding.
The EVS staff. You put on PPE countless times and risk exposure as much as anyone else, and make this mission of patient care possible.
The Physical Therapy staff. I’ve never seen a team roll up their sleeves with such gusto, leaping right in with the best imaginable attitude, providing admirably comprehensive care. You are concerned with the patient as a whole, and your dedication shows. My one recovered patient remembered you all by name.
Karen, the unit secretary, who made sure I had the right N95, lunch and water and even came in with treats on Mother’s Day- her day off. And Karen, you made me laugh.
Respiratory, for being dedicated patient advocates.
The PA’s. I’ve never worked in a PA-driven model before, and I absolutely loved it. I asked, you ordered, it got done. Always knowledgeable, accessible and approachable, you are an impressive bunch.
Natasha and Jess, for reaching out to me, giving me a thoughtful schedule, and being available.
Esteen, your professionalism, dedication to both staff and patients comes shining through. You clearly value those whom you manage, and it shows. You lead by example, not hesitating to answer a call bell or go into a patient’s room if you see a need. You support staff recognition and you led them like Joan of Arc through an unimaginable crisis.
Joan and Juan, the culture of an institution starts at the top, and I’ve never witnessed such supportive and accessible administrators. I’ve never seen an administrator who cared enough about the staff to get to know them as individuals, and to go to such lengths to protect them.
The culture at NYP of Lower Manhattan has made a huge impression on me. This experience is one that I will cherish for a lifetime and I’ll bring back what I’ve learned to San Diego. I’ll always regret that I couldn’t have made it here sooner, when the need was at its most acute, but I feel humbled and honored to have been able to help at all, if only in my own small way. You are immensely special, all of you. You are veterans and survivors, and you managed to come out the other side with your grace, humanity, and dedication still intact.
Thank you so much for welcoming me into your fold if only for a short while. I will never forget you.
Best wishes for your safety and good health,
Rebecca Sauer, RN CPAN
And now, in 36 hours, I’m going home. It’s time. I feel proud of myself for what I’ve done here. I’m glad I got to have an adventure. It’s a good thing.
Tomorrow I’ll do laundry and rest up. I’ll have to leave for the airport at 5am. I started out this journey singing Simon and Garfunkel. And now I’ll finish it with the same. “Homeward Bound.”
Now that virtual events are the new normal, the Coronado Schools Foundation (CSF) is in sync with the times and set to air the FIRST EVER fully-virtual CSF Telethon on May 6, 2020 from 5-9pm. In a combination of pre-recorded segments and live tapings with scheduled Zoom calls, Coronado residents, students and supporters will be entertained and delighted with the telethon to support our schools.
So grab your popcorn, a beverage of your choice, and settle in to watch the Coronado community rally around our amazing schools.
This year’s telethon has some amazing celebrity hosts, including returning host and former Coronado Mayor Casey Tanaka.
“I am excited to support CSF because they make such a huge difference in our schools, whether it is through funding programs like summer enrichment for young kids, equipment like Chromebooks and document cameras, or essentials like lab equipment for our science classes,” says Casey. “The telethon is an important way for students to show our community their talents and what they have learned this year. It’s a vital moment for our community to step forward to support CSF and our schools financially.”
Other local celebrity hosts include the New York Times bestselling author and TV celebrity chef, Melissa d’Arabian, who will host a hilarious baking challenge called “Schooled It,” in which teachers from each of the schools will have a bake-off and students will judge.
“As a parent with three daughters enrolled in Coronado schools, I am so appreciative of the enrichment programs CSF provides for our kids,”says Melissa d’Arabian. “All of this is made possible by the generosity of our amazing community of donors.”
Joining d’Arabian are Coronado Mayor Richard Bailey, mortgage lender Kory Kavanewsky, and CUSD Superintendent Karl Mueller.
“Right now, our students are craving connectedness to school and peers and CSF is rising to the challenge by forging ahead with beloved annual Telethon!” says Karl. “While nothing in our new normal is normal, the response from the Coronado Schools Foundation certainly reminds us that in Coronado our commitment to student health, safety, and success is unwavering.”
Teachers like Devon Roberts, who teaches first grade, see the funding from CSF at work on a daily basis.
“CSF provides incredible opportunities to our students, and I am so thankful for their support,” says Devon. “It’s because of CSF that my students are able to participate weekly in our iLab where they work collaboratively, problem solve and engage in enriching hands on activities. They are also able to attend VAPA classes where they sing, dance, paint, make pottery and act.”
Jeanmarie Bond, CSF president and CEO, will host the event live from Coronado High School and will be welcoming zoom guests throughout the broadcast as well as introducing some of the prerecorded segments.
“We want to make certain that we stay connected,” says Jeanmarie. “These are unprecedented times, with everyone hunkering down and staying at home. That’s exactly why we decided to go forward with this Telethon virtually – to connect with one another, reinforce that we are all in this together, and celebrate this wonderful community that is Coronado!”
With student hosts and special guests from the community, this year’s lineup offers viewers a chance to feel engaged with their classmates, teachers, school administrators, and friends. From game shows to cooking competitions, students, teachers and community leaders will be on hand to entertain.
The Telethon is made possible by Presenting Sponsor Swinerton and Swinerton Renewable Energy, pivotal partners in the $125 million Hotel del Coronado renovation project, along with Producing Partner Mullins Orthodontics and Golf Cart Opportunity Sponsor Willis Allen Real Estate of Coronado. Block Partners for each of the hours include the Hotel Del Coronado, Buona Forchetta, Alan Kinzel from Douglas Elliman Realty, and Dr. Natalie Bailey from Advanced Dentistry in Coronado.
Underwriting Partners for the production are La Mer on Orange Avenue, Spiro’s Greek Café, the Chisholm Mickel Team from Berkshire Hathaway, Clayton’s Coffee Shop, CMG Mortgage, Nicolls Design, and Navy Federal Credit Union. A team from Finest City Entertainment will produce and broadcast the show, with dozens of Coronado community members working virtually to ensure this show is a success.
The CSF Telethon will be broadcast live and virtually on AT&T Ch 99, Spectrum CH 19, coronadotv.me and csfkids.org/telethon. During the telethon viewers will be able to call in donations or go online to csfkids.org/give and choose which school they would like to donate to.
Thanks for reading, and be sure to tune in to support your schools!
What is “Front Porch” photography? Well, it’s only the biggest trend in family photography right now. And Coronado’s favorite image sorceress—Kristen Vincent—is set to make some magical memories with you and your loved ones…on your very own front porch!
Since major news media outlets like the Today Show and USA Today featured “Front Porch” Photo sessions, families have been going crazy…booking appointments to snap their families during quarantine. And the “Front Porch” session is just like it sounds…your family comes out onto your front porch (or balcony) and the photographer snaps some photos. You don’t even need to get fancy! (Check out some of the photos from other sessions around the country.)
“I’ve had a lot of people reach out to me, asking me about them since a photographer was interviewed about it on the Today Show,” says Kristen, who has been snapping family photos on the island for more than 10 years. (She was even named “Coronado’s Best Photographer” for five years in a row.)
“While I can’t actually shoot them right now, I can book them, and once the ‘essential worker’ restrictions are lifted, I can schedule them,” explains Kristen, who will still adhere to the social distancing of six feet away.
So what should families expect?
“The sessions will be quick, shot from the sidewalk of you and the people you are quarantined with,” says Kristen. “No need to be polished in your fancy outfits. I’m encouraging everyone booking to show up as their quarantined counterpart, and show a glimpse of what this time was like for their family.”
For $99, families will get five beautiful digital images that they can use however they want. Families can book online here.
“I think it’s important to document this time in history,” says Kristen. “There is still beauty now. Even in these times of uncertainty, I am seeing so much creativity, connection and love. I encourage everyone to be taking pictures throughout this pandemic. It will be a story worth sharing to those that didn’t live it alongside you.”
Although the COVID-19 outbreak has put the brakes on most of Kristen’s business—upcoming weddings cancelled, and all currently scheduled photo shoots off the books, for the time being—she’s staying positive and finding joy in the “every day.”
“I’m finding my inspiration in the nooks and crannies of my home,” explains Kristen. “Life in general is hectic and busy, then this happened and everything came to a screeching halt. I am now finding beauty in the mundane. My son’s shadow playing on the wall, or the sun as it hit his bedhead while he eats his breakfast. Challenging myself to see life from a different angle has been inspiring.”
Kristen has this advice to give other small business owners during the global pandemic.
“Get creative and think ahead,” says Kristen. “It may be quiet right now, but this is temporary. Ask yourself: what can you be doing now to connect with potential clients, so that when the restrictions are lifted it can impact your business in a positive way.”
Wise words indeed! Thanks for reading, and if you have any questions, please contact Kristen directly at via her website here.