DABDA — denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance — are the five stages of coping with dying. A medical dictionary defined it as an acronym used in palliative care. It was first described by Elisabeth Kubler-Ross on a classic book, On Death and Dying and was published in 1969. Honestly, I haven’t read the book. But, as a health worker, I am very much familiar with these stages of coping up. I guess, the worst “DABDA” I had was when my mom died.
But, then again, these stages can also be applied to my work since March this year, when I had to take my post as a respiratory therapist for patients with Covid-19 coronavirus (SARS-Cov-2).
Denial is always imminent. For me, it is a battle of fear. Every time I think of working, my heart pounds differently. While the army are armed with guns, the healthcare teams are equipped with just vitamins, a good mind set and prayer. A series of unfortunate events happened during my own encounter. I had to guard myself with possible indicators. I have occasional cough or sneezing due to my allergic rhinitis and asthma. However, the worst scenario I had was when I contracted fever. My body could not stand the fatigue, chills and malaise. I trembled in anxiety and consulted google to differentiate my symptoms. I totally find it funny now as I forgot the capabilities of my brain to think while reading the difference of Covid-19 coronavirus, flu and colds. Repeatedly, I swallowed my saliva to feel if I am having a sore throat, put on the thermometer every hour and checked on my cough if it was dry. I was tricking my mind at some point. But, it did not work. The agony of waiting for a swab result summoned more distress. Have you felt this too?
I have anger because I seldom have liberty. Before, I was always busy counting the days each year as to when my husband and I could take a break from our long distance relationship and spend two weeks together. Our marriage is also shaken by this disease. I had to endure the fact that I’m 35 and have been working on my fertility issues. My doctor told me I am at greater risk as I age. And now, I am struggling with hate as my self-determination to have a family is being held captive by this pandemic. How can this be possible when we are miles apart?
Bargaining. I just wish cases drops off like 50 per cent off sale on a supermarket. I cannot see the “flattening of the curve”. The trend right now is just like my stomach. It bulges creating huge waves of fat from being imprisoned on the four walls of my room. The bigger I get, the larger the scale of the coronavirus takes on mankind. No matter how we all tried as front liners, we still get the stigma. Sometimes, I get tired that my thoughts would randomly say, “Can we switch places?”
Depression sucks the life out of anybody. Just this week, a father of a colleague at our unit died of Covid-19 and another respiratory therapist was infected. There are a lot of innocent souls lost their battle and a handful of your tagged “heroes” had fallen. Now and then, random scenes of airway intubation and patients crying alone requesting a family to be on their side crush my heart. It was a literal meaning of separation where four walls can break a heart and death succumbs ones’ thoughts. Their condition is a lot worse than mine. Maybe my isolation is something that I can be thankful of. That, as a health worker, I sacrifice my own freedom or personal interaction to keep someone safe from me. A long wait can sometimes be rewarding. But still, I kept asking, when will this end?
Acceptance! As time goes by, I noticed that, I am not excited with what I earn as I am worth more than that. What I do now, is merely an act of kindness that I swore upon. And for almost eight months of being a public servant fighting against Covid-19, I grasped the reality of my role in society. I may not be visible enough. Yes, this is the new normal, but my message seemed clear, that, I write this, because I care. So, will you be able to help by doing your share?
Michelle De La Cruz-Hill
