Death, suffering became commonplace during this KC nurse’s fight on COVID’s front lines
Late in the night last month, Julie French walked into one of her hospital patients’ rooms and helped withdraw life support. And then she exited the room, following protocol during the COVID-19 coronavirus outbreak, and left him alone to die.
It would have been her most difficult night on a new job — if it hadn’t happened again during her next shift.
And then again.
And then again.
For nearly a month, French worked five nights per week in a Boston hospital — where she had traveled from Kansas City to join the front line of the fight against a pandemic — and she doesn’t remember a single shift without one of her patients dying.
She discharged one with a clean bill of health in four weeks.
One.
“Over the years, as an ICU nurse, I got pretty good at compartmentalizing my feelings and emotions toward death,” French said. “But with everything there, I became depressed very quickly. It was young people; it was old people. And families weren’t getting chances to say bye. That made it really hard.”
And to think: She signed up for precisely this job — working exclusively with COVID-19 patients — on a gut feeling. On an impulse to help people who needed it most.
French, a 30-year-old nurse from Salina, Kansas, who usually resides in Kansas City, lost her job last month during the earlier stages of the coronavirus outbreak. She had spent the previous year working at the University of Kansas Hospital in a contract position until, with elective cases eliminated, her contract was, too.
She could have waited around for something else to materialize in KC. Could have waited for the path to clear.
Instead, she volunteered to submerse herself in a situation that was anything but clear. Through Facebook, she learned that St. Elizabeth’s Medical Center in Boston would be a hub for coronavirus patients, and the hospital needed help.
Within four days, French boarded a plane headed northeast, a suitcase packed full of her own personal protective equipment, scrubs, applesauce and packaged tuna.
French didn’t seek out recognition for her decision to help others, or for her tireless work in doing so. Her sister did, nominating her as The Star’s “Football Fan Hero.” We devised this contest, of sorts, and came up with an entry and evaluation process this spring to shine a light on some of the unsung heroes among us. As our winner, French receives a pair of Chiefs tickets to a game of her choosing at Arrowhead Stadium, and our admiration and gratitude.
Here’s part of her sister’s nomination: “She has worked 60-plus hours per week on night shifts relieving regular staff so that the patients there could have care. She has seen horrendous outcomes that I hope do not come to KC (in one night, three patients under 45 died with very little co-morbidity).”
The risks of going head-on against the pandemic were not lost on French.
“The biggest thing for me and my family when I thought about doing this was if I get sick in Boston, I’m alone; I don’t know anyone and my primary care is not there,” she said. “’What if you get stuck? Are you going to feel OK doing that?’
“That was definitely a scary factor for me. I’ve seen and heard of young healthcare workers and other people getting sick on the front line, some of them extremely sick and hospitalized. That was my biggest hesitation. But I’m in pretty good health, and I thought the odds of that were slim, so I was willing to kind of put my health on the line in order to help the people who need it.”
Death is an understood part of French’s job. She’d been working as an ICU nurse for years, moving all over the country before settling in KC, near her hometown. There are grim outcomes that can be difficult to handle.
But this? This was different, she said.
A refrigeration truck had been parked outside the hospital. The morgue had been overwhelmed. The truck stored bodies of those who had succumbed to the virus, unable to say goodbye to their family before doing so.
French had seen patients battle for days, sometimes longer, struggling to breathe, grappling with pain alone, except for her and her colleagues. They had tried to build their usual relationships with patients but were instructed to spend as little time in their rooms as possible. Even in a crisis, they had to first dress in full protective equipment before entering. That was a hard adjustment, too.
But she knew nothing would be the same before she even boarded that flight back East. Before volunteering for the assignment, French had called a friend in New York and asked how she should prepare, a question that had nothing to do with the equipment she should bring or the details of treating the virus.
The question, she explained, dealt with the emotional toll she knew was coming.
“I don’t think in retrospect I could have mentally prepared for what I saw while I was there,” French said. “These patients were sicker than any patients I’ve ever take care of. Every single patient in the unit was so sick that it was hard to see any end in sight. That was the hardest thing. The burnout came very quickly.”
French worked five nights per week in 12-hour shifts. She wanted to give as many of the regular nurses a day off as possible. On her first day off each week, she slept all night. And then she slept all day.
When she returned home to Kansas City this month, she crashed. For days. Bed time is now 6 p.m.
Much about her routine has been altered.
Much about her personality, too.
“I value my health and my family’s health more than I ever have,” she said. “It’s definitely given me a different perspective.
“But I haven’t regretted my decision yet. The gratitude from the other nurses that I felt, it was worth it to me. You could tell they were burned out and exhausted. They’d been dealing with this for weeks, if not months, and there’s no end in sight for them. To provide a little bit of relief for them, that was definitely worth it.”