There was a roar outside—the sound of people cheering.
“What’s that?”
With empty streets, and not a soul to be seen for days, what was going on?
“I think it’s the synagogue across the street,” my husband said. A couple of times a year, attendees from the synagogue come out on the street and cheer. By now we are pretty tuned into Jewish holidays and celebrations, but this was no special day. And just as it started, the sounds died.
My son called, “Did you hear the cheering outside your apartment at 7 pm?”
“We did. What was that all about?”
“People were cheering for the healthcare workers.”
So that’s what it was. Wow!
The next evening, sitting by the window, at 7 pm sharp, I heard the sounds again. Quickly, I opened the balcony door that had been shut all winter, stepped onto the wet floor and into the cold fresh air—no shoes, no sweater. The sounds of clapping, whistling, and hooting roared up from the rooftops, from the balconies, and from the street below. First a few, then more, getting louder and louder until the sounds of cheer filled the twilight sky. From the 19th floor, I could see people on rooftops and balconies, clapping. I clapped and cheered, for all those doctors, nurses, aides, paramedics, ambulance drivers, who are putting their lives at risk for us.
And I cheered for our son.
Every morning—very early, very, very early—when the city is still deep in slumber, he leaves home for the hospital. He will spend his day healing the sick, repairing broken bones, helping his patients walk again. The patients may not have COVID-19—or maybe they do—so he dons on his protective gear, N95 and all, scrubs, walks into the operating room and mends their fractured bones. With the medical residents and nurses by his side, he makes rounds in their rooms, checking up on their status. He stops by the nurses’ station to write orders in their e-charts. By now its clinic time, where he will see his follow-up patients. All this time, he is in contact with sick patients, and scores of fellow healthcare workers. Any one of them may have the virus; he may have the virus; but absent symptoms, they show up for work and keep tending to the sick.
Every evening, before leaving the hospital, he gets out of his gear, drives home, and goes straight to the changing area, places his clothes in the washer, and takes a shower before greeting his family. Just in case he has been exposed, he wears a mask at home. Not a surgical mask, just a bandana. Now in the daddy/husband role, he is checking on the children’s homework, complimenting his wife’s cooking, and beaming when his 10-year old daughter tells him that she taught her 18-year old brother Omar, to speak a whole sentence. Omar has autism and is non-verbal.
Then it’s back to taking care of sick patients.
I try not to worry. I focus on praying for him. Not only him, but all other healthcare workers in our family, among our friends, in our city, in our country. All over the world. But I do say a special prayer for our son. “O’ God protect my child. Keep him safe. May he ward of this virus; may his immunity stay strong; if he is exposed, give him the strength to recover quickly. His patients need him, his family needs him, his mom and dad need him. Keep him healthy. Keep him strong. Amen.”
PS: May the virus be allergic to him.
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