He has Mike, He has you.

I’m not really sure how to honor or remember someone well I only know through death. However, I’m going to do my best. It’s been a year since my personal most traumatic COVID death. I want to share that story in a narrative, mostly for me, because as you will discover, this patient had no family or friends to share the news of his death, only the hospital staff at his bedside. But, this is also for us.

November 7, 2020, the third shift in a row working on the COVID unit in Reno. How was I to know everything would change by the end of that shift? Autumn season was at its peak in Reno, but there was also fresh snow on the ground. Cold days were in the future, both literally and spiritually. How was I to know everything would change at the end of Autumn?

Pumpkin cold brew in hand, I started my shift strong. High spirits were in the air, excitement for some and disappointment for others in our country as well. In semi-private rooms, there really was no privacy, but lots of intimate moments shared between strangers and the nursing staff. Moving forward in this specific patient’s story, his name will be Mike. Mike wasn’t my responsibility. He shared the semi-private room of the patient whose life was in my hands for twelve hours. Mike’s roommate was stable enough, and I had been caring for him since my first shift that week. Mike was by the door, so each time I came in to care for my patient, I laid my eyes on him.

In a word: exhaustion. He was exhausted. The primary nurse caring for him kept increasing his oxygen. First from six liters through the nasal cannula, to a mask of oxygen at fifteen liters, to a non-rebreather mask, to the high flow nasal cannula maxed out. Soon Mike required so much oxygen that they put a mask of oxygen over his high flow nasal cannula just to get enough oxygen all the way in to the bases of his lungs. His color was pale, his lips blue, not enough room in the ICU. All rhyming aside, this was serious. Mind you, this was over the three shifts of working. So, three days. Three days of slowly, and at the same time very quickly requiring all the oxygen we could give Mike.

November 7, 2020, it all changed for Mike. It was mid-morning and he was feeling his body shift from being “stable” on all this oxygen to quickly unstable. Doctor was called and outside in the hallway, it was decided that he now must be intubated in order to stay alive.

The spirit of fear was so damn heavy in that room. During rounds on Mike’s roommate, I saw the fear in Mike’s eyes. Tears welling up and spilling out. Turning to terror, Mike confesses his fear. “Am I going to die?” He asks me. Tears coming fast, “I don’t want to die. I’m afraid! I hear if they put you on the ventilator that you’ll probably die. Is that true? I don’t want to die!” Shaking in fear, he weeps, “I don’t have any family to call, I’m all alone.” His primary nurse, crouches down on his knees, holds Mike’s hand and speaks firmly, “We are going to do everything we can, man. This is the best option for you, and we won’t give up on you.” I know he could feel it too, Mike was going to die.

Primary nurse needs to give report and speak with the team of hospital staff outside in the hallway to prepare for transfer. Mike turns to look at me. “I don’t want to die.” He cries out. Coming to my knees now, I hold one of his hands, the other I lay on his heart. What else am I to do, but ask Holy Spirit to come? Unable to promise he’ll live, all there is to do is ask the spirit of fear to be gone in Jesus name. Peace Jesus, peace! Does praying for healing even happen in 2020? Why fuss over it, when so many people are dying? Does even praying in general do any good?

Questions and thoughts I’ll process out over the next year. But for now, all eyes are on Mike. Mike, who will be with God within the next twenty four hours. Mike, whose life will be over and all that life lived forgotten. Because, in comes the next patient once he’s gone. Praying for Mike, I cry as well. The high flow oxygen hissing in my ears, the sweat pouring down my back from all the PPE being worn, I pray to a God I’m so furious at, because what else can I possibly do, but go to the One who knows Mike more than he knows himself? Who created Mike in the secret places and knit him together in his mother’s womb. Who had a plan for Mike’s life, who knew our paths would meet. Knew that I would see his face in my dreams for the next year. The Spirit of Peace in Jesus name, being welcomed in, I see Mike’s face relax. The presence of Jesus was there, but still tense.

I’m still shaking as Mike is transferred to the ICU. We’ll never see him again. It all changed for me after that day. The number of COVID patients were so high, we went into crisis mode. Just keep them alive. Keep them alive! Hopelessness took over the body and mind. Helpless in the face of this virus, all we could do was hope, but what do you have left when even hope is hard to cling to? Questions of the goodness and sovereignty of my God are asked, and I can’t answer. Mike isn’t just one patient, he was one of so many. So many for me, so many for my fellow healthcare friends.

That was a year ago. More patients like Mike would cross my path again. More tears and fear and anger and disappointment. Now, I remember the heart ache, not knowing anything of Mike’s life, but knowing only of his death. I remember it all, as if I was sipping that pumpkin cold brew yesterday. Mike is in the arms of Jesus, his life in the hands of the One who wrote it. He’s not mine to carry like a cross, but he’s in my pocket of grief I carry in my heart. The grief I learned about in San Diego. To know God was with each person. To feel hurt from brothers and sister of my faith, but God is I Am. Carrying the spiritual splinters and logs of each person from 2020, and now.

This is to honor a man, who no one knows, but whose life was important to many at the same time. We see the world through the scope of which we live, so we don’t see it all, we don’t see all the people, that would be overwhelming and exhausting, but I absolutely have found rest in knowing Jesus does. And we sometimes get the chance to see glimpses through other scopes of life. Humility has brought me to my knees in the face of division and hopelessness. Carrying that grief is necessary and acknowledging it as just as important too.

There’s no pretty bow to wrap up this narrative. The story is still being written. The questions and emotions that come with it. That’s good, I think. Good to know it’s not over. We can still go to the Father and ask and doubt and wonder in the mystery of His presence. Knowing He has Mike, and He has you.