By Farah Rahman

“Do you hear that?” My mother has been hearing fireworks for the past week. As I glide my stethoscope on bare skin, I nod with hesitation. These are not celebratory Fourth of July fireworks, these are the clinical manifestations of COVID-19—her alveoli are collapsing. The x-rays show bilateral ground-glass pneumonia. The medical student in me is giddy that I can deduce the meaning of those words. The daughter in me fears what will come next for my mom.

I was born to two physicians who excelled in their medical training in India and landed coveted residency positions in New York City. Sleepless nights, multitasking, prioritizing—my parents were doing their due diligence to chase the American dream. Adjusting to this new medical journey in a foreign country meant sacrificing personal pleasures for their professional development. The lost time in our parent-child relationship was collateral damage of medical residency in America. Hours of separation, frequent moves and microwaveable noodles became staples of life.

Fast forward 20 years, and my family is at the forefront of a global pandemic. 2020 has not been kind to anyone, but it has been especially hard on front line workers. The official count of COVID cases has passed 10.5 million worldwide. On the provider side, a two week old statistic says the disease has taken the lives of more than 939 health care workers in the United States alone. Nurses, physician assistants, respiratory therapists, hospital staff and physicians are all counted among the fallen.

In the wake of the pandemic, I moved back home to Las Vegas. My family and I listened in horror as cases continued to skyrocket. While safety measures were implemented, I maintained a level of cognitive separation between what was happening on TV and my parents’ livelihood. Day after day, my parents continued to honor their duty to their patients despite the risks and lack of proper protective gear. Finally, after 12 weeks of precautions, both of my parents tested positive. 

The last two weeks have been full of darkness. A year of medical school prepared me to understand physiology, anatomy and molecular biology, but it was not until now that I understood real empathy in times of crisis. These days I wake up hopeful for improvement, but I close my eyes feeling defeated. I watch as my parents deteriorate before my eyes. My father with uncontrollable Type 2 diabetes, body aches and chills. My mother with extreme shortness of breath and hypoxia. When I have a moment to myself, I scroll social media to remind myself of the normalcy of the outside world. There, I see friends and colleagues at restaurants, bars and beaches. They have no idea what my family, and countless other families across the country, are going through.

Today, as I sat with my mother in the emergency room for six hours, I watched rallies and testimonies of Americans protesting against wearing masks and public health precautions. I witnessed health care workers pushing extra shifts to cover their ill coworkers. I got a notification from my father’s glucometer that his sugar had reached a record high of 479 mg/dl. I came home to my brother alarmed at a rising fever. I cried uncontrollably in the shower while scrubbing the virus off of my skin. 

I am reminded that medicine is a field in which there is no limit to how much you can give. As medical students, we are drilled to evoke compassion, empathy and understanding. But my first year did not teach me how to cope with loss. Loss of self, loss of a family member’s health, loss of hope in society. Health care workers go through years of training, work through hundreds of thousands of dollars in debt, but at the end of the day are left unsupported—by the health care system and by the public. As a child, I sat at home as my parents spent much of their time in the hospital—often sacrificing being present for many of my childhood milestones in the process. As a young adult, my parents continue to give not only their time, but also their health. At the end of this, they will go back into the very hospitals from which they contracted the virus and give some more of themselves. There is no limit. That is the nature of our profession.

This holiday weekend and in the days to come, I beg you to think of others before you indulge in social plans. If not for your grandparents or your immunocompromised neighbors, think of your childhood pediatrician, family practice doctor and the thousands of healthcare workers who risk their lives every day for the greater good. Celebrate your freedom, but do not do so at the cost of the lives of medical professionals. They have families, too.

Farah Rahman is a Las Vegas native, a rising second-year medical student at Loyola Stritch School of Medicine. Her parents, Dr. Syed Rahman and Dr. Naiyera Parween, are long-time physicians in the Las Vegas Valley.