O pinion
I Am a Rabbi in a Hospital ICU. This Is What the COVID Surge
Looks Like to Our Exhausted Staff
BY RABBI MIKE HARVEY
AS A RABBI who works as
a chaplain at a hospital in
Indianapolis, I’ve held my
tongue a lot when it comes to
COVID-19 and the emotional
strain it puts on medical staff.

But now — as my team at
Indiana University Health is
responsible for pastoral care in
the Medical ICU and its associ-
ated unit — is the right time to
speak about it.

My unit is where the sickest
of the sick in the state come for
care. Our ICU houses patients
that other hospitals can’t
handle. When it’s a last-ditch
effort, they send them to us.

Most of the patients I see in
the ICU are COVID-19 positive.

Yes, there are other units that
hold COVID-positive patients
who have less severe symptoms
— mainly vaccinated patients
with strong working immune
systems. Other patients are
suffering illnesses unrelated to
the coronavirus. But the vast
majority on my patient lists are
COVID-positive. What is it like walking down
the halls of the pods of the ICU?
It’s cold, it’s dark and it’s quiet.

The patients are all intubated,
hooked up to massive amounts
of equipment, with machines
breathing for them and feeding
them through tubes.

Heavy blankets cover their
bodies. Some of the machines
are so big that you can’t see
anything but their legs.

Families aren’t around much:
It’s dangerous to visit the
14 JANUARY 20, 2022
hospital these days. COVID has
spread to the staff, with over
1,000 staff members out state-
wide. Nurses are overworked,
covering two to three patients
each — far more than what’s
typical in the ICU.

COVID-19 is an especially
cruel disease. To those who
have overcome adversity,
cancer, multiple sclerosis,
bone marrow transplants
and the like, COVID swoops
in and takes them away from
their families. They may have
finished chemo just months
ago, their diabetes was under
control, and yes, they did
everything right. They got
vaccinated (if they could,
as sometimes it’s useless for
those with compromised or
no immune systems). They
by the unvaccinated wife to
pray for an unvaccinated
husband as he lays dying.

What prayer is appro-
priate? Prayer in these cases
is no substitute for action —
preemptive action that would
have said louder than any
psalm or supplication, “My
faith compelled me to appre-
ciate the miracle of vaccination
and act on behalf of the elderly
and the vulnerable.”
An old Yiddish tale tells of
an exhausted Chasid who came
running to his rabbi. “Rebbe,
help. Take pity. My house is
burning.” The rebbe calmed
the Hasid. Then, fetching his
stick from a corner of the
room, he said, “Here take my
stick. Run back to your house.

Draw circles around it with my
the Shulchan Aruch, the book
that forms the foundation of
Jewish law: “One must refrain
from putting coins in one’s
mouth, lest it’s covered with
dried saliva of those afflicted
with boils” (Yoreh De’ah 116).

The code of Jewish law lists
other certain and suspected
dangers, including precautions
to take in the face of plague, but
concludes with this from Rabbi
Moshe Isserles: “A person who
guards his soul will distance
himself from [dangers], and
it is prohibited to rely on a
miracle in all of these matters.”
Those last words accom-
pany me as I see nurses setting
up feeding tubes and ECMO
oxygenation machines: “It is
prohibited to rely on a miracle
in all of these matters.”
I’ve been at this since August. The doctors and nurses have been at
this for years. How they manage, I’ll never know. But even a hello and
asking how they’re holding up makes a difference. If you know a nurse
or doctor, give them a hug, tell them they matter, thank them.

overcame great odds, and yet
they come to my unit to die.

“Teach us to number our
days,” Psalm 90 tells me, “that
we may get a heart of wisdom.”
There are far more who
come who are unvaccinated.

The numbers don’t lie.

We are swarmed with the
unvaccinated. Their family
members tell us, “He/she was
so stubborn.” They tell us,
“Well, I’m going to get vacci-
nated now” (all it took was the
death of a loved one). They tell
us they didn’t believe “it” was
real, referring to a virus that is
soon on track to take 6 million
lives worldwide.

They tell us to try to pray.

Can you imagine? Sitting in
my PPE gear, my M95 mask
pinching my face, my face
shield fogging up, my gloves
tight on my hands, I am asked
stick, each circle some seven
handbreadths from the other.

At the seventh circle, step back
seven handbreadths, then lay
my stick down at the east end
of the fire. God will help you.”
The Hasid grabbed the
stick and started off. “Listen,”
the rebbe called after him, “it
wouldn’t hurt also to pour
water. Yes, in God’s name,
pour water. As much water as
you can.”
A nurse walks by as I stand
in the doorway of another
patient. Their family has
moved them to comfort care,
with a do-not-resuscitate order.

There’s nothing else to do.

“Was he vaccinated?” I ask.

“I’ve stopped asking,” she
says. “Either answer makes me
upset.” As I walk from room to
room I think of the words of
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Patients are afraid. Families
are heartbroken. They cry and
argue in the “quiet rooms,”
wondering who brought
COVID into the house, which
aunt refused to get vaccinated
and spread the virus that is
now killing the grandfather.

There’s guilt, there’s shame,
there’s anger.

And then there’s us.

Some people drink, some
people eat, to cope with what
has become a sort of horror
show on repeat: When one
body is taken out of the room,
another patient takes their
place. I experience fatigue. At
any point in my work day I
could close my eyes and go to
sleep right where I sit or stand.

“Modeh ani l’ fanecha,
melech chai v’kayam, shehe-
chezarta bi nishmati, b’chemla
raba emunatecha,” I revive
myself with the prayer that
is traditionally spoken each
morning upon
waking. “I thank You, living and
enduring sovereign, for You
have graciously returned my
soul within me. Great is Your
faithfulness.” I’ve got to stay awake,
provide care for the crying and
stressed nurses, provide care
for the families, vaccinated and
unvaccinated, provide prayer
for those dying alone, with
only the sound of the machines
to accompany them. Why?
Because as a Jew I am obligated
to do so, as the Torah teaches
me: “You shall not stand idly by
the blood of another.”
Indeed, people’s lives are
in danger. I’ve been at this
since August. The doctors and
nurses have been at this for
years. How they manage, I’ll
never know. But even a hello
and asking how they’re holding
up makes a difference. If you
know a nurse or doctor, give
them a hug, tell them they
matter, thank them.

We seem to be fighting a
losing battle. People are dying
every day. And when we return
to our staff meetings we hear
the words “surge,” again and
again. It’s scary. It’s exhausting.

Gam zeh yaavor: This
too shall end. Until then, I
remember the words of another
sage, F. Scott Fitzgerald:
“Tomorrow we will run faster,
stretch out our arms farther ...

And then one fine morning —
So we beat on, boats against the
current, borne back ceaselessly
into the past.” l
Rabbi Mike Harvey is a resident
chaplain within the Indiana
University Health system in
Indianapolis. Ordained by Hebrew
Union College–Jewish Institute of
Religion in 2015, he is the author
of “Let’s Talk: A Rabbi Speaks to
Christians,” to be published by
Fortress Press in summer 2022.

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