Holding On: A Theatre Nurse’s Story from the COVID Pandemic

The Days We Became COVID Nurses

There are days when I still catch myself thinking about life before everything changed—back when the operating room had a rhythm I could trust. I knew every step by heart: prepping instruments, reviewing the surgical list, checking sterile packs one last time before the first incision. We moved in sync, every sound familiar, every action deliberate. It was demanding, but predictable. The OR felt like home, a place where preparation, focus, and teamwork blended into quiet confidence.

Then COVID‑19 arrived, and that steady world shifted almost overnight. Elective surgeries were canceled, lights stayed dim, and the routines that once anchored us disappeared. PPE protocols changed so often it felt like we were constantly relearning how to work. The hum of concentration was replaced with a heavier noise—worry. The familiar clink of instruments gave way to the hiss of ventilators, the rustle of isolation gowns, and the muffled voices behind layers of masks and shields. Fear had a sound, and suddenly it was everywhere.

In what felt like a blink, I wasn’t just an OR nurse anymore—I was a COVID nurse.

One day we were assisting surgeries; the next, we were redeployed to intensive care units and COVID wards. The virus was invisible but felt present in every corridor, every doorknob, every breath. It sat in the silence of the hallway on the day we were told we’d be reassigned. Nobody spoke at first, but we didn’t have to. We were scared. Yet beneath that fear lived something just as strong—duty. Someone had to care for these patients. Someone had to walk into those rooms. So we did.

Living with Fear During COVID

Fear quickly became part of our daily uniform. There was the fear of getting infected, of bringing the virus home, of missing a step in a role we were still learning. It wasn’t a passing feeling; it was constant, humming beneath everything. What helped was the honesty we allowed ourselves. We stopped pretending to be untouched by it all. We said it out loud: I’m scared. We cried between shifts or in quiet corners when it became too heavy to carry alone. In doing that, we reminded one another that fear wasn’t weakness—it was proof of how deeply we cared.

The PPE shortages only intensified that fear. Sometimes one mask had to last for days, the straps digging into our skin, leaving marks that lingered long after we got home. Even so, we kept going back. Showing up became our language of courage, our way of saying to our patients and to each other: I’m still here.

Small Moments That Stayed

There are moments I know will stay with me forever. One of them is a young patient admitted alone, terrified, and struggling to breathe. No visitors, no family—just us. I sat by her bedside, gloved hand wrapped around hers, speaking softly through layers of PPE, trying to offer comfort from behind plastic and fabric. I stayed until her breathing slowed and finally stopped. That moment broke something open inside me, but it also reminded me why compassion is at the center of nursing. Even when we couldn’t change the outcome, we could make sure someone didn’t leave this world feeling alone. Compassion doesn’t end with a heartbeat; it lingers in the silence that comes after.

Coping in Our Own Ways

To survive those days, we had to find comfort wherever we could. Food became one of our love languages. Someone would bring pastries, another would show up with coffee, someone else with chocolate tucked into a pocket. We’d gather for a few minutes in a corner of the break room, lowering our masks just long enough to eat, share a joke, or breathe out the tension of the last hour. For a brief moment, the weight lifted. It wasn’t really about the food—it was about feeling human again.

Tiny Acts of Self‑Care

At first, self‑care felt impossible, almost selfish. We were exhausted and stretched thin. But slowly, I began to recognize that it could live in small moments: a deep breath before entering the ward, a short stretch after hours on my feet, a minute of fresh air outside the hospital doors, even under a grey sky. Sometimes it was a whispered prayer before bed, asking for just enough strength to do it all again the next day. Those tiny acts didn’t erase the fatigue, but they reminded me I was still myself beneath the scrubs and PPE.

Teamwork and Silent Promises

Through it all, what truly carried us was each other. Teamwork stopped being just a nice concept and became our lifeline. Emily, one of my colleagues, would jot little notes on the whiteboard before our shifts: Drink water. We’ve got this. You are enough. They were simple words, but they landed exactly where they were needed. Sometimes it was just a look across the hall, a nod, or a tired half‑smile that said: I see you. I’m with you.

We improvised when supplies ran low, shared tips as protocols changed, and stepped in when someone needed a moment to breathe or cry. We formed new routines on the go—quick checklists, group chats, whispered reminders. None of it was perfect, but it was real, and in those imperfect efforts, we kept one another afloat.

What We Learned After Facing the COVID Pandemic

Looking back now, I can see that being a COVID nurse changed more than our job descriptions—it changed us from the inside out. The lessons we took away weren’t just about medicine or infection control; they were profoundly human. We learned that compassion is not just something we offer patients; it’s something we must also extend to ourselves and each other. We learned that self‑care isn’t a luxury; it’s a necessity that allows us to keep showing up. And we learned that teamwork doesn’t simply divide the workload—it multiplies strength.

Most of all, we learned that courage doesn’t mean the absence of fear. Courage is walking into the ward again and again even when your knees shake, trusting that kindness and care still matter—even in the darkest moments.

Moving Forward After COVID

Life feels calmer now, but the quiet doesn’t erase what came before. The memories still sit in the corners of our minds—the sound of ventilators, the fog on our face shields, the way time melted into one long, unbroken shift. But what lingers more than anything are the human moments: the shared laughter in the break room, the warm hand on a trembling shoulder, the soft “You okay?” spoken through a mask. Those were our coping strategies. Those were our lifelines.

We shifted from surgical precision to survival mode during the COVID, from the calm structure of the OR to the chaos of a global crisis. And somehow, through heartbreak and exhaustion, we found each other in the middle of it all. It wasn’t policies or protocols that kept us standing—it was compassion. The kind that appears in the smallest acts: a cup of coffee left waiting, a message sent at 3 a.m., a colleague helping untie your gown when your hands are shaking with fatigue.

Those moments carried us then—and they still carry us now. When I look back on those days of COVID, I don’t just see fear and exhaustion. I see quiet strength, shared burdens, and a determination to keep caring, even when everything felt like it was falling apart. We showed up not because we were fearless, but because someone needed us. Because even in the storm, nursing remained one of the most human things we could ever do.

And that’s what I’ll carry with me, always.

If you’re a nurse reading this, whatever you felt—or still feel—is valid. You are not alone in your fear, fatigue, or grief. Reaching out for help, whether to a colleague, a friend, or a professional, is not a sign of weakness; it’s a sign of wisdom and strength. And if you’re not a nurse but chose to read this, thank you for seeing this side of the pandemic, and for recognizing the humans behind the masks.

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HELPFUL RESOURCES

Internal Link: What Does an Operating Room Nurse Do?

External Link: WHO Guidelines for COVID-19

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