01/27/2023
To end our series of pandemic stories I wanted to share this story from Callie Heintzman who lived and worked in NYC during the height of the crisis. Thank you Callie for sharing this story!
It was nearing the end of March 2020 - just about two weeks after COVID-19 had been declared a national emergency - I was living in New York City, the place that was the epicenter of the pandemic. At this point, for some, life revolved around watching the news and sanitizing every package that arrived, hoping others would follow suit and contribute to this ultimate group project that was forced upon our country. For others, it involved making the difficult but responsible decision to cancel their international vacation and stay home to binge-watch Tiger King instead. For me, it looked like walking to the pediatric emergency room where I worked as a Certified Child Life Specialist - the empty sidewalks were a grim reminder that life was far from normal. My usual commute this time of year involved watching parents try to hold their child's hand on the brisk walk to school, struggling with their mittens and puffy coats; seeing the impeccably dressed man wait for a taxi in his wool coat that likely cost more than what I spent on rent; or perhaps observing a tired twenty-something like myself haul her hamper of laundry because she, like me, could only dream about having in-unit laundry. Instead, during my walk I would see a mother harshly whispering to her child to put his mask back on; see the eerily quiet streets feeling like life had become a strange dream; do my very best to make eye contact with passersby, hoping my eyes shared the collective emotions we were feeling below our masks.
When I got to work, I would not know what I would be walking into - as everything was changing so rapidly. Everything was uncertain and nothing felt secure. As I walked towards the entrance of the emergency department (which I was only allowed to enter through since I worked on that unit, all other staff were required to use a separate entrance), I tried to ignore the two large refrigerated trucks that had been put in place to accommodate morgue overflow. I would see the signs people put up in their window saying, “We ♥ healthcare heroes.” We would have daily huddles each morning giving us new updates - one of which was being informed that pediatric patients were being transferred to our uptown campus and our pediatric units would be turned into adult overflow, as the adult floors were at capacity. That week another update we were given was that women in labor would not be permitted to have their birthing partner present with them, in order to reduce the number of “unnecessary” people in the hospital when transmission rates were so high in the city. (Ultimately this particular policy was amended to allow one person to be present for the entire laboring process, though they were not allowed to leave the mother’s bedside once they got there, in order to prevent spreading of this horrible virus we knew very little about.)
Before the rules were amended back to allowing partners to be present, I remember thinking through my skills as a child life specialist and how transferable they were to someone who was going through labor. Child life specialists provide emotional support and facilitate coping during stressful life circumstances. I, along with several of my colleagues, volunteered to be put on a list of “on call” support staff for individuals who were facing labor on their own and their medical team assessed they could benefit from additional emotional support. The charge nurse from Labor and Delivery reached out to our team, saying there was a mother who was in labor with her first child and would be a good candidate for extra support. I will never forget that elevator ride as I went up to L&D on the 7th floor. I had never seen a live birth firsthand and honestly felt like I was in over my head. I remember praying/saying out loud to whoever was listening, “please equip me. I have no idea what I am doing.”
I checked in with the charge nurse and she told me the patient’s name (Ashley*) and pointed me to her room. I introduced myself to Ashley and asked if she would like some extra support, which she emphatically said that she would. She pointed to her phone and introduced me to her husband Jeff* through FaceTime, who was with her mother at home, experiencing the birth of his first child in the most bizarrely 2020 way possible. As we were talking, I realized a very familiar gospel song was playing on the Bluetooth speaker next to Ashley’s bed. I mentioned this to her and how I had been praying for her and this moment on my way up, and that hearing this song felt like a nod of encouragement from the universe. Later, she would tell me that she and Jeff had created the playlist together specifically for her labor using some of their favorite songs, as well as some classics. In between contractions, I used my rapport-building skills as I talked with Ashley and asked her questions, like how she met Jeff and if they had decided what they were going to name the baby. She said they had chosen the first name Jackson* because it was a name they both liked and they were going to use a family name for his middle name.
As we spoke, we were both wearing masks (along with the other medical staff who were present during the labor) and I realized how long I spent taking for granted the power of a reassuring smile, hoping that the smile underneath my mask reached my eyes, future wrinkles be damned. Ashley pushed through each painful contraction, as we all encouraged Jackson to make his way into the world. I will always remember the moment when, after a particularly intense contraction, Ashley was catching her breath when we heard a loud exhale and a “phew!” from Jeff on the other end of the call. Ashley rolled her eyes and laughed at her husband, saying how he had no idea how much this sucked. As the physician saw Jackson’s head crowning, the energy in the room was filled with nervous excitement. I held Ashley’s hand and spoke words of encouragement to her as she pushed, her face covered in tears and sweat. We made sure that Ashley could see Jeff and talk to him by moving her phone wherever she wanted it. In the final moments of delivery, Ashley apologized and ripped off her mask, saying she needed to breathe. It was then that Jackson made his entrance in the world and tears of joy were shed by all. Ashley had mentioned earlier that she was curious what song would be playing when he was born - someone looked at the playlist and announced that the song was “My Way” by Frank Sinatra.
After letting Ashley have skin-to-skin contact time with Jackson, the nurse took him to clean him up. I had an idea and asked if I could take Ashley’s phone (with Jeff still connected via FaceTime) so that Jeff could “be” with Jackson, or if she’d prefer to have Jeff’s support while they cared for her. She emphatically told me to go with the baby - so I made sure I was holding the phone so that the camera was always pointed at Jackson. I don’t think I will ever forget noticing that I could hear the screenshot capture noise that iPhones make dozens of times as Jeff fawned over his newborn son over video chat, a very 2020 moment. After Jackson had been cleaned up, measured, and weighed, the nurse returned the baby to Ashley, who was absolutely glowing with joy and relief. I made sure to prop Ashley’s phone up so she and Jeff could bond with their new baby. Then I thought, “what do I do now?” because I had just witnessed such a beautiful, intimate, and special moment in this family’s life and I was supposed to just….go back to work? I thought about saying goodbye, but realized me saying goodbye and announcing my exit made it feel like I was making it about me. They were captivated with one another so I decided to just slip out of the room, letting the nurse know I was leaving. I remember leaving that room wondering if they even realized I had been there at all.
Fast forward a few months when I was at work one Sunday in January 2021, feeling like a shell of the person I was a year ago. In addition to the exhaustion that came with working ten solid months on the frontlines of the epicenter of the pandemic, I was also dealing with other challenges related to my own mental health and personal matters going on in my own life. I was feeling wary and defeated on many levels, not really thinking anything of another cold and dreary weekend spent working in the pediatric emergency room. As I saw patients that day, I kept one eye on the registration board, as I always did, to see if there were any high needs patients that had just arrived. I saw there was a baby named Jackson who had just popped up on our board - I got curious and looked at his date of birth, thinking there was no way it was the same Jackson. Sure enough, the date of birth was the same day I witnessed Ashley become a mother - and the woman holding this nine-month-old baby did look familiar. I waited until the nurse had triaged them in the room, then confirmed with my colleague that he was stable, and I went in to say hello.
Using my best rapport-building, great bedside manner voice, I greeted them and said, “Okay, this is going to sound strange, but did you give birth here in March of 2020 while FaceTiming with your husband?” Ashley looked confused and said that, yes, that was the case. I said, “My name is Callie and I wanted to say hi because, I’m sure you don’t remember because of how much was going on, but I was actually there when you gave birth to Jackson.” I did not expect what happened next - Ashley burst into tears and reached her arms around me in a tight embrace. She pulled back, wiping tears from her eyes, saying, “I tell people about you all of the time - this sweet, wonderful angel who prayed for me and stayed with me when I felt so scared and alone. I talk about you all of the time and I couldn’t even remember what your name was! I am so glad to see you and to know that you are safe and okay.” We spent a few minutes catching up - I reminded her of how Jackson’s entrance into the world was to the tune of the song “My Way” and asked if that was indicative of Jackson’s personality. She laughed and said it absolutely was, and that she had forgotten about that fact. At one point, she asked me to hold Jackson while she did something and, as she handed him to me, she said, “She’s known you longer than your dad has!” It was such a sweet and surreal moment to get to see (and hold) the tangible progression of time and development of the last ten months. In some ways, I felt like my own growth had stalled in March of 2020 - my body and brain attempting to survive the stress and trauma by dissociating and preserving myself. Getting to see Jackson, with his big blue eyes and gummy smile with a couple of teeth developing, provided this vital reminder: we persisted.
This moment meant the world to me - and provided me with a revival I didn’t know my heart needed. It took me back to that labor and delivery room in March 2020, when things were so scary and unknown, but the reality of the ten months that followed that birth were worse than we could have imagined in many ways. The ever-changing mandates, the death toll that was so much higher than anyone would have hoped, the devastating racial injustices happening, the long-term effects of COVID-19 coming to surface, the growing rate of this virus affecting pediatric patients, the emotional burnout my colleagues and I were facing - it was all exhausting. But here, in this moment, I got what I needed: a reminder that we have persisted through so much and I was able to have a lasting impact on one woman’s experience as she began the sacred role of parenthood.
Nothing about the last three years have been easy: getting married during the pandemic, losing a loved one during the pandemic, becoming a parent during the pandemic, going through a hard but much-needed breakup during the pandemic, moving to your own place during the pandemic - all of these major life events are typically expected and not a single one was devoid of the heavy impact of COVID-19. This experience reminded me that - if nothing else - our experiences matter and the influence you have on someone else’s experience might be far greater than you realize.
