Opinion: Medicine and humanity in the COVID era

My grandfather had been feeling ill prior to presenting to the emergency department at a metro Atlanta hospital last February. After 1 year of dedicated adherence to the “consensus” safety precautions, my grandfather was diagnosed with COVID-19. He was admitted to the ICU for escalating care, commencing a regrettable week of suffering, the likes of which must cease to inflict similar families in similar situations.

Credit: contributed

Credit: contributed

When my grandfather’s condition deteriorated over the ensuing week, I boarded a plane from New York City to Atlanta. Upon arrival at the hospital, I was informed of strictly prohibited visitation, “for my safety.” I explained that I’d just arrived from New York, solely for the purpose of seeing my ill grandfather. I further explained my own experience in caring for COVID-infected patients, emphasizing my familiarity with measures for preventing transmission, whilst consenting to the risk of possible self-harm. Nonetheless, I was still denied entry.

Realizing the disingenuousness of the purported rationale for denying my grandfather much-needed support, a series of questions came to mind: If the policy isn’t truly designed to protect me, whom does it protect?

Is the policy to protect my grandfather, already infected and desperately needing a hand to hold? Is it to protect the nurses continuously entering rooms occupied by COVID-positive patients? Maybe to protect other patients, in their single-occupancy, isolated, negative-pressure rooms?

Or perhaps to protect the community at-large, by preventing my transference of the virus beyond the hospital grounds? But already the virus exists beyond the hospital! And what about the vast hospital workforce? Does the community require protection from them? If they’re considered “essential personnel,” necessary for execution of the hospital’s proclaimed core mission to promote healing and recovery, shouldn’t a patient’s family get equal (I’d argue more) recognition for the essential support they provide?

As a graduate of Emory University’s School of Medicine, I still vividly recall the first lecture presented. We were told of the numerous forms taken by “healers,” across time and cultures. We were told of “shamans” and other spiritual figures. We were told of the immeasurable value of spiritual wellness in promoting physical wellness.

While excessive measures may have been justifiable early, following the pandemic’s outbreak, we now know COVID-19 causes mild disease in an overwhelming majority, with mortality near 1%. With that said, relatively few people are inflicted with a devastating burden of disease. These people need our help most; yet these are the people whom we have seemingly abandoned. While most recover after a week of sniffling, those most-seriously affected are entrusted to a cold, heartless system that’s lost sense of its purpose.

Ultimately, despite my desperate plea, I was denied the right to see my grandfather that day. More importantly, my grandfather was denied the right to see me. As I prepared to leave, heartbroken and defeated, the physician “ruling” over the ICU that day offered a final, disturbing justification for turning me away.

In an offensive attempt to offer solace, she told me of a “son” whom she’d informed of his father’s imminent death, only the prior evening, whilst still fervently maintaining the draconian visitation policy. She continued that, if she let me see my grandfather, “it wouldn’t be fair to the numerous others” denied access. I contend that such a person, with such a perspective, is ill-suited to serve in the privileged role of “healer.”

Further, I contend the “numerous others,” those also helplessly forced aside as their loved ones perished alone and afraid, would pray their fellow Americans -- their fellow human beings -- may be spared a similar fate. Finally, I contend the “numerous others” would passionately stand behind me in my dissent from this deplorable, undignified practice.

Two nights later, my grandfather died. My family was notified of the poor prognosis, shortly prior to his passing, at which time I was finally permitted entry in a far-too-little, far-too-late demonstration of compassion. By that point, my grandfather was no longer aware of his surroundings, as his weak and tired body struggled to continue breathing.

Perhaps, had he not been neglected the unquantifiable expression of love from his family, he’d have mustered the will to endure. Then again, perhaps not. In any case, when my grandfather arrived at the ED, only one week prior, he certainly never imagined he’d forever be separated from all those he loved most.

For many people, there will never exist a period of greater vulnerability than when desperately seeking hospital care. Few have the opportunity or wherewithal to discern the facility’s commitment to preservation of their basic rights. Once critically sick, even fewer have any freedom of choice when “hospital policy” represents an assault on those basic rights.

My grandfather was stripped of his right to say “I love you” for a final time. He was stripped of his right to say “goodbye”. Sadly, throughout this past year, so too were so many others. The time for reflection is now long overdue.

Brian Traub, M.D., is a graduate of Emory University School of Medicine. He is currently training as a general surgery resident in his home city of New York.