An urgency swells within me, tugging at my thoughts: if I’m going to write, it must be now—there’s no time left to waste. Ever since she was a little girl, Ella dreamed of weaving stories, recalling the thrill of breathing life into her own creations through words and illustrations. But as she excelled in school, the pressure to pursue a career in medicine mounted. She convinced herself this was her destined path; after all, who wouldn’t aspire to be a respected professional, held in high regard by society? Yet deep down, the echoes of her childhood dreams lingered, reminding her of a life she had set aside.
But everything changed during COVID; her once-passionate drive to save lives transformed into a haunting nightmare. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t save them all. There weren’t enough ventilators, not enough beds, and no medicine to alleviate her patients’ suffering. She worked grueling 12 to 16 hour shifts, six days a week, losing track of the last time she showered or ate. Weeks slipped by without her stepping foot in her apartment. Yet, despite the exhaustion, she clung to her youth and strength, determined to fight through it all and save as many lives as she could.
The ordeal became overwhelming; fatigue wrapped around her like a heavy shroud, leaving her bitter and hollow. She found herself unable to see the patients as individuals anymore, viewing them instead as mere numbers or lifeless bodies—coughing, feverish, moaning, and crying out for their parents and loved ones. It broke her heart that she couldn’t cure them; all she could do was ease their suffering and desperately hope they had enough strength to recover on their own. There were no antibiotics, no miracle drugs to save them—just a relentless virus wreaking havoc.
She was bone-tired, yet the thought of quitting felt impossible; she couldn’t just walk out of the hospital while so many were suffering, especially the children. She watched in anguish as a mother struggled to bring her baby into the world, only to succumb during the harrowing labor. The child, a fragile girl, was born only to slip away moments later—too small, too weak, with no ventilator to support her tiny body. The weight of sickness and death hung heavy in the air. After four years as a doctor, she had never truly witnessed death, but now it surrounded her, an unrelenting presence that invaded her every day.
One night, she jolted awake, heart racing, her screams echoing in the darkness. Nightmares of sick patients pressed in on her, their desperate faces coming at her from every angle. She flailed, trying to wave them off, but they kept coming, relentless and haunting. Then, as panic set in, she felt the weight of their suffering settle upon her—she was coughing, gasping for breath, her body betraying her. A suffocating darkness enveloped her, heavy and oppressive, as if a deep, dark cloud had descended, stealing away her strength and will to fight.
For the first time, at 34, she confronted her own mortality, the stark reality that she could die just like the patients before her. Some were old, others vibrant and healthy until the virus took hold, transforming their lives in an instant. What if she, too, harbored the virus within her? It lingered in her body, a silent threat poised to escape and spread through the hospital like wildfire, ready to claim more lives.
She found herself adrift in uncertainty, questioning everything: Am I sick or not? Am I carrying the virus? Am I truly helping anyone? The woman she once knew—a bright, beautiful soul with a kind heart and soft-spoken nature—felt like a distant memory. Now, she was lonely and exhausted, yearning to escape, to run far from the ward, from the hospital, from a world steeped in doubt and death.
So she left, without saying goodbye, without formally quitting, and without even bothering to pack her belongings. She attended to her last patient, a survivor who had clawed his way back from the brink after 16 agonizing days, and might finally go home tomorrow. But she wouldn’t be the one writing the discharge order. In that moment, she felt hollow, as if a part of her had already slipped away. The weight of despair settled heavy on her chest, suffocating. There was nothing left of her—only a shadow of the person she once was, trapped in a cycle of grief and exhaustion. She had reached the end of her tether, consumed by a darkness that seemed to stretch infinitely ahead.