Amanda Lamb: Mothers on the front lines

I have had the privilege of interviewing many health care workers during the pandemic, most of them women working in emergency rooms, most of them mothers.

They have told me stories about people dying on stretchers in hospital hallways, dying alone, without family and friends, how they tried to give them whatever scarce comfort they could offer in those last moments of life. They told me how their hearts broke inside their sterile, cold, personal protective equipment that made them look other-worldly and made them feel like they were on another planet isolated from their patients.

They told me the fortitude it took to cover a dead patient with a sheet, without even a minor pause, and then to immediately move on to attend to other patients who were alive and suffering and needed their help. They told me about the tears that come at the end of a shift, sometimes in the car as they pull out of the hospital parking lot, tears for the victims of COVID-19, tears for their families, and tears of sheer physical and emotional exhaustion.

And then, they told me about going home to their families. They disrobe in the garage, leaving their clothing and shoes there because they are most certainly contaminated. They rush inside to get a hot shower where they scrub their skin until it is raw, sometimes they cry again in the shower. And then, it's time to see their children.

This is what’s really hard about being a mother on the front lines of a pandemic—do you hug your children? If you do, are you putting them at risk? Every mother I’ve spoken with has a different approach—some quarantine themselves after work in a separate part of the house and put their husbands in charge, their interaction with their kids relegated to waves and blowing kisses. Others live separately during this time, sending their children to a relatives’ home so that they can work without the constant fear of infecting their families. Others strictly follow the CDC precautions at home and hope for the best.

No one is right or wrong. They’re just surviving the best they can, doing what feels right for them and their families.

One nurse from North Carolina who volunteered to work in a hospital emergency room in New York told me that she discussed the situation with her teenage sons. She explained the risk, but also explained her need to care for people during this time—the sick, the dying. That’s what nurses do, she told me. It’s in their DNA. They were born to help people. She told me her children understood that this was something Mom had to do, that it was the right thing to do.

Thank you. It’s not nearly enough, but thank you for what you do. Thank you for calling the family of a dying man on your cell phone so he can say good-bye to his family. Thank you for holding someone’s hand with when you see the fear in her eyes, the isolation, the sadness and despair. Thank you for being there, even when there’s nothing you can do but give someone a smile and be the last face they see as they leave this world. You are heroes, and don’t let anyone tell you otherwise. I am proud to know you, and proud to tell your stories.

So, here’s to the mothers across America who are leaving their families ever single day, putting themselves directly in the path of this deadly disease because of their calling to care for others. I can’t think of a greater gift to give your children than the example of this amazing sacrifice.