Mercy and Comfort, and Hope

Images of the USNS Comfort and the USNS Mercy hospital ships arriving in New York City and San Diego filled me with pride and hope. Even though these two ships will be used not for Covid-19 cases but for all the “ordinary” hospital stuff in order to free up hospitals for pandemic patients, they are nonetheless symbolic of what we are looking for most at this time– “Help is on the way.” Or even better: “Help has arrived.”

In New York City, in a mad dash to prepare for the onslaught of the virus, the Jacob K. Javits Convention Center has been converted into a “field hospital.” What struck me about those images were potted plants next to the beds, someone’s attempt to make the makeshift hospital room more homey. Potted plants!

Both images reminded me of an essay I used to teach my English composition students, an excerpt from Paul Fussell’s 1989 book Wartime. The essay is about World War II “type-casting,” how the different nationalities stereotyped both the enemy and their allies in the war they were fighting. Particularly, this quote:

“A sensitive German woman, Christabel Bielenberg, accidentally came upon an American flier hidden in a room in her small town. She instantly perceived that the war was lost when she observed ‘the general air of health and well being, of affluence, about him.’ What struck her was

the quality of the stuff his overalls were made of, his boots and the silk scarf which he had tied into his belt, and a soft leather wallet he held in one hand. Suddenly I felt shabby, old, dilapidated, and defeated. Everything he had on was so real: real wool, real leather, real silk– so real and he looked so young.

Paul Fussell, from “Creating America,” eds Joyce Moser and Ann Watters, 499).

It has been difficult in this time of sudden pandemic to think that we don’t have enough, don’t have the supplies we need, don’t have the equipment. When you see what a ventilator is, a complex and large piece of medical equipment, it feels impossible that we could make more in the quantity we need in time to save the maximum number of lives.

I think it is also hard to see that part of the burden of this war is falling on people who struggle in our society– grocery clerks and delivery people. The situation of physical distancing makes us worried about the most vulnerable in our society, the homeless and elderly and food insecure, as well as those living in situations of domestic violence. We’re looking at our “new economy” in a different way. It’s easy to feel weak and like we just might not make it– the losses, whatever they are, will be more than we can bear.

Throughout three rounds of chemotherapy treatment, I’ve always been aware of the kit used when a nurse accesses my port, the device implanted in my chest for blood draws and delivering treatment. The nurse opens a packet and unfolds it to reveal a pair of gloves and draping, as well as the button-style needle and tubing, and an alcohol swab like glue dispensers used for crafting to clean the area before the stick. I love that kit, its completeness and the way it lays out the procedure in its parts. It exudes, as do my nurses, always, that we know what we’re doing. I’m safe, cared for. There’s some little jolt of confidence I get from that kit and the way the nurses use it.

I felt similarly about the hospital ships arriving in New York City. A Facebook friend posted the photo above, taken from his 15th floor apartment window. It was the first time I felt we were not flailing, that we would win this war. New Yorkers sheltering in place, self-isolating, staying inside to save lives, watched as the ship arrived and took its place.

We all watched, on our screens and televisions, the image of this outsized, gleaming white ship emblazoned with red crosses, arriving at the city where the virus is about to hit like a tsunami. That city where someone had not just the time and access but also the inclination to place a potted succulent beside each bed in a makeshift ward. That ship, bringing comfort, bringing mercy, bringing hope.