2020: When It All Began
The world changed in 2020. So did my life.
I was a house officer at Sultan Haji Ahmad Shah Temerloh Hospital in Pahang when the first wave of Covid-19 hit. It started slowly—just a few cases. Then, it spread like wildfire.
Our normal wards were shut down, one by one, converted into Covid-19 isolation units and intensive care zones. Soon, there were no more “normal” patients. Only the critically ill, the breathless, the dying.
Manpower ran thin. Our leaves were canceled. We worked extra hours, often without sleep. Day and night, we fought an invisible enemy, knowing little about it except that it killed mercilessly through acute respiratory distress syndrome (ARDS), and multiorgan failure.
I saw patients admitted with just a mild fever… and within hours, their oxygen saturation (SpO₂) plummeted to critical levels. Some whispered their last words over the phone to their loved ones, begging for one more moment together.
But the cruelest part? They died alone. No family was allowed inside. The only hands they held in their final moments were ours— strangers in level 4 personal protective equipment (PPE), faces hidden behind fogged-up visors (face shield) and N95 masks.
We were exhausted, but there was no time to stop. The hospital was drowning, and we were barely keeping it afloat.
A New Life Amidst Death
At the end of 2020, I received the best news of my life—my wife was pregnant. For the first time in months, I felt happiness. But it was short-lived. Because alongside that happiness came overwhelming fear.
Would I bring the virus home? Would I be the reason my wife and unborn child got sick?
We knew little about Covid-19 back then, but we did know one thing—it was deadly for the immunocompromised and high-risk individuals. And what could be more vulnerable than a growing fetus in the womb?
I became obsessed with infection control. Every day, I would scrub myself raw with chlorhexidine before stepping into my house. I kept my distance, avoided holding my wife, even when she needed me the most. I watched her stomach grow from afar, longing to embrace her but terrified of what my touch might bring.
2021: The Worst Of It All
I completed my housemanship in early 2021, just as Covid-19 reached its peak. There was still no cure. Variants became stronger, patients sicker.
I was assigned to the Covid-19 High Dependency Unit (HDU), the worst of the worst. These were not mild cases. These were patients with PaO₂/FiO₂ ratios dropping below 100, on the verge of being intubated.
And they were all mine.
I covered one to two wards daily, with over 100 patients each shift. My on-call duties were brutal—33-hour shifts, every other day. I would clock in at 8am one morning and only leave at 5pm the next day.
During these shifts, I barely ate. I barely drank. Removing PPE for even a sip of water felt like a luxury we couldn’t afford. The moment you took it off, you risked exposure. So, we endured. Dehydrated, drenched in sweat, hypercapnic under tight N95 masks, borderline presyncopal at times.
And the worst part? The helplessness.
I remember one patient, a father of three. He was stable when I checked on him in the morning. By noon, his respiratory rate had increased to 40 breaths per minute, his ABG (arterial blood gas) showing type 1 respiratory failure. By evening, he was in cardiopulmonary collapse despite maximum ventilatory support.
Just like that. No goodbyes. No last words.
I had to call his wife and tell her he wasn’t coming home. She didn’t say a word. Just silence. Then, soft sobs. Then, a scream. The kind of scream that haunts you forever.
But there was no time to grieve. More patients needed me. More lives were slipping away.
I missed my wife’s pregnancy because of those 33-hour shifts. She faced nausea, Braxton Hicks contractions, and fear alone. When she cried at night, I wasn’t there to hold her.
And I hated myself for it.
Relocation – Another Nightmare
Then, another blow came.
The Pahang State Health Department (JKNP) announced that doctors were needed in Kuantan to open new quarantine centres. We were given orders—pack up and leave.
Kuantan was over 100km away. My wife’s due date was getting closer. Moving meant extra costs, money we didn’t have. But I had no choice. I was just a government servant, a small piece in the system, expected to obey without question.
Finding a house was another nightmare.
Landlords refused to rent to us, fearing we carried the virus. Even those who agreed asked for huge deposits—money we couldn’t spare. With no choice, I used my EPF savings and took advantage of the government’s loan moratorium.
A Father, But Not Really
Work at the quarantine centre was slightly easier—fewer critical patients, more mild cases. But there were still over 1,000 patients at a time—an endless sea of people waiting for care.
Then, during one of my shifts, I received a call.
My wife’s doctor had bad news. Our baby had intrauterine growth restriction (IUGR).
They needed to induce labor immediately.
I rushed to the hospital, praying I wouldn’t be too late. But even after all my sacrifices, all my long nights…I wasn’t allowed inside.
Covid-19 protocols were strict. Fathers were not permitted in the labor room.
So, I waited outside, pacing back and forth like a madman. Hours passed.
Then came another call.
“Your baby is in foetal distress. We need to perform an emergency C-section.”
I felt like my heart stopped. But I had no choice but to say, “Do whatever it takes to save them.”
Alhamdulillah, my son was born safely. But after all the battles I fought to get here, I couldn’t even hold him. I couldn’t even hold my wife.
And we were alone.
Our parents were 200km away, unable to visit. It was just the two of us, lost, overwhelmed, struggling to figure out parenthood without guidance.
The Betrayal
After three months, I was transferred to Selangor, finally closer to our big family. I got my dream assignation in Kajang Hospital, which has been renamed as Tengku Permaisuri Norashikin Hospital.
Slowly, Covid-19 cases decreased. The government’s immunisation programme worked. The country was healing.
And that’s when they slowly forgot us. Suddenly all the memories were wiped out like the flash in the “Men in Black” movie.
During the crisis, we were hailed as heroes. The public clapped for us, made posters, called us the backbone of the nation.
But now?
When we say we’re overworked, they tell us to quit if we can’t handle it.
When we say we’re underpaid, they tell us to be grateful to even have a job.
When we ask for better working conditions, they tell us there are plenty of others waiting to take our place.
And the government? Instead of supporting us, they want to cut our allowances, increase our working hours, and push us into a broken contract system.
This is how they repay us.
We are disposable.
We are forgotten.
Only Allah knows the sacrifices we made.
CodeBlue is giving the author anonymity because civil servants are prohibited from writing to the press.
This article is part of CodeBlue’s series marking the fifth anniversary of the World Health Organization declaring Covid-19 as a global pandemic on March 11, 2020.
- This is the personal opinion of the writer or publication and does not necessarily represent the views of CodeBlue.
