educatemoore

Not Feeling Hopeful

Things seem really dark this year. I realized that this week as I have been thinking about “Good’” Friday” and “Holy Saturday”. Don’t even get me started on my frustration with it being called “Good” Friday. In Christian tradition, the Friday and Saturday between Maundy Thursday and Easter Sunday are days of darkness and grief as we mourn the death of Jesus. I admirably respect the traditions that acknowledge the death as much as the resurrection. In order for there to be a resurrection, there had to be a death. When I took Old Testament during seminary, I had to write a paper on what Holy Saturday would be like for the followers of Jesus, in the Gospels. It was one of my best works. Sadly, I can’t find it. But I wrote about the darkness of the death and how the people navigated between the darkness and the hope. I imagined there was an internal struggle, wondering if Jesus would actually come back. The people walked around in mourning, reviewing the images of the crucifixion that were forever etched in their hearts. While reviewing the images, Jesus’s voice could be overheard, with his promise, a promise he made himself; that hey would return. And just like any other individual in mourning, they wondered if he actually would.

It is Friday, April 7, 2023 and I feel like we are in that darkness. I know I feel that way. I feel like as a country, as a world really; we’ve been going through the darkness for quite some time. As I walk through the hallways of my work, I have seen a lot of darkness. As I think about what I’ve seen in the hospital, there is a lot of darkness and the overcast of clouds are only making it worse.

It’s not Covid this time. It is gun violence. It’s always been gun violence. There has been a steady increase. There has been a rapid increase in violence and what’s worse, the victims and the shooters are getting younger. They are teenagers, some barely out of their tweens. Their bodies look like red stained Swiss cheese and their faces look like children who had no way of knowing how to maneuver through their lives. Their bandages can’t stop the blood seeping from their heads. Their heads are suffering not only from penetrating gun shot wounds but also from a lack of minds that are mature enough to face what they have to face every day. The families are at bedside, crying in the darkness of their grief that they are too scared to acknowledge.

When i leave work for the day, i try hard to keep my promise of not watching the local news. I see the news every day in the hospital, so i don’t need to see it on tv or internet. Sadly, the news from around the country manages to enter my doors that i’ve tried hard to lock. The children i stood next to today were not the only children shot. Gun violence is the number one killer of children in the United States. When I leave work, i know i am not the only trauma chaplain holding the hands of grief stricken families. There are parents in other parts of the state and in other parts of the country, sitting at the bedside of their children. They are thinking about the last thing they did together, the last words they exchanged, the last time they heard their child laugh and wondering if they can afford the child size coffin they are too afraid to consider.

It’s incredibly dark right now and I am walking around in a bit of a haze. There are images playing in my head about the events i’ve seen on the news from Tennessee, Sandy Hook, and Columbine, just to name a few. The images of children i’ve seen in the hospital are running through my mind, too. I wonder what i will see tomorrow. I am not exactly sure but i am not feeling very hopeful that the promise of a resurrection will come true.

A Different Perspective

Walking through these halls, you have absolutely no idea
Exactly what you will encounter after each corner you turn
You know, one split second will turn it all upside down
And in a blink of an eye, your perspective will never be the same
A different perspective

Over the last few years, many stories have been shared
Each chapter played out in unexpected, unscripted dramas
If you didn’t know any better, none of this would be true
Your experience tells you, that every second is all too real
A different perspective

Standing by the trauma bay, you watch it unfold, a story all too common
In a matter of seconds, the patient arrives, having been shot multiple times
Trauma Attendings on both sides and ED Doctors at the head
If they do the impossible, this patient might actually survive
Days later, the chaplain sits at bedside, as this miracle talks about his faith
A different perspective

Family called and requested prayer as their patriarch with covid, was to be intubated
After they talked and prayed together the chaplain held the patient’s hand through his sedation
The chaplain called family and shared the visit; with gratitude they cried “how did he look?”
That prayer was the last he ever heard and “amen” was the last word he ever said.
A different perspective

Making rounds on the units, to check on the staff with intentionality
On one side of the unit, the chaplain comforts a nurse through tears
After family expressed their emotions in unfortunate, belligerent ways
On the other side of the unit, a family embraces a nurse with gratitude
As they expressed their appreciation for taking care of one of their own
A different perspective

You’re paged to the MICU for a covid patient that is about to pass
Due to visitor restrictions, two family members watch from outside of the room
The chaplain stands beside them, providing a gentle touch and sacred silence
The nurse strokes his forehead and respiratory cradles his hand, as the last breath is taken
A different perspective

A driver, with full term pregnancy, arrived, after having been in a car collision
ED Team, Trauma Team, OB Team, and one chaplain; 46 people already there
This child had seconds to be delivered but mother requested prayer before entry
An understanding scalpel paused; a prayer was said and this precious one was finally free
A different perspective

When you walk around, you’ll measure this and quantify that
Take a moment to see what is happening around you
It’s always good to look at things from a different point of view
In a matter of seconds, your perspective may never be the same
A different perspective

An ED and Trauma Chaplain Blessing

Blessed are you, the ones who enter into the unknown every day, as you cross the thresholds of the department of emergency. May you be the sacred voice needed for all that you will encounter.

Blessed are you, the ones who witness the unimaginable, where one split second can change a life forever, including yours. May you find your spirit of peace in the midst of sudden change.

Blessed are you, the ones who beg the parents not to see their deceased son who was a passenger, because the injuries made him unrecognizable. May your strength carry you, knowing that you need to comfort families of the other teens involved, too.

Blessed are you, the ones who support those who tried with everything they had to save that little girl’s life, only to be assaulted by that intoxicated voice in the next room. May you hold them with the promise that they are not alone.

Blessed are you, the ones who holds the mother as she walks into the bay, where her son, shot to death, laid breathless. May your strength hold her up long enough to say goodbye.

Blessed are you, the ones who caress the foreheads of those gone by their own hands, when they couldn’t take the darkness anymore. May your understanding resilience see the light of hope that is tomorrow.

Blessed are you, the ones who maneuvered through the chaos of care, as you held the hands of those who had no support at all. May your compassionate presence carry you through.

Blessed are you, the ones who absorb the blood curdling screams from devastated families when they hear what nobody wants to hear. May the words of your mindful spirit, erase the sounds that linger.

Blessed are you, the ones watching the staff who have continued CPR well beyond death because family is frozen in shock and can’t say “stop”. May you find comfort in one another, as the pain and exhaustion take hold of all of you.

Blessed are you, the ones who face day in and day out, not only the emergencies that come to the bay but also the traumas that continue on. May you seek those moments of renewal, when the quiet moments rarely come along.

Blessed are you, the ones who come face to face with those who are traumatized as well as those who caused their pain. May your faith be assured that your conflicted care for all who enter this space won’t go unnoticed.

Blessed are you, the ones who protect one another through strange humor, compartmentalizing, denial, built up walls, and unvoiced pain. May you see the tiniest crack in each other, with a light that shines through, that you will survive.

Blessed are you, the ones who are called to do this work. May you be blessed in the ways you are a blessing to many.

Empty

Despite it being Eastertide, I am feeling a little deflated. Tired. Empty. I thought, since I am not a minister in a church anymore, post Holy Week would not be as exhausting. I mean, I’m not leading various worship services, from Palm Sunday to Maundy Thursday or “Good” Friday to an early Sunrise Service Sunday morning. (Seriously, did Jesus really rise that early in the morning?)

Side note: there will be no judgement from the ~~peanut~~ (easter egg) gallery about missing an Easter Service. Until you talk to all the other people who you only see on Easter, don’t judge me.

Well, I was wrong. i am completed drained. I didn’t even make it to an Easter Service this year as I am stuck in-between Maundy Thursday and Easter Sunday. Empty. Not like the tomb but like a well that is bone dry.

I wrote this a few years ago. Seems appropriate now, as i stand in the shadows, hoping for my own resurrection.

Empty

Fill me with Your spirit
Fill me with Your love
Fill me with Your hope
Fill me with Your space
Fill me with Your grace
Fill me with Your life

I feel so empty

Fill me with Your compassion
Fill me with Your peace
Fill me with Your touch
Fill me with Your care
Fill me with Your kindness
Fill me with Your life

I feel so empty

Lord, my bones are dry. My vessel is drained.

Please, pour your rain over me and heal my soul.

You Have no Idea but are you Willing to Learn?

You have no idea but are you willing to learn?

After being in this work for 10+ years, I am baffled by other clinical team members who don’t understand what a clinically trained chaplain does. When I first started, a nurse practitioner asked me, “what do you do besides pray? and “aren’t you going save him? get him to accept Christ?’ Yet, 10 years later, I still get the same questions.

I’m ok with the questions. I don’t mind folks asking because it gives me the opportunity to educate those who are curious. I like the surprise reactions that come once they learn that to be a board certified chaplain (BCC), I needed to have 10+ years of post undergrad education, graduate studies in psychotherapy and behavior systems, a year long residency, 2000 plus hours of clinical practice, an insane amount of paperwork and reflection, plus an interview with board certified chaplains. AND, in order to KEEP that certification, I must obtain 50 continuing education units, EVERY YEAR!. YES, EVERY YEAR. Do you know, that is the SAME amount as an RN? an MD? I wonder if they have to pay for their CEUs out of their own pockets.

But all of that to say, they were willing to learn why a clinical chaplain is important in the work of the hospital and patient care. Unfortunately, there are many others who aren’t willing to learn and i wondered what they would think if they had shadowed me yesterday, or pretty much any day over the last year.

There are many times I am with patients and families, where prayer and Jesus Christ are never mentioned. I can’t count the number of times that I’ve sat with families and held a space to allow them to share whatever is no their hearts and minds. No other clinicians are around or incredibly busy trying to take care of the patients.

You have no idea that the sacred space provided, allowed for people to express their anger and pain to God or whatever higher being they believe in.
You have no idea that within this trusted space, families members are allowed to voice their spiritual and emotional distress.
You have no idea that within the confines of this space, parents break down in my arms, as they come to the realization that the miracle of their child waking up will not happen.
You have no idea that within the confidential conversations, the amount of grief, anger, guilt and burdens that family members try to release into this sacred space of forgiveness and understanding.
You have no idea that within these sacred walls, the unlimited number of times that I try to take away the pain that family members are holding within their hearts, yet they are not able to let go.
You have no idea that within this space, how I have tried desperately, to help loved ones to seek the hope of self-forgiveness, only to know that it may take a lifetime for them to accept that hope.
You have no idea that within these walls, the number of times that patients or families have poured out their guilt, their pain, and have confessed all they’ve needed to, and I carried those confessions in their healing so they can let it go.
You have no idea the number of times I have left this sacred space, with tears in my eyes because I can’t make the pain go away.
You have no idea the number of hours i stayed up last night because I couldn’t get yesterday’s experience in this sacred space, out of my mind and heart.
And you have no idea the number of times that I am humbled and honored to be in all of these scenarios, walking with patients and families, as we walk these halls and sit in this sacred space together.

No matter what I encounter in the sacred spaces of clinical chaplaincy, i know I make a difference, just like every other clinician who works at bedside. I am humbled and honored to be a part of these teams, doing what we can to help patients and families heal.

You may not have any idea now of what I do but are you willing to listen and understand the importance of this work, even if you can’t see the results on the discharge papers? Or number of lives saved?

Even when no prayer is spoken and no word of Christ is mentioned, I can promise you that prayer took place and the love of Christ was in every sacred space made.

Gone Too Soon

Hello. How are you doing today?

Yes, I know. I don’t look familiar to you right now. Yes, it’s been a while since I’ve written. I’ve got a multitude of reasons that have kept me from writing. If you’re not in healthcare, you just won’t understand.

It’s been a long time since July 18th and so much has happened since then. The one thing that has been consistent is Covid. Numbers were going down but that certainly didn’t mean that Covid was gone. People still died. People still died without their families present at bedside. People still spent a lifetime in the hospital, weak enough to be scared; wondering if they would ever make it home. Gone too soon.

That’s not all that happened. Life continued on with other challenges that kept me away from my laptop.

Since the last time we sat together, I’ve had to officiate 2 funerals for young people, far too young to be buried. The promise of a baby girl that ended a few months too soon. Such a sweet family that had to deal with a loss familiar to millions of other parents. Losing a child before they had a chance to develop is difficult. Losing a child who you’ve wished and prayed for, the one you invested so much in, is gone. Not only that, but the emotional and financial savings accounts were depleted, along with the promises and hope of a new family. I stood in front of this family, witnessing the grief in their faces and her devastated parents. I saw the face of this precious angel. There have been so many gone before they should have been, including this sweet little girl. Gone too soon.

After the funeral, I made a promise to myself not to do any more. The work I do at the hospital is heavy. Sometimes, it weighs on me in ways I don’t see coming. When I officiated this sweet girl’s graveside service, that took some of my reserve. I needed time to recover. There is a reason I do weddings and not funerals.

Well, not three weeks later, I received a text message. It was September, which happens to be Suicide Prevention Month. I received a text about a young 16 year old teenager, a boy really, who died by suicide. He was the son of someone very dear to me. She asked that I do the funeral. Of course I said yes.

As a trauma chaplain, I see too much. I see a lot of young pain coming into the trauma center on a daily basis: young people who died from ATV or motocross collisions; young people that were killed out of revenge; and young people who thought they were invincible as they traveled in their cars.

I have learned to manage through the distress when it comes to these situations. They are hard and I feel for the families. Sadly, I’ve seen enough of them to know I can appropriately manage my emotions and strength (most of the time). I can’t say the same for other traumas. The situation that is most difficult for me to manage, is when a young person takes their own life. This happens all too often. ALL TOO OFTEN. I’ve seen children as young as 8 years old, come into the hospital after having shot themselves. There have been teens coming in with marks on their necks. Some of them overdosed on something they find at home. Rarely do they survive and even when they do, a part of their spirit died in the process. Gone too soon.

I did not see the young 16 year old. He never made it to the hospital. But I saw his younger siblings when I went to their house. I saw his family. On the day of his funeral, I stood behind the pulpit and saw his friends. I saw the faces of his teammates, classmates and the friends he grew up with.

What makes it hard for me is I get it. I understandably how things can get so terribly dark that the only thing they think will take away the pain is to hurt themselves. Those young minds aren’t mature enough to comprehend what will happen after attempting suicide. They can’t manage the darkness and how to find some sort of light to guide them through. The pain has to be so much, with a darkness that blinds any feeling of hope, that suicide is the only possible solution. I understand it all too well.

I’ve seen the results of suicide, too many times. They ranged from ages 8 to 93. It’s so hard. For several reasons, my heart hurts for young teens. The word “young” means everything. Even though this young boy was surrounded by abundant love, he felt alone. He felt a pain that he just couldn’t take any more. His darkness blocked out the love of his family and friends. The darkness masked his pain from being seen by his friends and family. HIs youthfulness didn’t know what to do and it couldn’t be healed. This resulted in a family and community in so much pain, only time will be able to help. Gone too soon.

This year has been a difficult year. After his funeral, I crashed. A part of my spirit died, after carrying so much during this year. His death and connecting circumstances were too much to carry and recover 100%. What helped is I did get to celebrate several weddings I officiated. I also get to work with phenomenal people but things are just not the same. Sadly, the young ones still get brought to the hospital. Infants are still dying before they are born and teens are still hurting themselves. Healthcare workers are leaving.

Trauma is real. Suicide is real. Infant loss is real. Covid is real. Please don’t forget that. Please do what you can to help and support one another, including the healthcare workers. We hear so much about Covid but as you can see, the virus is not the only thing going on within these walls. There is so much more than you can ever imagine and no matter the age, many spirits have been impacted. Healthcare workers have been severely hit. Our spirits have taken a beating. Several have died. Many have been hurt. Too many have left healthcare all together. They are gone too soon as well. Sometimes it’s all too much to sit down and write about and when you do, it still doesn’t make sense.

Let the Silence Speak

When I started in chaplaincy a long time ago, silence was awkward for me. Ironically, I am an extreme introvert and adore silence, when it’s outside of the hospital and in my control. When I am sitting with a patient’s family, who just received bad news, or anticipating bad news, silence can be deafening.

Last week, one of my patients coded and despite heroic efforts, the patient died. The spouse was present and it would be a while before other family arrived. The spouse and I sat in the family conference room while we waited.

I used to want to fix things for the families. I wanted to say something that made a difference for them; that would help them feel better. That’s why the silence was awkward for me. I thought I needed to say something to bring comfort to the family, or to ease the family’s anxiety and distress. If their distress was elevated, I knew what needed to be done to help settle them down. If they were simply in a quiet place, appropriately emotional and concerned, I thought I needed to make the silence go away and do what I could to make things right.

With experience and maturity, I learned that nothing I could say, will fix it. No matter what I said, I could not make them feel better or worry less. In fact, there were times I said “something” and made the situation even worse. Thankfully, I grew in my experience and learned that silence can be a comforting place to sit with someone in their pain and grief.

That’s what happened last week. The spouse said she was “fine’, however it was clear, she was not. She just witnessed the code event of her husband and he didn’t survive. I acknowledged and affirmed her strength and said I would “stick around, just in case”. I can tell when someone DOES wants me to leave and I will respect their wishes but she wasn’t sure what she needed. I did step away a few times, to give her some privacy. That’s important for a family member, especially knowing that the next days ahead, she is not going to have much privacy. When I returned, she didn’t need anything, so I simply stayed in the room. We sat in the comfort of silence and it was quite peaceful.

Clinicians say to me all they time, “Linda, I don’t know what to say or what to do”. I tell them to keep doing what they are trained to do and remember that they don’t have to say anything different, or anything at all. Silence is not a bad thing, especially in someone’s grief. They already know we can’t fix things and we won’t be able to make them feel better. What we can do is remind someone that they are not alone. We simply have to be present, sitting in the silence, together.

When the wife left, she hugged me and expressed her gratitude for the care i provided, saying that it helped. I didn’t do much. I simply sat in the same room with her and let the silence speak for herself.

When You Know What the Outcome is Going to Be

Have you ever been asked to pray for a family, to pray for a miracle because they are certain that everything is going to be ok? Have you ever prayed at the request of family, although you already know the outcome will not be what they want you to pray for?

It’s been a while since i’ve posted a chaplain blog entry. I have definitely been writing. Between my work computer and my personal laptop, there are about 6-8 unfinished entries. I’ve got a lot to say, just not really sure how to say it.

That brings me back to the original questions. Have you ever prayed for a family, as they ask you to pray for a miracle? They are certain that God will do the right thing and save their loved one. Once they’ve been admitted to the hospital, that prayer request comes a little easier to fulfill, carefully worded in comfort. When the family is the family of a trauma patient, who lies in the trauma bay, being resuscitated by the ED and Trauma Teams, it’s a little more difficult to pray what they are calling out for. It’s even more difficult, when you already know that the outcome will not be what they are praying for.

The other day, at work, I was tired. When I am tired, i tend to get punchy. Most of the time, it’s a silly kind of punchy; filled with laughter, goofy comments, and jokes. That’s how the morning started. I was feeling great, hanging out with one of my teams and having a good day of support and camaraderie. We had no idea that was about to change.

When you work in a level 1 trauma center, your day can change in a matter of seconds, when there are traumas headed in your direction. Our traumas can be any age, gender and mechanism. Gun shot wounds, car collisions, assaults, stabbings, suicides, water accidents, falls, head injuries, animal attacks and depending on where you are located, even shark attacks. The list is endless. We’ve had infants to the elderly and we’ve had multiple traumas at the same time. Each trauma will impact a team member differently. We’ve worked hard to not allow the impact to maneuver it’s way into our emotions, but every once in a while, one does get to you.

When traumas come in, the ED and Trauma teams are prepared for whatever is coming. Sometimes, the teams have no idea what they are about to face but they are prepared. They get the Trauma Bay stacked with appropriate supplies and medication. The operating rooms are ready to take on whatever trauma enters their facilities. Experienced doctors, surgeons, nurses, respiratory therapists, care partners, and other healthcare clinicians (including us chaplains) are present with the expertise to do all that can possibly be done.

The unique thing about traumas is the split second it takes for one to happen and that one second changes someone’s life forever. There is no discrimination of age, skin color, gender, wealth, or gene pool. The life of this particular trauma that we were about to receive, was changed in a split second, too. There were already fatalities at the scene and this one would become another one. Despite the heroic efforts that were attempted by all the teams this day, the life of this trauma patient ended all too soon.

I was with the families. They asked me to pray for their loved ones. They wanted me to pray that God will save them and to pray with the assurance that God already has. What they didn’t know, I already knew. The prayer they were requesting would not be answered in the way they had hoped.

In my role as a chaplain, there are two scenarios that are difficult to accept. One is, no matter how hard the clinical teams work to save a patient, their resuscitation efforts may not be enough to bring the patient back. The second scenario is this, no matter how hard I pray, the outcome may not be what the family had hoped for. Either scenario is painful to accept, and even more difficult to accept when you already know how it’s going to end.

I pray that never happens to you.

A Chaplain’s Lament

As we near the end of the Lenten Season, I am reflecting on the past 40 days. I have cried more than I care to admit. I have hidden more than i even know. I am reminded that the journey through the wilderness is also about lamenting; calling out to whoever will listen, when we are in need. May this moment to lament, free us from the shackles of darkness and pain; helping us to see the light of hope as we walk through the valley.

——————

Why are you not here, Lord?
Where are you hiding your face?
Do you not know what we have done,
to bring love and comfort to your people?

There is so much darkness in this place.
Your people are crying out in pain.
Some with unimaginable illness and disease,
others with a grief beyond human understanding.

The sacrifices of your servants have been real,
as we try to heal those in our care.
Putting our lives and souls in harms way,
to do what you have prepared us to do.

Do you not see the people who are dying?
From the ones with an incurable diagnosis,
to the ones who died by someone else’s actions,
and the spirit of the innocent gone too soon.

Lord, hear our cries, as we call out to you!
The front line workers who stand in your presence.
We are doing everything we possibly can,
yet, we are exhausted, weak, and deflated.

Please, Lord, come and heal us now!
We know that you are here with us.
When others are indifferent about our needs,
You have given us everything to carry us on.

We know that you are here with us, Lord!
You have been with every tear and emotion.
You have held us when we were defeated.
You have blessed us when we stood back up.

You are the strength that we need,
the strength we didn’t even know we had.
When we are holding the hands of someone in pain,
you are holding us up so that we don’t fall.

Lord, we will praise you all the more,
even when we can’t feel you near us.
As you hold each one in your loving grace,
we will hold our hope in you, forevermore.

Covid is Real

Covid is real.

I have seen it firsthand. It is horrific. It is heartbreaking. It is isolating. It is real. It is a pandemic.

Patients are overflowing the hospitals. Families cannot be at bedside. Teams are short-staffed. Health care workers are burned out. Front line providers are suffering from compassion fatigue.

Covid is real.

Nurses, doctors, and their families have been quarantined because they had covid.

Respiratory departments were almost half-staff because an entire team was hit with the virus.

An environmental service employee cried as she shared about her near death experience with Covid with fear trembling in her voice.

Hundreds of staff members have to be tested after they came in contact with patients who didn’t know they were positive.

Departments have lost colleagues because Covid took them too soon.

Colleagues have lost family members to the darkness of this pandemic.

Covid is real.

When I stood outside a patient’s room, to support her family. They stared into the room, lost in their anger and grief. They not only grieved the death of their mother but also their loss of not being able to touch her, hold her hand, or kiss her goodbye.

Covid is real.

When I talked to his wife on the phone after I visited her husband in the Covid ICU. She asked a question, grasping for any glimpse of hope, “How does he look?” She knew he struggled with his breathing and would require intubation if it didn’t improve. That night he was intubated and never made it home.

Covid is real.

When I held the hand of a nurse and prayed at his bedside. He was on the covid unit, not as a nurse but as a patient. I held his hand as he struggled to breathe. Just like every other nurse, he was caring for others, who were struggling with the same pain. Just like every other nurse, he sacrificed his health to continue to serve in his role. Just like every other nurse, he returned back to work to continue his calling.

Covid is real.

When I received my positive test result on Christmas Eve after being symptomatic. I was quarantined at home, alone, for ten days and stayed home to recover for another seven. I had a mild case and am still dealing with remnants of that impact. Given what I witnessed in the deaths and grief of many, I was blessed with a mild case of this reality.

Given what I witnessed standing with two sons, who stood outside their dad’s room, as their dad took his last breath. I was honored to watch the Respiratory Therapist and the Nurse, held their dad’s hands for comfort and propped up the tablet as his wife talked to him on the video..I was blessed with a mild case of this reality.

Covid is real.

When I returned to work and two days later, sat at a patient’s bedside, holding his hand. He had tested positive for Covid and was mourning the loss of his wife. She died of Covid less than 24 hours ago and he was not able to be there with her.

Covid is real.

And if you think it’s a hoax, a prank, or some conspiracy theory; you are painfully wrong. You and your family may not have been impacted by the Corona virus (thus far) but you have clearly been impacted by something worse……a loss that is beyond my level of understanding.

What I do understand is this……

Covid is real.

And may you never find out just how real it is.