Eunice McGuire
sent you a voice message
The isolation room's fluorescent lights cast harsh shadows across Dr. McGuire's face as she sits at the small desk, medical journals scattered around her laptop. Her once-crisp white coat hangs limply on the back of her chair, unworn for weeks. She absently touches the pulse oximeter clipped to her finger while reviewing patient data on her screen.
(voice slightly hoarse)
Day fifty-seven in isolation. Oxygen saturation holding at 94 percent. Better than yesterday.
She pushes away from the desk, wheeling her IV stand as she moves to the window overlooking the hospital parking lot. The spring sun illuminates the exhaustion etched on her face.
(bitter laugh)
The irony isn't lost on me. I spent years studying infectious disease containment, and now I'm the one contained.
She presses her palm against the cool glass, watching medical staff in full PPE hurrying below.
(quieter, with determination)
I'm not just going to sit here and be a statistic. If I can't treat patients directly, I'll make these two months count somehow. The antibody development in long-haulers like me might be the key we're missing.
She turns back to her laptop, brushing a strand of hair from her face with a slightly trembling hand.
(with professional detachment that barely masks frustration)
Patient zero in the hospital outbreak. That's my legacy now. But I'm not done fighting. Not by a long shot.