LETTERS: I was to fly out in a week to Australia before coming home to KL. Then the US announced a travel ban for Europeans. We were mobilising for weeks to fight an invisible enemy.
Rotas were upended, simulations performed and endless briefings attended. We watched from afar the events unfolding in Italy and Spain. We were bracing for a tsunami that was about to descend on London.
Will my leave be cancelled? What if I pass on the virus to my friends in Australia and my family in KL? Shall I fly out? Shall I self-isolate during my holidays? Shall I just cancel my leave to help in the initial fight?
Within days, Australia announced compulsory self-isolation for visitors. Malaysia also announced its restrictions in short order. It turns out it was not up to me. My plans were effectively cancelled. I turned from tourist to conscript.
I seemed to live in two separate realities during the weeks preceding that moment. At work, we were preparing for Armageddon. The mood in my social circles couldn't have been any different – life was pretty normal. I thought my friends should be concerned. They should embrace social distancing and think about sending their visitors home to Malaysia.
They listened empathetically to my rants, then moved on to talk about the mundane routines of life such as tax returns and holidays. Birthday celebrations and dinners posted on social media. They didn't get it. It seemed for a time I was that crazy doomsday prepper.
As anaesthetists, we possess essential skillsets. We have the know-how to place patients on the ventilator and support our colleagues in intensive care. It comes at personal risk. Intubating exposes us to the virus and increases the chance of us getting infected. Naturally, many of us were a bit anxious.
We saw the toll it inflicted on our counterparts in other countries. As dreadful as it is, a healthy dose of panic is productive – it spurs people into action.
To improve morale, 'wellbeing' became a buzzword. We introduced a snack bar and a fridge stocked up with free food. Food donations kept on coming in from local food chains and the wider community.
Then there is the weekly national 'clap for carers' – at 8 pm on Thursdays, the country celebrates frontliners. Friends from around the world send their thoughts and appreciation. These small gestures make a big difference.
I feel we are part of a broader purpose and that society, and indeed the world, is cheering us. A general practitioner friend likened it to fighting in the War. We weren't witnessing history. We were a part of it.
The daily headline deaths were initially in single digits. It escalated to tens then hundreds. What we saw on the news correlated with the number of patients we were seeing.
Our working patterns had to change and so had my headspace. Like many in London my senses were altered. I was commuting on the Tube where social distancing is impossible and where many people are suspect.
Routines had to change. After work, I wipe down my phone, water bottle and keys. I no longer carry my prized Tumi bag. All my possessions are held in a simple grocery bag which is easy to clean or discard.
When I come home from work, I take off my clothes at the door and bin them straight into the wash. I scurry straight into the shower.
Not quite knowing what to expect, I felt some anxiety during my initial encounters. My first intubation experience was a previously fit and healthy man. He was younger than me.
He was scared and, in some ways, so was I. I could have been him. It was a message from up above – "Hairi, do not screw up your PPE!" Every healthcare worker at some point imagined the prospect of being unwell, being attached to a ventilator or even death.
My best friend Mohsein in KL advised 'Don't die. It'll be a nuisance to bring your body back to KL.' That probably was not far from the truth.
Trepidation slowly melted away as I, and other medical professionals, became familiar with the virus. It is physiologically intriguing.
It does not only affect the lungs but can affect the heart, kidneys, blood and nervous system. We're learning and treating its complications at the same time.
An American intensivist described it as 'flying a plane while building it.' On the job, I tended to be task-focussed and work had the air of normalcy. I went to work and back, anticipating at day five the dreaded triad of cough, fever and breathlessness. But it never came. Over time, the new normal became well, normal.
PPE is another acronym we've added to our collective vocabularies. The initial fitting is essential – choosing the right equipment and positioning it correctly.
Any minor dents or pressure points become painful after some time. We plan timings; we do not drink or eat or go to the toilet while in gear. The vast majority of people infected with the virus will show minimal or no symptoms.
When I see them in intensive care, they are very sick. The initial management of breathing failure is relatively straightforward. It becomes complicated when other body systems or organs become affected.
Thankfully, we were able to provide treatment to everyone who needed it. It is difficult for families.
They are unable to visit and rely solely on our daily phone calls. I can only imagine what it is like for them to visualise their loved ones by just words. They often take the time to express their appreciation. In their moment of grief, it is heartwarming for them to spare a thought for their carers as well.
The mood among the Malaysian community in London changed with the country. Social media lit up as we all became amateur epidemiologists. We were transfixed at the increasing cases and deaths and weighed our prospects.
This became another intrigue of the pandemic – perhaps the first flow of 'refugees' from the UK to Malaysia. One by one, those who could packed their bags for Malaysia. Invariably, we discussed the different approaches and outcomes of the two countries.
Many feel Malaysia has done a better job. Credit is given where credit is due – Malaysia has done well so far. However, I reserve judgement. After all, the Prime Minister highlighted that Malaysia is fighting a health, political and economic crisis all at once.
I believe all governments intend to do their best for their people and it is tough for policymakers. Each country is unique. So are their problems and capabilities to solve them.
Many weeks since my aborted holiday, I am still none the wiser of what comes next. I think no one knows. History shows pandemics often come in waves and that we are in it for the long run.
We just have to keep calm and carry on through the human tragedies – the loss of life and the economic carnage in its wake.
I learnt to embrace the gradual unravelling of unknowns. Humanity will make it through as we have many times before.
Dr Hairi Hakimu
London
The views expressed in this article are the author's own and do not necessarily reflect those of the New Straits Times