Above: Ebrom (right) with a colleague at New York-Presbyterian Queens

Pierson Ebrom ’10 awoke at 1 p.m. on Monday, March 30. An emergency medicine resident at New York–Presbyterian Queens, he’d worked the night before and hadn’t returned home until midnight. It had taken him several hours to fall asleep because the anxiety from work still coursed through his body. 

That next afternoon, Ebrom prepared for another 3–11 p.m. shift — the most demanding hours to work because the emergency department gets busier as the day goes on. 

He quickly ate a cup of yogurt and dressed in scrubs. “I was stressed and didn’t have much of an appetite,” he says. From his apartment in downtown Flushing, Ebrom can see the Mets’ Citi Field. His soundproof floor-to-ceiling windows offer a reprieve from the hectic emergency department. “It’s essential, especially during a time like this,” he says. 

On his 25-minute walk to the hospital, Ebrom traveled underneath the Amtrak train, passed several shops, and finished the last half of his commute along the edge of the Queens Botanical Garden, whose vibrant tulips had yet to bloom.

He arrived early because the program director had purchased respirator masks and was outfitting the staff at the administration building. 

After getting suited up with a mask and goggles, Ebrom crossed the street to the hospital. He spotted a large white tent set up in the ambulance bay — an effort to create additional space for triaging patients. “It was surreal,” he says. 

Inside, hundreds of people (versus the usual 50ish) lined up to be registered. Beyond the waiting room, patients laid on stretchers stacked two-deep in the hallway or were tucked into corners — every inch a necessary space. A shortage of stretchers required that some sat on chairs in the hallway. Everyone was connected to portable oxygen tanks. “It felt like I was walking into a war zone,” Ebrom says. “It was a rush of emotion; I immediately felt anxious, nervous, awestruck. I’d never seen the department like this before, and I couldn’t believe how many patients were there.” His thoughts dashed from “These people are very sick and there’s a chance that a lot of them might end up dying” to fearing for his own exposure. 

This was the beginning of the virus’ explosion in Queens: 95% of patients in the emergency department were presenting with symptoms of COVID-19 — fever, coughing, myalgia, shortness of breath.

“Controlled chaos is the best way to describe it,” Ebrom remembers. “The personnel, the resources, everything was stretched so thin. We were so overwhelmed by this influx of sick people.”

In addition to the PA system announcing cardiac and respiratory arrests, the sounds of oxygen tanks being disconnected and set up — a distinct noise caused by pressurized air — created a constant beat.

Ebrom’s first patient that day was a 60-year-old man on a stretcher in the farthest part of the department. For five days, the patient had been having difficulty breathing, a fever, and coughing. He wore a hospital mask that was pumping 10 liters of oxygen per minute into his body; he would have to stay until his oxygen saturation level increased. In the meantime, the patient would undergo an X-ray, have blood drawn, and be tested for COVID-19. 

Patient number two was an 80-year-old man suffering from dementia and coming from a nursing home. Ebrom struggled to coax a history from him, examined the patient, and administered treatment before returning to his computer to see the list of others waiting. 

In an eight-hour shift, the resident would see approximately 12 patients, ranging in age from 35–92. Zipping from one patient to the next, he only took brief breaks to hydrate. 

At 10:30 p.m., Ebrom started to tie up the loose ends of his shift: checking which patients were still waiting to be seen, deciding who could be discharged or admitted, and reviewing his patients’ bloodwork, X-ray, and EKG results. Because all of his patients that day relied on supplemental oxygen, everyone was admitted. 

He walked home that night “thinking about my family, worried and hoping that we can all somehow stay safe and healthy throughout this difficult and uncertain time.” In his apartment, Ebrom showered and then disinfected his phone, keys, doorknob, and entryway light switches. 

“I was more exhausted than I had ever felt prior. The psychological impact was profound.”

Death is a reality that Ebrom must face (losing as many as two patients in one particular shift). To cope, he talks to his parents — both retired health care professionals — and his wife, who is an emergency medicine physician in Virginia experiencing similar circumstances as her husband.

The bright light for Ebrom shines at the end of summer, when he’ll finish his residency and join his wife to work in the emergency department at Bon Secours in Norfolk, Va.