A brief reprieve from my shifts in intensive care couldn’t take my mind off those who had lost their lives to Covid

It’s Christmas morning and it’s 2C outside. My breath rises as I stand at the boot of my car, peeling off my layers. This is my ritual now. I have already changed into clean clothes at work, but with a new, more virulent strain of Sars-CoV-2 I’m not taking any chances.

Tiptoeing through the front door, the house is silent. Everyone is still in bed, even our three-year-old. I step into the shower, turn up the heat as high as it goes, and let the night shift wash off me.

I’m grateful for the chance to sneak in a quick coffee; I left for work 16 hours ago and have been awake all night. The past few weeks have been the toughest NHS workers have faced yet in the battle against Covid. The virus has not discriminated as much as we thought it would. Older people, younger people. Those with medical problems, those without. All brought in in their droves.

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