I was there, where no one wanted to be in 2020.
Right about this time four years ago, my colleague Sharon Cantillon, a longtime Buffalo News photographer, reached out to ask if I would accompany her into hospital intensive care units, which would soon be overrun with people suffering and dying from the then-“novel coronavirus,” which we would all soon be calling “Covid-19.”
Journalists go places where others can’t and then tell the story. Sometimes that’s on a red carpet or into the White House. This time, it was on the front lines of the battle against the
I said yes, quickly but not easily. Covid was new, hot and scary. No vaccines existed, nor did any significant immunity. If our bodies were exposed to the virus, our immune systems could respond with confusion and alarm, slamming into overdrive and leaving us deathly ill. (You can interpret “deathly” to be figurative or literal. Depending on the person, either is true.)
Doctors hadn’t yet learned how to handle it. Elected leaders were warning us to stay home. “Stay safe” was a common refrain. We would soon be socializing over video calls. Ordering takeout was chic. Grocery workers were noted for their bravery on the front line. Doctors, nurses, pharmacists and respiratory therapists in…
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