I’m an NHS doctor and saying goodbye to those I love before work is heartbreaking

Our families have never been more afraid for us to simply go into work every day. They know that we have a duty to our patients, but it doesn’t make this any easier

“Don’t touch your face! I love you!” she tells me as I walk to the front door, suitcase in hand.

I’m an NHS doctor. I work about three hours away from our home in London and every week since Covid-19 has spread, saying goodbye for a week away at the hospital has become heartbreakingly difficult.

Our farewells have now become 20-minute rituals where we lay on the sofa in what we call “perfect position” – a full body embrace resembling a horizontal version of the Loving Couple (Mithuna). When our tears dry and our love reserves have been topped up, it’s time to go.

“Please be safe. I love you.” We give each other another hug — the last close, comforting human contact we’ll have for a week — and before the door closes, I promise her I’ll be safe.

We both know it’s a promise that’s tough to keep.

We’ve seen the stories of the NHS heroes who have been killed in the line of duty. They all leave behind grieving family and friends, many of whom are stuck at home with their loved ones’ belongings just frozen in time, yearning for a physical hug from a friend or relative that’s almost impossible in a community under lockdown.

Our families have never been more afraid for us to simply go into work every day. They know that we have a duty to our patients – to you and your family – to be with you and care for you when you are ill, but it doesn’t make this any easier.

And so with tears in our eyes, I leave for work. Once outside our flat, I wave up to the window. I pretend to show her my butt. We laugh. I blow kisses. She holds our cat Don Ricardo Carranza and waves goodbye with his paw.

An empty Tube train takes me to an empty Paddington station where I board an empty Great Western Railway train and pass empty stops in Slough, Reading, and Oxford as I head back to work. I’m grateful they’re still running this service. Under normal circumstances I’d see thousands of people on this journey. Lately, it’s been closer to 25.

I call her from the hospital more often these days just to tell her that I’m okay. We check in every few hours.

I didn’t tell her that I started seeing Covid-19 patients in A&E until the following day, when I tried to slip it into the conversation casually. She was angry at me for not telling her. I didn’t argue. I know she’s scared. We both are.

I decided against sending her a sexy selfie in my personal protective equipment.

After my shift, I head back to my room and change out of my scrubs. I do a 40-minute pilates session with videos from YouTube fitness instructor Jessica Valant – a condition set by my partner to help keep me as healthy as possible during this pandemic – and I stand under the shower and wash off the hospital. A daily cleansing of body and mind.

Then we spend the evening on the phone and she tells me about her day. Working from home during a pandemic isn’t easy, and she’s struggling to be productive with the helicopters and sirens going off every hour back in London.

We’re all terribly anxious living in this state of impending doom, she tells me, while mourning a year that never was; mourning jobs and opportunities lost, without many of our beloved family and friends by our side. It’s okay to not be okay, I tell her, because we humans were never designed for this type of stress.

And so we seek normality over the phone every night. An umami bomb we call “Londoño Crack Slaw’” is our family favourite for dinner that I make every weekend while she studies, and I bring half with me back to the hospital.

In case something ever happens to me, I’ve written out the recipe and put it with the others at home.

We’ll then pair it with a Greek salad and watch our Netflix shows together: Jeopardy!, Rupaul’s Drag Race, and QI are the usual favourites. If you have to isolate with anyone, you can’t go wrong with Alex Trebek, RuPaul Charles, and Sandi Toksvig.

Over the phone we count out one, two, three, and we both hit play at the same time. Then we spend about 10 seconds telling each other to pause briefly so we can match up the audio, and we escape reality and have dinner together, 150 miles apart.

At the end of the week I repeat the journey in reverse. I put my bags down in front of the door of our flat, take off my coat, pour hand sanitiser all over my hands, arms, face, and my shaved head. It’s the only time I don’t mind coming home reeking of alcohol.

As I turn the key to the front door, I take a deep breath, and I leave the week behind me. I leave behind the patients who have passed away. I leave behind the difficult phone conversations with their families. I leave behind the terrible reality of what’s happening out there and I put on a smile for my family, because they need me right now, and I desperately, desperately, need them.

We all embrace our loved ones just a little bit longer these days. That’s healthy. This is love in the time of coronavirus.

Dr Andrew Meyerson is an NHS junior doctor living in London and working in the West Midlands