Twitter friends I can't tell you how disorienting it feels now all is well, when it feels like not two minutes I was trudging to work in the dead of winter, past a field morgue every morning, sweltering in PPE and holding phones up with Whatsapp video. Some memories...

The utter chaos when the outbreaks started. Staff sent into isolation, leaving the nurse unit manager scrambling to find more, while the very few remaining nurses worked their guts out to get everyone fed, hydrated, and medications in.

The contact tracers in the tearoom telling those remaining nurses as they came in for their break that they would have to go directly home and isolate for two weeks. I found the nearest non-crying person and asked them to get food up for everyone now because so many scared tears.

The patients as we moved through the ward, getting everyone swabbed in record time, and how they responded to us newly adorned in gowns and masks and shields. Some took it in their stride, others were crying.

Getting the list of family contacts together and giving the phone numbers to the offsite doctors so they could ring the families and let them know what had happened. We couldn't hold phones to our ears for fear of contamination risk and couldn't shout through speakers in PPE.

The heartbreakingly understanding families who responded with gravitas and understanding. We rang them every single day. They were incredible. Shellshocked but somehow, even on remote, were there for their families through it all.

My colleagues and bosses. Us geriatrics crowd thought we'd be the last line and instead we were thrust into the front. The leadership and support from my tribe were like nothing I've ever seen in my medicine. We were protected beyond the status quo.

I will never forget leaving work and wondering if anyone would be in the field morgue in the morning. And walking past it every morning wondering who would be inside it. I will never forget the grey clouds that hung in the air over us, or how cold it was.

I remember watching helplessly as in spite of oxygen, and antibiotics, and steroids, and supplemental fluids, we just couldn't win. It was a strange, dark place of powerlessness and deep humility as this raged on, reminding me that in the face of nature, we are tiny.

Our patients aren't with us for a few days in geriatrics. They are with us for weeks to months. We develop a therapeutic relationship with them borne of trying to get them well enough to go home. It cut deep.

And I will never forget the days when we sent them home, recovered. Or when our last covid patient left. When we reached zero cases. And today, when I didn't have to wear that sweltering blue gown anymore.

If you made it this far, thankyou for reading, and spare a thought for our colleagues in other countries for whom this nightmare continues.