As a junior doctor at Westmead hospital in Sydney, Brandon Verdonk was planning the next stage of his career. In March he was to begin training to become a general practitioner. His father, Robert, had been a GP and had inspired him.
The coronavirus pandemic upended everything. GP training was cancelled, so Verdonk, 32, volunteered to oversee the hospital’s Covid-19 testing clinic, which was set up in a hurry in February.
Two months on Verdonk is still working 12-hour shifts swabbing the noses and throats of people who suspect they may have contracted Covid-19.
He isn’t compelled to work those hours; he wants to. “I’ve taken a lot of ownership of this clinic,” he says. “It feels like my baby and I want it to run smoothly.”
As a Canadian, Verdonk is far from home. “On those days when you’re shovelling snow, you have these dreams of Australia,” he says. He completed a science degree in Canada and his medical degree at the University of Sydney. He graduated just three years ago and has just become a permanent resident.
Verdonk takes the train to work from his share house in the inner city to Westmead, a large public hospital serving western Sydney. He arrives at 7am, checks the clinic is set up, goes through his emails, absorbing any new criteria for testing as well as fresh hotspots he needs to know about. He attends a meeting of senior hospital leaders to talk through any issues arising overnight.
Westmead treated the first patient with coronavirus in Australia, a passenger who arrived on a flight from Wuhan in China on 23 January. To date, it has had 50 Covid-19 patients, and two people have died.
In the early days, Verdonk says, it was hard to get consistency. Casual staff and locums were brought in to help and the advice from public health bodies kept changing because the crisis was moving so fast. There was new research every day, fresh protocols announced, then “all of a sudden you needed to change everything”.
At first, testing was limited to people who had returned from overseas or had contact with someone who had tested positive to Covid-19. Last week the criteria were broadened in New South Wales to include anyone with even mild flu-like symptoms if they lived in parts of the state considered at risk of community outbreaks. The hotspots included Westmead.
(Testing has expanded around Australia. In Victoria, anyone with flu-like symptoms can be screened and NSW is expected to further broaden its testing soon.)
Verdonk has a wry sense of humour. He was expecting some hysteria at the clinic, “the toilet paper-buying behaviour to carry into clinic behaviour”. But that reaction has been rare. Before testing expanded, some people were upset that they did not meet the criteria. Even now, testing is declined if a person has no symptoms. Verdonk understands the frustration, but says the best advice at this stage is that “the validity of the swab is really quite low if someone doesn’t have symptoms”.
Testing isn’t pleasant and he feels for people having the “novel experience” of a nose swab: “I often say people come to us with a fear of needles and leave with a fear of swabs because we tickle your brain, it feels like.”
At its peak, the clinic swabbed 150 people a day. That dropped off for a couple of weeks but spiked again when the criteria widened. Each day people start off at a kiosk manned by nurses. They have their temperature, blood pressure, heart rate and other basic metrics taken and, if they are seriously unwell, are sent to the emergency department for testing and treatment.
One by one the rest are ushered into small rooms to be swabbed. It’s what’s known as a PCR test, which detects whether the virus’s genetic material is present. There are techniques to minimise the risk to staff – doctors and nurses keep a distance and take the sample from the side of the patient, to limit being sprayed by coughs or sneezes.
After each person leaves, surfaces are wiped down and gowns, gloves and goggles discarded. Swabs are sent to a laboratory and results are usually known within a day or two.
Verdonk tries to keep some balance in his life but it’s difficult. Gyms are closed so he clears his head by going for a run after work. During the morning commute, he phones a sibling or two – he has two older and two younger brothers living in Canada. He rings his mother, Yvonne, 59, who studied nursing later in life so she could work with her husband.
Verdonk is the only son to become a doctor. His father died just as he began his medical studies. “He just loved his job,” he says. “And people loved him. He was the type of doctor – I have to be careful not to get too emotional – who put that time in … Seeing the difference he made in people’s lives was inspiring.”
He still plans to become a GP one day but there’s no hurry. Overseeing the clinic has given him a renewed respect for hospital leadership, policy, planning and the bigger picture. He will stay as long as he is needed.
“I have a vested interest in how this clinic runs,” he says. “You feel like you can make a small difference in this pandemic time and that’s empowering.”
• Postcards from the pandemic looks at how everyday Australians are coping with immense changes coronavirus has brought to their lives. We’d like to hear your story about how you are managing during this crisis. Email: postcards@theguardian.com
