Recalled to Life: The Best and Worst of 2020 Is the Year 2020

Some who read Federal Practitioner regularly may recall that since 2017, I have been dedicating the December and January editorials to a more substantive version of the popular best and worst awards that appear in the media this time of year. Everything from the most comfortable slippers to the weirdest lawsuits is scored annually. In an effort to elevate the ranking routine, this column has reviewed and evaluated ethical and unethical events and decisions in the 3 federal health care systems Federal Practitioner primarily serves. In previous years it was a challenge requiring research and deliberation to select the most inspiring and troubling occurrences in the world of federal health care. This year neither great effort or prolonged study was required as the choice was immediate and obvious—the year itself. A year in which our individual identities as health care professionals serving in the US Department of Defense, US Department of Veterans Affairs (VA), and US Public Health Service is subsumed in our realities as citizens of a nation in crisis.

The opening lines of A Tale of Two Cities have become such a literary platitude taken out of the context of the novel that the terror and fascination with which Dickens wrote these oft-quoted lines has been diluted and dulled.¹ In citing the entire paragraph as the epigraph, I hope to recapture the moral seriousness of its message, which is so relevant in 2020. While protesting the widespread injustice that fueled the progress of London’s industrial revolution, Dickens also feared such discontent would ignite a bloody uprising as it had done in Paris.¹ This passage is a classic example of the literary device of parallelism that so perfectly expressed Dickens’ reflections on the trajectory of the unprecedented historical impact of the French Revolution. A parallelism that also aptly captures the contemporary contrasts and comparisons of the best and worst of 2020.

It is estimated that at least 66% of those eligible to vote did so on November 3, 2020, the highest turnout in more than a century, demonstrating the strength of the United States as a representative democracy.² It is not about partisan politics, it is that more than 150 million citizens braved the winter, the virus, and potential intimidation to cast a ballot for their values.³ Still, America has never been more divided, and Dickens’ fear of political upheaval has never been more real in our country, or at least since the Civil War.

As I write this editorial, manufacturers for 2 vaccines have submitted phase 3 trial data to the US Food and Drug Administration for Emergency Use Authorizations and a third consortium may follow suit soon. Scientists report that the 2 vaccines, which were developed in less than a year, have high efficacy rates (> 90%) with only modest adverse effects.⁴ It is an unparalleled, really unimaginable, scientific feat. Americans’ characteristic gift for logistical efficiency and scientific innovation faces daunting administrative and technical barriers to achieve a similar viral victory, yet we may have faced even more formidable odds in World War II.

As of December 4, 2020, Johns Hopkins University reports that more than 275,000 Americans have died of coronavirus.⁵ The United States is on track to reach 200,000 cases a day with the signature holiday season of family festivities brutally morphed into gatherings of contagion.⁶ Hospitals across the country are running out of intensive care beds and nurses and doctors to staff them. Unlike the Spring surge in the Northeast, cases are rising in 49 states, and there is nowhere in the land from which respite and reinforcements can come.⁷

Thousands of health care professionals are exhausted, many with COVID-19 or recovering from it, morally distressed, and emotionally spent. Masks and social distancing are no longer public health essentials but elements of a culture war. Those same nurses, doctors, and public health officers still show up day after night for what is much closer to war than work. They struggle to prevent patients from going on ventilators they may never come off and use the few available therapies to keep as many patients alive as possible—whether those patients believe in COVID-19, wore a mask, no matter who they voted for—because that is what it means to practice health care according to a code of ethics.

In March 2020, I pledged to devote every editorial to COVID-19 for as long as the pandemic lasted, as one small candle for all those who have died of COVID-19, who are suffering as survivors of it, and who take risks and labor to deliver essential services from groceries to intensive care. Prudent public health officials wisely advise that the vaccine(s) are not a miracle cure to revive a depleted country, in part because it may undermine life-saving public health measures.⁸ And so the columns will continue in 2021 to illuminate the ethical issues of the pandemic as they affect all of us as federal health care professionals and Americans.

The Tale of Two Cities chapter that begins with the “best of times, and the worst of times” is entitled “Recalled to Life.” Let that be our hope and prayer for the coming year.

Some who read Federal Practitioner regularly may recall that since 2017, I have been dedicating the December and January editorials to a more substantive version of the popular best and worst awards that appear in the media this time of year. Everything from the most comfortable slippers to the weirdest lawsuits is scored annually. In an effort to elevate the ranking routine, this column has reviewed and evaluated ethical and unethical events and decisions in the 3 federal health care systems Federal Practitioner primarily serves. In previous years it was a challenge requiring research and deliberation to select the most inspiring and troubling occurrences in the world of federal health care. This year neither great effort or prolonged study was required as the choice was immediate and obvious—the year itself. A year in which our individual identities as health care professionals serving in the US Department of Defense, US Department of Veterans Affairs (VA), and US Public Health Service is subsumed in our realities as citizens of a nation in crisis.

The opening lines of A Tale of Two Cities have become such a literary platitude taken out of the context of the novel that the terror and fascination with which Dickens wrote these oft-quoted lines has been diluted and dulled.¹ In citing the entire paragraph as the epigraph, I hope to recapture the moral seriousness of its message, which is so relevant in 2020. While protesting the widespread injustice that fueled the progress of London’s industrial revolution, Dickens also feared such discontent would ignite a bloody uprising as it had done in Paris.¹ This passage is a classic example of the literary device of parallelism that so perfectly expressed Dickens’ reflections on the trajectory of the unprecedented historical impact of the French Revolution. A parallelism that also aptly captures the contemporary contrasts and comparisons of the best and worst of 2020.

It is estimated that at least 66% of those eligible to vote did so on November 3, 2020, the highest turnout in more than a century, demonstrating the strength of the United States as a representative democracy.² It is not about partisan politics, it is that more than 150 million citizens braved the winter, the virus, and potential intimidation to cast a ballot for their values.³ Still, America has never been more divided, and Dickens’ fear of political upheaval has never been more real in our country, or at least since the Civil War.

As I write this editorial, manufacturers for 2 vaccines have submitted phase 3 trial data to the US Food and Drug Administration for Emergency Use Authorizations and a third consortium may follow suit soon. Scientists report that the 2 vaccines, which were developed in less than a year, have high efficacy rates (> 90%) with only modest adverse effects.⁴ It is an unparalleled, really unimaginable, scientific feat. Americans’ characteristic gift for logistical efficiency and scientific innovation faces daunting administrative and technical barriers to achieve a similar viral victory, yet we may have faced even more formidable odds in World War II.

As of December 4, 2020, Johns Hopkins University reports that more than 275,000 Americans have died of coronavirus.⁵ The United States is on track to reach 200,000 cases a day with the signature holiday season of family festivities brutally morphed into gatherings of contagion.⁶ Hospitals across the country are running out of intensive care beds and nurses and doctors to staff them. Unlike the Spring surge in the Northeast, cases are rising in 49 states, and there is nowhere in the land from which respite and reinforcements can come.⁷

Thousands of health care professionals are exhausted, many with COVID-19 or recovering from it, morally distressed, and emotionally spent. Masks and social distancing are no longer public health essentials but elements of a culture war. Those same nurses, doctors, and public health officers still show up day after night for what is much closer to war than work. They struggle to prevent patients from going on ventilators they may never come off and use the few available therapies to keep as many patients alive as possible—whether those patients believe in COVID-19, wore a mask, no matter who they voted for—because that is what it means to practice health care according to a code of ethics.

In March 2020, I pledged to devote every editorial to COVID-19 for as long as the pandemic lasted, as one small candle for all those who have died of COVID-19, who are suffering as survivors of it, and who take risks and labor to deliver essential services from groceries to intensive care. Prudent public health officials wisely advise that the vaccine(s) are not a miracle cure to revive a depleted country, in part because it may undermine life-saving public health measures.⁸ And so the columns will continue in 2021 to illuminate the ethical issues of the pandemic as they affect all of us as federal health care professionals and Americans.

The Tale of Two Cities chapter that begins with the “best of times, and the worst of times” is entitled “Recalled to Life.” Let that be our hope and prayer for the coming year.

Some who read Federal Practitioner regularly may recall that since 2017, I have been dedicating the December and January editorials to a more substantive version of the popular best and worst awards that appear in the media this time of year. Everything from the most comfortable slippers to the weirdest lawsuits is scored annually. In an effort to elevate the ranking routine, this column has reviewed and evaluated ethical and unethical events and decisions in the 3 federal health care systems Federal Practitioner primarily serves. In previous years it was a challenge requiring research and deliberation to select the most inspiring and troubling occurrences in the world of federal health care. This year neither great effort or prolonged study was required as the choice was immediate and obvious—the year itself. A year in which our individual identities as health care professionals serving in the US Department of Defense, US Department of Veterans Affairs (VA), and US Public Health Service is subsumed in our realities as citizens of a nation in crisis.

The opening lines of A Tale of Two Cities have become such a literary platitude taken out of the context of the novel that the terror and fascination with which Dickens wrote these oft-quoted lines has been diluted and dulled.¹ In citing the entire paragraph as the epigraph, I hope to recapture the moral seriousness of its message, which is so relevant in 2020. While protesting the widespread injustice that fueled the progress of London’s industrial revolution, Dickens also feared such discontent would ignite a bloody uprising as it had done in Paris.¹ This passage is a classic example of the literary device of parallelism that so perfectly expressed Dickens’ reflections on the trajectory of the unprecedented historical impact of the French Revolution. A parallelism that also aptly captures the contemporary contrasts and comparisons of the best and worst of 2020.

It is estimated that at least 66% of those eligible to vote did so on November 3, 2020, the highest turnout in more than a century, demonstrating the strength of the United States as a representative democracy.² It is not about partisan politics, it is that more than 150 million citizens braved the winter, the virus, and potential intimidation to cast a ballot for their values.³ Still, America has never been more divided, and Dickens’ fear of political upheaval has never been more real in our country, or at least since the Civil War.

As I write this editorial, manufacturers for 2 vaccines have submitted phase 3 trial data to the US Food and Drug Administration for Emergency Use Authorizations and a third consortium may follow suit soon. Scientists report that the 2 vaccines, which were developed in less than a year, have high efficacy rates (> 90%) with only modest adverse effects.⁴ It is an unparalleled, really unimaginable, scientific feat. Americans’ characteristic gift for logistical efficiency and scientific innovation faces daunting administrative and technical barriers to achieve a similar viral victory, yet we may have faced even more formidable odds in World War II.

As of December 4, 2020, Johns Hopkins University reports that more than 275,000 Americans have died of coronavirus.⁵ The United States is on track to reach 200,000 cases a day with the signature holiday season of family festivities brutally morphed into gatherings of contagion.⁶ Hospitals across the country are running out of intensive care beds and nurses and doctors to staff them. Unlike the Spring surge in the Northeast, cases are rising in 49 states, and there is nowhere in the land from which respite and reinforcements can come.⁷

Thousands of health care professionals are exhausted, many with COVID-19 or recovering from it, morally distressed, and emotionally spent. Masks and social distancing are no longer public health essentials but elements of a culture war. Those same nurses, doctors, and public health officers still show up day after night for what is much closer to war than work. They struggle to prevent patients from going on ventilators they may never come off and use the few available therapies to keep as many patients alive as possible—whether those patients believe in COVID-19, wore a mask, no matter who they voted for—because that is what it means to practice health care according to a code of ethics.

In March 2020, I pledged to devote every editorial to COVID-19 for as long as the pandemic lasted, as one small candle for all those who have died of COVID-19, who are suffering as survivors of it, and who take risks and labor to deliver essential services from groceries to intensive care. Prudent public health officials wisely advise that the vaccine(s) are not a miracle cure to revive a depleted country, in part because it may undermine life-saving public health measures.⁸ And so the columns will continue in 2021 to illuminate the ethical issues of the pandemic as they affect all of us as federal health care professionals and Americans.

The Tale of Two Cities chapter that begins with the “best of times, and the worst of times” is entitled “Recalled to Life.” Let that be our hope and prayer for the coming year.