This is what COVID-19 looks like through the eyes of nurses on the front lines

Turning a desperately ill COVID-19 patient onto their stomach may seem simple enough to the uninitiated. It's not.

In this case, at Quebec City's Hpitalde l'Enfant-Jsus, it requires a total of seven peoplecrowded around an intensive care bed.

We often hear about how demandingit is for hospital staff and long-term care workers to handle the added workload foisted upon them by the coronavirus pandemic. Here's just oneillustration.

After draping a sheet over the patient, the edges are rolled into the sheet underneath. A pair of pillows are now snug to hischest, andthe rolling begins. First, the patient is slid to the edge of the bed. On three, he's turned to his side. Another three-count, and he is softly delivered onto his stomach.

The room empties. Everyone has work to do.

The Quebec capital has seen a massive spike in coronavirus infections in recent weeks, and a trio of nurses say they're worried bymembers of the public trivializing the illness.

To help convince people to take the coronavirus more seriously during the upcoming holidays, they opened their doors to Radio-Canada.

Their names are CathyDeschnes, JenniferBoissonnaultand LindsayVongsawath-Chouinard. Their aim: to show what life inthe hot zone looks like.

Each of them agreed to weara small camera so the publiccouldsee how a typical day unfolds. They filmed their colleagues and their patients,and illustrated how the pandemichas made the job harder and more complex.

(scroll up to view the video)

Their point is not toelicit sympathy. As Deschnes says:"It's difficult, but we love our jobs."

Instead, they want to show the devastating path some COVID-19 patients are called upon to travel: patients who requiremore and more staff at their bedside, and needever larger amounts oftreatment time.

And each one of those treatments involvesspecial planning and safety equipment. The ICU rooms have sliding doors, which makes it easier to maintain hot, warm and cold zones. And maintain them, they must.

Each shift has a nurse in charge of making sure the hygieneprocedures are being followed and that personal protective equipment, like N95 masks and shields,isworn correctly.

"No one in our department has contaminated themselves (with the virus), we've had no outbreaks in intensive care and we're very proud of that," Boissonnault says, at one point.

The average age of the COVID-19 patientin the unit is between 60 and 75.

"Some might think that's old. We don't think so," Boissonnault says.

The province has 390 intensive care beds dedicated to COVID-19 patients (20 for pediatric cases), andEnfant-Jsus, in the Maizeretsareanortheast of downtown Quebec City,accounts for 22 of them.

The unit is not short of business.

Of the 610 COVID-19 patients the hospital has treated so far this year, 90 were in intensive care. And 144 people who entered the hospital with the disease never made it home.

To work in an intensive care unit is to accept that not every patient can be saved, but COVID-19 is rougheven for a group of people who mustbecome inured to tragedy.

Public health restrictions mean it's often not possible for patients' relatives to be bytheir bedside, so when things take a turn for the worst, the only hand to hold usually belongs to a nurse, orderly, doctor or other staff member.

At one point, a family is forced to make thedevastating decision to halt treatment on their intubated loved one. Two nurses each hold a hand as he is prepared for 'comfort care' palliative measures.

"We're with you sir," says Boissonault, holding his left hand. "We're taking care of you."

The typical hospital stay for a COVID-19 patient lasts 17 days, but in the ICU sometimes it can stretch to 40 or beyond. Attachments form. When someone dies, there are often tears. There have been weeks whenthat happens four or five times in just one section of the unit.

People infected with this virus can sometimes take a sudden, catastrophic turn.

"To give comfort to a patient whose family can't be there with them in their final moments, to be the ones who take their hands in ours during their final moments ... it's troubling," says Vongsawath-Chouinard, her voice cracking.

So when there is good news, it is celebrated.

Recently, a patient from the Saguenay called Daniel Bouchardmade enoughprogress to be released from the unit to a regular COVID-19 ward in the hospital.

It was his 65th birthday. He had been there eight days, some of themtouch-and-go.

The nurses and medical staffgot him a cardand a small cake. He thanksthem in a raspy voice and isovercome with emotion, weeping in his wheelchair as a nurse rubshis shoulders.

"Your tears say a lot," Boissonnault says.

Safety measures oblige,the gathered staffhad to sing Happy Birthday from the next room.

"Thanks so much, you've been an all-star team," Bouchardsays.

Minutes later, it is time to leave. Outside the room, scrub-wearing staff linethe hall.

They applaudas he iswheeled out of view.