https://www.volkskrant.nl/nieuws-achtergrond/op-de-dag-dat-het-rivm-nul-doden-meldde-stierf-verpleegkundige-boy-ettema-aan-corona~bf67bcd7
google translate- translated from Dutch to English;
Thomas Borst and Maud Effting 5 July 2020, 5:02 PM
OSTUUM BOY ETTEMA (1978-2020)
On the day RIVM reported zero deaths, nurse Boy Ettema died of corona
Boy Ettema, a surgery nurse who worked in the Covid department, was healthy, cycled a lot, was not overweight and was only 42 years old. However, he died of corona on the first day that RIVM reported zero deaths.
For RIVM it was a question of statistics, of simply adding up all reports. And they never came that day. But for Boys' family, the RIVM statement came as a blow to the face.
It felt as if the death of Boy, a surgery nurse who had worked in the hospital's covid ward for many weeks, was ignored. As if he didn't matter.
It was the reason that Boy's brother called Thomas de Volkskrant. Because the ice-cold statistic with those zero kills - that's the big story.
But there is also another reality.
Boy Ettema is the youngest healthcare provider in the Netherlands who died of corona at the age of 42 - a total of thirteen died. He was healthy, cycled a lot, was not overweight and did not smoke, his girlfriend said.
It is mid-May when the surgery nurse returns home from his covid service at St. Antonius Hospital in Nieuwegein in the evening. That day he helped a critically ill patient who had unexpectedly coughed in his face. He felt something in between his glasses and mask.
"I have the idea," he said anxiously to his girlfriend, who is also a nurse, "that I was infected today."
At home they have been kept apart for weeks. They don't meet anyone and she does the shopping. Boy warns everyone to watch out. "Even if they arrange things differently at work, please stay at home," he tells his brother.
Two days later, he wakes up on a Tuesday with a high fever and headache. He sees flashes before his eyes. The stuffiness doesn't start until a few days later. "I'm deathly ill," Boy says to his brother Thomas. "But don't worry too much. It will be fine.'
His brother Thomas had previously asked him if he would do those covid services. "It has to be done," Boy replied. He felt it his duty to contribute. He sends cheerful photos of himself in his corona gear to his friends and family.
That nice brother
Boy Ettema is a striking appearance in the surgery department of the St. Antonius Hospital. His laughter is loud, he talks a lot and makes contact with patients quickly. Sometimes they ask specifically for "that nice brother".
If there is a difficult patient, Boy is put on it.
At home he is cheerful, gentle and caring, says his girlfriend Lizahn (31), whom he proposed to last March and with whom he was engaged. Boy doesn't care about money, stuff or status; he prefers to spend time with nature, with friends, reading newspapers and books, doing fun things. He is concerned about inequality in the world. At the age of 35, he studied nursing after studying sociology. It turned out to be a golden move. He wanted to mean something to others, his brother says.
He is at home for days, where he is getting sicker. His girlfriend Lizahn calls the GP post three times. "I said Boy was getting exhausted," she says. "But the doctor brushed us off and said, well, he still speaks full sentences. We could come in with a fever of more than 41 degrees. I felt we weren't taken seriously because Boy was still young. "
On day eight, Boy says, "This is really not good."
Within fifteen minutes they drive urgently to his own hospital, where Lizahn can see him that day. "I'm scared," says Boy, lying in bed panting. It's all he can say. His blood still contains 80 percent oxygen.
Lizahn: "He knew exactly how it could go. He has taken so many people to the morgue himself. His greatest fear was the ICU. "
The following night she is woken up at half past four with his telephone number. In the picture is a nurse. "It really is no longer with Boy," he says. "We have to intubate him now."
Then she sees Boy lying there, gasping for breath. He says he loves her. And that he is afraid. He has to cry, but it only makes him more anxious. Lizahn can say just a little before the nurse takes the phone. Lizahn drives to the hospital as fast as she can, but when she arrives, he is already asleep.
This isn't really happening, Lizahn thinks. She feels that he can walk around the corner laughing any moment.
His brother Thomas arrives without being able to say anything to his brother.
Heart lung machine
The nurse is in his own intensive care unit for sixteen days, while his lung pictures get worse and his family hardly sleeps anymore. Doctors and nurses at the ICU skip breaks, work longer, do everything for their colleagues.
Lizahn and her family receive extra visiting hours. It always seems to go better, but he always gets a backlash. "I thought a thousand times he was going to make it, and a thousand times he would die," says brother Thomas. Because his lungs can't make it, he is put on the heart-lung machine, where the blood gets oxygen outside the body and blood thinners are needed.
It is June 22 when Lizahn receives a call from an ICU doctor at a quarter to five in the morning. "He said it was a good idea that I would come and asked if I wanted to call his parents and brother," she said. "Then I knew: this is wrong. I've worked here long enough to know that. "
That night Boy had a massive cerebral hemorrhage with major brain damage as a result. He doesn't respond to anything anymore. The doctor says that the state of his brain can no longer be reconciled with life. There are tears in his eyes. That morning he struggled to enter the department, he says. Lizahn drops to her knees when she hears that. "This just can't be true," she says.
"Then you know," says his brother Thomas, "that your brother is dying."
It is three o'clock in the afternoon when the doctor switches off the heart lung machine and the other devices in the presence of family and friends. In the room, someone plays Guns N 'Roses on the guitar: Boy was a fan of punk and hard rock.
While his girlfriend Lizahn is holding him, his heart beats for another two minutes. In the room it becomes very quiet. Nurses cry in the hallway. Afterwards, Lizahn barely manages to leave him.
Boy's motto was memento mori - remember to die. "He was always aware," says his brother Thomas, "that life could just be over."
The next morning, Boy's father reads the news. "Zero corona deaths for the first time," it says.
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