Dr. Reza Chowdhury did not qualify to coordinate when his patients ran out of money. He gave them his phone number and answered his medical questions at all hours. Once, when Chowdhury’s daughter, Nikita Rahman, began a verbal exchange with a New York taxi driver, it turned out she was from Bangladesh and knew her father: “Dr. Reza?He’s my doctor, he’s the most productive doctor!” he recalls.
KHN and The Guardian attach the deceased physical condition of COVID-19 and write about their lives and what happened in their final days.
Chowdhury, an in-house physician in the Bronx, had studied medicine in his local Bangladesh before emigrating to the United States 30 years ago. He left his circle of relatives in the house while moving out and worked as a tutor, waiter and security guard while studying. in the United States.
When COVID-19 arrived in New York, Rahman begged his father, who had undergone a kidney transplant and was immunocompromised, to stay home, but continued to paint until mid-March, when symptoms evolved, and died on April 9.
The United States relies on immigrant labor, from doctors to nurses and nursing assistants, to keep their fitness care formula afloat, and now immigrant fitness staff are dying at breakneck pace from the pandemic. The Guardian found that nearly a third of physical care personnel whose COVID-19 death was shown were born outdoors in the United States. However, immigrants account for only 14% of the U. S. population and 18% of their physical care. Force.
Chowdhury, 58, was from a nonprofit network of fitness service providers in New York City called SOMOS, which was devastated by the pandemic. Founded for the purpose of offering “culturally competent care” to low-income New Yorkers, the maximum of its 2,500 doctors and nurses are immigrants, like their patients. They come from Bangladesh, the Dominican Republic and Egypt, among others. In the early months of the pandemic, SOMOS reported that 12 of its practicing doctors and nurses had died from COVID-19.
“It’s our patients who wash dishes, prepare food, take the bus, drive taxis,” said Dr. Ramon Tallaj, president and co-founder of SOMOS, “and we threaten our lives for our patients. “Chowdhury practiced in a working-class segment of the Bronx, a district severely affected by coronavirus.
Most SOMOS professionals are the number one care providers: a circle of medical family members, pediatricians, nurse practitioners. “We’re doctors in the community,” Tallaj said. We paint with other deficient people in poor communities and speak the same languages as our patients, none of our doctors are on Park Avenue. “
He claimed that at the beginning of the pandemic, public care and investment went to hospitals and emergency care, while he and his colleagues pooled resources to purchase non-public protective devices and establish checkpoints in the neighborhood.
It turns out that this early exposure of patients, before they are ill enough in health to move into the emergency room, may have made these staff more vulnerable: a recent examination found that care providers number one “may be more likely to care for patients at an early, mild or asymptomatic stage – but still contagious – INFECTION – SARS-CoV-2 , with little or no non-public protective equipment. »
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Family physician Dr. Ydelfonso Decoo, 70, the room doctor par excellence. Since his practice in Washington Heights, New York, he has noticed that generations of patients pass through his doors. Patients and their families – many immigrants from the Dominican Republic, like him – stopped to greet him when they saw him on the street.
“He enjoyed his network and took the time to pay attention to them,” said Dorka C-ceeres, his 20-year-old assistant. Decoo saw patients until the end of March, when symptoms evolved.
Do you know a colleague or enjoy one who is part of the “Lost On The Frontline” series?Please share your story.
Dr. Ashraf Metwally, an Egyptian physician from the Brooklyn Family Circle. Dalia Ibrahim, a friend of the family circle, described it as a “staple food” in the local Arab community. A cancer survivor who helped in the emergency rooms at the beginning of the pandemic, Metwally “helped people. “It’s just who wants it,” Ibrahim wrote.
“These providers were like firefighters,” said Liz Webb, VICE President of Human Resources at SOMOS. “They went to their communities, communicated in their language, and made sure [people] didn’t care about their immigration status” when they requested the evidence,” she said.
To address the loss of their colleagues and uncertainty about the future, SOMOS doctors organized an evening prayer organization in Zoom that attracts dozens of participants and began serving COVID’s new hot spots: this summer, they sent fitness staff to Georgia and Florida to volunteer at clinics and hospitals.
Chowdhury’s circle of relatives has spent the months further learning what he meant to his patients. They were struck by the torrent of pain and by others around the world who had sought their attention or recommendation at one time or another. memorial online, they struggled to find a platform that could accommodate anyone who wanted to pay homage, Chowdhury’s daughter said.
“Zooming allows you to succeed in up to two hundred users, so we used [the service] that allowed 500, and we were even at full capacity,” he said.
This story is a component of “Lost on the Frontline,” an ongoing assignment through The Guardian and Kaiser Health News that aims to document the lives of physical care staff in the United States who die from COVID-19 and investigate why so many others people are victims of the disease. If you have a colleague or enjoyed one we deserve to include, share your story.
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Dr. Reza Chowdhury did not qualify to coordinate when his patients ran out of money. He gave them his phone number and answered his medical questions at all hours. Once, when Chowdhury’s daughter, Nikita Rahman, began a verbal exchange with a New York taxi driver, it turned out she was from Bangladesh and knew her father: “Dr. Reza?He’s my doctor, he’s the most productive doctor!” he recalls.
Chowdhury, an in-house physician in the Bronx, had studied medicine in his local Bangladesh before emigrating to the United States 30 years ago. He left his circle of relatives in the house while moving and worked as a tutor, waiter and security guard while studying. in the United States.
When COVID-19 arrived in New York, Rahman begged his father, who had undergone a kidney transplant and was immunocompromised, to stay home, but continued to paint until mid-March, when symptoms evolved, and died on April 9.
The United States relies on immigrant labor, from doctors to nurses and nursing assistants, to keep their fitness care formula afloat, and now immigrant fitness staff are dying at the pace of the pandemic. Guardian, he found that nearly a third of health care personnel whose COVID-19 death was shown to have been born outdoors in the United States. But it’s not the first time And 18% of your health care force. .
Chowdhury, 58, was part of a nonprofit network of fitness service providers in New York called SOMOS that was devastated by the pandemic. Founded to provide “culturally competent care” to low-income New Yorkers, the maximum of its 2,500 doctors and nurses are immigrants. like their patients. They come from Bangladesh, the Dominican Republic and Egypt, among others. In the first months of the pandemic, SOMOS reported that 12 of its practicing doctors and nurse practitioners had died of COVID-19.
“It’s our patients who wash dishes, prepare food, take the bus, drive taxis,” said Dr. Ramon Tallaj, president and co-founder of SOMOS, “and we threaten our lives for our patients. “Chowdhury practiced in a working-class segment of the Bronx, a district severely affected by coronavirus.
Most SOMOS doctors are the number one care providers: a circle of medical family members, pediatricians, nurse practitioners. “We are community doctors,” Tallaj said. We paint with other deficient people in poor communities and speak the same languages as our patients, none of our doctors are on Park Avenue. “
He said that at the beginning of the pandemic, public care and investment went to hospitals and emergency care, while he and his colleagues joined resources to acquire non-public protective devices and establish checkpoints in the neighborhood.
It turns out that this early exposure of patients, before they are ill enough in health to move into the emergency room, may have made staff more vulnerable: a recent examination found that care providers number one “may be more likely to care for patients at an early, mild or asymptomatic stage – but still contagious – INFECTION – SARS-CoV-2 , with little or no non-public protective equipment. »
Family physician Dr. Ydelfonso Decoo, 70, the room doctor par excellence. Since his practice in Washington Heights, New York, he has noticed that generations of patients pass through his doors. Patients and their families, many immigrants from the Dominican Republic, like him – stopped to greet him when they saw him on the street.
“He enjoyed his network and took the time to pay attention to them,” said Dorka C-ceeres, his 20-year-old assistant. Decoo saw patients until the end of March, when symptoms evolved.
Dr. Ashraf Metwally, an Egyptian physician from the Brooklyn Circle. Dahlia Ibrahim, a friend of the family circle, described it as a “basic element” in the local Arab community. Metwally, a cancer survivor who helped in the emergency rooms at the beginning of the pandemic, “helped people. That’s what he wants, ” wrote Ibrahim.
“These vendors were like firefighters,” said Liz Webb, vice president of human resources for SOMOS. “They went to their communities, communicated in their language and made sure [people] didn’t worry about their immigration status” when they requested the tests, she said.
To address the loss of their colleagues and uncertainty about the future, SOMOS doctors organized an evening prayer organization in Zoom that attracts dozens of participants and began serving COVID’s new hot spots: this summer, they sent fitness staff to Georgia and Florida to volunteer at clinics and hospitals.
Chowdhury’s circle of relatives has spent the months further learning what he meant to his patients. They were struck by the torrent of pain and by others around the world who had sought their attention or recommendation at one time or another. memorial online, they struggled to find a platform that could accommodate anyone who wanted to pay homage, Chowdhury’s daughter said.
“Zooming allows you to succeed in up to two hundred users, so we used [the service] that allowed 500, and we were even at full capacity,” he said.
This story is a component of “Lost on the Frontline,” an ongoing assignment through The Guardian and Kaiser Health News that aims to document the lives of physical care staff in the United States who die from COVID-19 and investigate why so many others people are victims of the disease. If you have a colleague or enjoyed one that we deserve to include, percentage of your story.
Kaiser Health News (KHN) is a national fitness policy data service, an editorially independent program of Henry J. Kaiser Family Foundation, which is affiliated with Kaiser Permanente.
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