What I Learned From SARS in 2003 That Will Help Me Cope With COVID-19 in 2020

On March 25, 2003, I was in Vancouver at my niece’s bat mitzvah when I saw a picture of my hospital in Toronto on the television news; a story about SARS patients in Toronto. Until then, SARS had been a distant event happening in mainland China and Hong Kong; it had been something that seemed very far away and theoretical. When I returned to Toronto, we had clusters of cases in several hospitals and healthcare workers were falling ill. I was the Physician in Chief at one of those hospitals and was responsible for the clinical care delivered by physicians in the Department of Medicine. So the burden of figuring out what we were going to do fell on me and the other members of the hospital leadership team.

As the outbreak evolved, we only knew a few things. It was a respiratory infection, likely viral, with a very high mortality rate, compared with most other viral respiratory infections. We learned the hard way that, while it was mostly transmitted by droplets, some patients were able to widely transmit it through the air, and therefore likely through ventilation systems. We knew that most infections were occurring in hospitals but there was also community spread at events like funerals. We had no test to confirm the presence of the virus and, indeed, only figured out it was a coronavirus well into the outbreak. Diagnoses were made using clinical criteria; this uncertainty was a major source of anxiety about potential community spread without direct links to known cases. We had no idea how long it was going to last, nor did we know how it would end. We were entering uncharted territory.

Decisions had to be made. Which patients needed isolation, and which did not? We made mistakes early on that caused hundreds of healthcare workers and people to be quarantined (complete isolation) for 10 days; this was a difficult situation for them, their families, and the people who had to replace them in the workplace.

Within a very short period we changed our way of life in hospitals. We screened everyone who entered with questionnaires and measured their temperatures. Once entering the hospital, we all wore N95 masks in public spaces and when in a room with another person—not just patients. We all got sore throats from wearing the masks 10 hours a day. All patients were placed in respiratory precautions, which meant that, any time we entered their rooms, we had to don all the personal protective equipment (PPE). Yet we didn’t run out of supplies. When a member of a provincial leadership team fell ill with SARS shortly after attending an in-person meeting of the committee, all the other members went into quarantine. As a result, we stopped having leadership team meetings in person, and mostly stayed in our own offices, communicating by phone and email.

The hospital took on a bizarre atmosphere: everyone in masks and little face-to-face contact. Yet outside the hospital, life went on mostly as normal. Some people wore masks on the street, but public events and businesses stayed open. Some healthcare workers were shunned in the community out of fear. But I went to another bat mitzvah and even a Stanley Cup playoff game at the height of the outbreak. Only healthcare workers were asked to stop meeting in large groups. The contrast for me was striking.

The Ontario Ministry of Health started a daily noon hour phone conference call; one physician and one administrator from every hospital in the province were on the call. I attended those for my hospital and, because I knew or taught many of the people on the line, was quickly asked to chair the calls. They were incredibly important and were a source of information exchange and emotional support for all of us. Before each call, I spoke with a person from Toronto Public Health who updated me on the number of cases and deaths. I needed to absorb that information before the calls to maintain my composure when she told the rest of the group. At times I could hear the fear in people’s voices as they described the clinical course of their patients.

Because I chaired the calls, I was asked to coordinate the study that documented the clinical outcomes of all the patients in the hopes that we could distinguish it from other common respiratory syndromes. With the help of my colleagues in the 11 hospitals that treated SARS patients, the ethics review boards, medical records personnel who copied the charts, Christopher Booth, MD, (a second- year resident at the time who headed the study), and a few medical students we were able to go from the idea to do the study to electronic publication in JAMA in 30 days.¹ It was JAMA’s first experience with rapid review, and the editors there were very helpful. Working on this study was very therapeutic; it allowed me to feel I was doing something that could help.

I was scared—both for my own health and the health of my family, but also terribly frightened for the health of the people who worked here. When I went home every night, I looked at the people on the street and wondered how many would still be there a few months later. And then it all ended. (Actually, it ended twice; we let up a bit too early because we so wanted it to be over.)