Here’s what it looks like to be shipped to New York City from the Midwest to work as a nurse on the front lines of the coronavirus battle. A 40-year-old recruited health care worker, who declined to be named for fear of losing his job, takes The Post through his days at a Brooklyn hospital, where he finds chaos, death — and hope.

March 27, 8:44 a.m.: It’s not a matter of if I get sick, it’s when. At the hospital where I’m working, 75 to 80 percent of admitted patients are infected. Please don’t go to hospitals unless you are having difficulty breathing and fear for your life. The good news is, the medical professionals who have been treating folks say healthy people don’t get hit that hard, if at all, and are generally really tired for a day or two with some other minor symptoms, then back in action. My friendly advice: Exercise. Eat healthy. Laugh. Practice meditative stress-reducing activities. Get enough sleep. Good luck, and don’t be afraid!

March 28, 10 a.m.: Showed up today, and eight nurses called in sick, leaving us with seven. One nurse was assigned to 31 patients! Normally, on general hospital floors, a nurse has six patients. The ICU is all backed up, so one wing of the emergency room has become a makeshift ICU. Patient care is suffering. I’ll be taking care of a patient who is on a ventilator, and I’ll get interrupted by another patient that just stopped breathing, and then an ambulance has showed up with a patient. I finally get back to my original patient two and a half hours later. Basically hoping they didn’t die. That’s what my day is like — on repeat — 13 hours a day.

March 29, 8:43 a.m.: The chaos is starting to feel normal. Supplies are still low. But nearly all the permanent staff has welcomed us with open arms. All of us are on a 21-day contract. The first few days were full of compliance stuff. Now, it’s cruise control tending to patients. But I’m feeling it today, folks. Tired.

March 31, 9:39 p.m.: Time is getting more and more valuable, as we have none. The hospitals are still overwhelmed. The other day, we ran out of fluids, portable oxygen containers, lab tubes for blood. I try to think of funny ways to entertain myself throughout the day and spread some humor. Today, I got a microphone on the bus ride in for my daily announcements. I was so stoked and promptly busted into a Snoop Dogg song as soon as the mic hit my hand.

April 1, 1:14 a.m.: OK, folks. I need some glasses. Like construction safety glasses. The other sh-t is too foggy or too hot. I can literally feel several layers of COVID in my eyes, and all the Visine in the world isn’t helping.

April 2, 9:24 a.m.: We continue to be undersupplied and understaffed, although today, 20 more nurses went through orientation and will hit the floor tomorrow. Still, it’s a logistical nightmare. I’ve been in hospitals in China, Guatemala and the Philippines. Even if corona wasn’t around, this hospital is in more disrepair and general overall uncleanliness than those in Third World countries. Here’s one feel-good story: I was walking back into the emergency department, and a nurse screams. I turn the corner, and her patient is blue, like that girl in the movie “Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory.” I immediately start giving the patient chest compressions. Other nurses jump in — and the patient starts breathing again. But we also put several bodies in body bags today.

April 3, 9:12 a.m.: What day is it? What parallel universe am I in? The patient-to-nurse ratio is so insane that no full-time employee has time to orient a new person. And I had to run floor to floor and scrounge up some scraps of protective gear to keep my people safe. Some of the full-time nurses are hoarding. On the other hand, there are two nurses who opened up a retired wing of the hospital to accommodate demand. They are angels. They haven’t had a break for the last week. No lunch. No 15 minutes to decompress. Today, these two nurses had to put four bodies in body bags. They were choked up or crying most times. I had to go outside and bawl my eyes out.

April 4, 9:19 a.m.: Safety for both nurses and patients continues to be a huge issue. A “sharps container” is a red box that hangs on the wall in every patient’s room and is meant for things that are contaminated with someone’s blood. Almost every single one of the boxes in the hospital is overflowing. Well, it finally happened today: One member of my crew was reaching to put an insulin syringe in the sharps container and got stuck with a needle. Imagine the anxiety. We also ran out of oxygen on the floor. We had to close down the wing and open a new one and transfer 50 patients across the hospital. My body hurts, my brain hurts.

April 6, 9:29 a.m.: I’ve put more bodies in bags the past 11 days than I have in nine years of being a nurse. I tear up several times a day observing and helping in these conditions. This sh-t is not for everybody. I got 25 new nurses today. One nurse walked out after the first 10 minutes. The rest were sent straight to the units. We are running out of a lot of drugs, including for sedation. We have started to use others to keep patients sleepy, but many of them wake up and start yanking on their tubes. It’s some of the simple things, too. We ran out of drinking glasses and those little cups for pills. So we’ve started using specimen-collection containers — that’s what patients drink from. Still, some good news. The emergency department, the gateway to the hospital, is seeing lower numbers, and EMS personnel have reported to me that things have slowed down for them. It makes me think we peaked out a few days ago. But regardless, it’s complete and utter madness.