I am breaking this post about my COVID/ER experience into two…Be safe!!!!!!
Was I going to die?
I stared at the word “positive” on the computer screen—the results of my COVID test. My boyfriend Greg, who had started coughing a few days before me, was also positive. The theory was Greg’s adult son had brought it back on a flight four days earlier and passed it on to Greg.
I had hoped our cases would be potentially mild since we’ve been vaccinated and boosted. But mild for others could still be catastrophic for me, an immunocompromised wheelchair user.
Greg said, “I’m sorry I got you sick.”
I smiled, “don’t be. This is how it’s supposed to be. Either I die first, or we go together.” He is older than me, and my primary caregiver. I have an underlying fear that he will die before me.
I spoke to my mom on the phone and did my best to act nonchalantly about the positive result. When it came time to say goodbye, I had to stop myself from crying because I was afraid it would be the last time I spoke to her.
I ordered my “last meal”—a stuffed crust pizza with sausage and black olives. (Cheese has been my digestive nemesis for eight years, but one of my greatest loves.)
My father knew he had cancer one year before he died. He had “gotten his affairs in order” during that year. I did what I could. I sent the latest draft of my book to two people who I trust to get it published if something were to happen to me. Whether or not I would be here to witness the manifestation of my words into a book didn’t matter; I just wanted it out there.
The following day, my chest was tight and my cough was getting worse. I called my doctor, hoping to receive the monoclonal antibodies, and was urged to go to the ER. I didn’t argue.
Greg wasn’t feeling good by any means and didn’t need to see a doctor. But he came with me and waited in a socially distanced line of four patients. Though I was masked, I was afraid to breathe and didn’t want to spread the virus more. I wondered if we should’ve told someone right away, we were positive. But everyone seemed busy, so I pressed my mask into my cheeks, praying my contaminated breath wouldn’t escape.
We approached the triage area. A male nurse, in taupe scrubs, moved a chair out of my way so I could get close to the blood pressure stand. Before he placed the cuff on my arm, I said, “I am positive for Covid.”
The man stopped and said, “Oh. One second.” He walked away and I was not sure where he went.
When he returned, he had a clear visor over his face and a baby blue plastic smock. For a millisecond, his appearance enraged me.
I flashbacked to a conference I had planned for people with mental illness in 2000. During the first day of the conference, the hotel staff wore plastic gloves when dealing with the attendees. It made everyone feel dirty and like no one wanted to touch them for fear of catching a mental illness.
Back in the ER, I thought my disease, (Friedreich’s ataxia), is not contagious, but then I remembered I also have Covid—it is. Of course he’s going to protect himself.
We were asked to sit outside after taking my vitals. I agreed, thankful the slight breeze would make it harder for others to catch the virus. But I was also curious about how people would treat me. Would I be a priority?
Greg sat on a stone bench next to me in my wheelchair. The sky was gray as he watched many Stephen Colbert videos on his phone while I played a game on my Kindle. He was hunched over, displaying his fatigue.
There were four or five other groups of people waiting outside. I saw countless medical staff come outside and call people to follow them. Two and a half hours passed with no word of what was or would be happening.
My imagination went into overdrive. Shouldn’t they want to see me quickly because I’m high risk? What are they looking for? I worried that, just like the post I wrote (Disabled not Disposable), I was not a priority because of my disability. Was I on the bottom of some list ranking my importance? Did I not matter? My paranoia grew to the point where I phoned my friend Suzanne.
“They aren’t that busy. I’m freaking out. Are they taking so long because I’m disabled and who cares about the disabled chick?” My chest was tight.
“It’s ok, Jen. I know it’s tempting to go there, but let’s focus on what to do when you see the doctor. Be assertive. You need the antibodies or antivirals. Tell Greg to insist.”
At that moment, a woman in colorful scrubs came outside pushing a cart packed with empty vials and supplies for taking blood, “Are you Jennifer?” I nodded. We have to do some bloodwork. Sorry, it’s taken me so long.”
“I gotta go,” I told Suzanne and felt my chest loosen a bit.
“I’ve been looking for you inside and couldn’t find you so I took my lunch. When I got back, someone said you were outside.”
I sighed with annoyance. Why hadn’t someone told her to come outside? I extended my right arm without hesitation as she prepared the needle and five or six vials.
She was jovial as she poked me and explained what each of the blood samples was for—liver function, blood count, and some enzyme level I had never heard of.
“They need to see what your baseline levels are.” She showed no apprehension in getting close to me, which eased my anxiety.
I guessed that “baseline” meant I was going to get another blood test sometime later. At least I had an idea of where my day was going.
“X-ray’s next.” The nurse said.
She walked away, and I looked at Greg. His eyes looked tired and weak.
“Why don’t you go home?” I said.
“You’re sure?” he said.
As much as I wanted him to be my backup for asking for the good drugs, I knew he wasn’t feeling great. The chances of him being allowed to accompany me, given his positive status, seemed slim. “Go.”
—Until the next…
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