In a pandemic, our dread for the the COVID19 albatross and its unprecedented fear mongering, demand changes to hospital operations in anticipation of an overloaded medical system. Patients, like me, are balancing preexisting issues- some more complicated than others, many of which are life threatening, and yet we’re reluctant to seek care based on public perception. A perception that endangers the lives of people compromised by serious medical conditions who are now turning a blind eye to potentially life threatening symptoms.
Within the last week, I began to notice some symptoms that I was suspicious of for internal/external bleeding. Without any physical trauma, I presented with burst capillaries (petechiae), warning of low platelet count. This in conjunction with chronic epistaxis (nose bleeds) were enough to place me on high alert, emailing my chief physician and then being advised to visit an emergency hospital. All I could think was that I have been isolating for months to avoid the new world pathogen and was now asked to visit Dantes inferno.
Arriving at the emergency department felt as if I was going to war, immunosuppressed and dodging the oppositions viral ammunition. Wanting to avoid another layer of complexity to my never-ending patient file, I used the appropriate precautions, and reluctantly crept through the sliding doors into the mass hysteria I anticipated….
There I stood in the waiting room of a city hospital, all alone, not another patient in sight. This was a welcome surprise- contradicting conclusions that I had previously drawn! I quickly registered and was reminded that visitors were not allowed, a security provision that I knew had been implemented but that I hoped I would never fall victim to. I was quickly triaged and placed in a containment area which again seemed abandoned. Our media has successfully cast a global fear net where patients are trepidatious to seek medical expertise resulting in diminished intakes and increased capacity.
My mind moves at a mile a minute, weighing me down with the worst case scenario, flashbacks litter my psyche, uninvited and unwelcome. Every sense seemed to instigate my anxiety coupled with the fact that I was in a 6 patient capacity room- separated by the almighty curtain. Slowly, patients began to trickle in, each forced to broadcast their unique circumstance, devoid of any audible privacy.
“When I find myself in times of trouble
Evelina comes to me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.”
My faith steered me in an optimistic direction, feeling as if God casted me in a screenplay, with fortuitous characters and mildly entertaining storylines. More importantly, I took comfort in the fact, that though our circumstances were different, we weren’t alone.
On the phone, my first roommate indignantly explained that she had not had a bowel movement in 2 months. As I was compelled to listen, it became quite apparent that her symptomatic profile reeked of hyperbole. The doctor quickly rejected her request for treatment, on the premise that too much of a good thing can be harmful. Her plea for an enema echoed through the halls, a resounding certainty that this was necessary or would have devastating consequences. After the doctor reassured her that this was anxiety driven and to speak to a family physician for anxiety management, they managed to compromise with a glycerin suppository. Clearly not operating in good faith, the sly fox tried to ask for a second but was quickly denied and asked to leave.
On to the next.
A elderly man was escorted into the adjacent cubicle with broken English. Hospital controls restrict accompanying visitors thus he was left to fend for himself, and actually articulated his point quite well. Rather than explain his scenario, I will allude to the issue by saying it was a guy problem and leave it at that. As we wait in the room unattended and in anticipation of our next steps, the man blurted “I love my mother” followed by her admiration for his dog. He also passionately told the wall that he could come back later as if to threaten the dingy sheet rock, rat bastard. Though unusual I assumed that this was some variation of dementia where I felt it better to notify the nursing station to a possible comprehension issue. But hey brother, I love my mother too.
Following a 12 hour stint in the ER, multiple consults and clarifications, I was admitted to PMH at which point I would be eventually moved to my “home unit” – Allogenic Transplant. Returning to the airtight passage, paralyzed with fear, coincidence would place me in the same room that my last transplant began. The floodgates opened, my mind invaded by vivid imagery, and sensory memory that assaulted by spirit. The battery continued for an hour before I could collect myself, undercutting the reality that this was now the best place for me with the best people.
“And in my hour of darkness
She is standing right in front of me
Speaking words of wisdom, let it be.
Let it be, let it be.”
The slew of testing is underway investigating the root cause of my underlying cytopenia. In waiting for a definitive diagnoses, an hour seems like a day- time passes at an almost punishing rate. Do I want to know the outcome? Is it positive? Am I strong enough? You might think that my veteran patient status would have grown me accustom to the idle time and yet it is equally tormenting with every order. I live in a perpetual state of unrest, a fear that follows me in the shadows, taunting me to no end.
My mindset is disrupted as I am once again forced to face my demons, an incessant battle that I am conscripted in and a war that I pray to emerge victorious. I draw strength from my family from afar, harnessing the will to push forward, framing this admission as just another hill to climb.
And brother, I’m an expert.
The Hopeful Motif 