Continued from COVID SURVIVOR (part 3)
When I was a child, my parents, two sisters, and I built a cabin in the California redwoods. Mostly it was my father and his best friend, Al Guerin. It is on a 1/4 acre hill lot. The cabin sits high, so you feel like you are in a treehouse. We have a deck that we sit on in the evenings after swimming at the river or lake, and it is my happy place. I live too far away to go there much, but this year I went. We are thinking of selling it. That hurts.
My Mother has stage four cancer. She is 87. My father is a 92-year-old healthy diabetic. They still live in their home, and he drives her everywhere. We daughters try to help as much as they let us. My oldest sister had her esophagus and stomach removed last year due to cancer. She hopes to get a new stomach this year. My other sister is retiring to help my mom. I live far away. Always have. We hardly know each other anymore, but that is changing.
So on a mid-June, Saturday morning, Chris and I got in our car and drove to the cabin. It is at least a 12-hour drive. We broke it up into two days. We stopped on the way up the mountain, donned our masks, and went and bought my mom a taller toilet. The short toilet at the cabin prevented her from going up to the mountain. My sisters and I are more concerned with her walking up the stairs to the cabin, hanging on to my father’s belt. Mom said she can do that, it’s just the toilet issue. So Chris installs a taller toilet. Then I drive him down to Stockton, where he catches a plane, and I drive back up to the cabin to social distance myself for 10 days to ensure I do not expose my parents to any potential virus.
It is a beautiful week. I walk everywhere. I write. I research. I sit on the deck and eat chips and dip, and at night I bake chocolate chip cookies. In the mornings, the trees exhale their divine pine-filled morning breath, and I inhale deeply.
After a week, I head down to my parent’s home in Lodi, Ca. I spend a couple weeks going to appointments, interviewing them, preparing food, playing SkipBo,
I listen to my father tell of building the cabin, I remember how he taught us to nail the boards for the foundation. How to layout the framing. He taught me to solder the plumbing pipes. We put in elephant putty between the paneling and frame. We roofed it. And he is very proud of this building he built. I think he thinks of it as a testament, something he created that says he was here.
For my Mother, the cabin is all about the gathering—friends, family, and food.
It sounds all Leave It To Beaver. It wasn’t. We are as dysfunctional as everyone else. Maybe more so. But it still is my happy place. I like to be there alone, with my memories, thoughts, and dreams. I like to be here with family too.
I wish I were there now. If I had stayed longer, I would not have gotten this virus. I believe that.
I inhale deeply. It is oxygen. My happy place fades away. Michelle still slowly inserts meds into my arm. Or maybe she is again drawing blood. My other arm rests over my crying eyes. I don’t care if she can smell me. This hurts.
Finally, it is over. The blood pressure cuff isn’t automatic anymore. She has to do it manually. Then she tries to take my temperature. The thermometer isn’t working. She pushes it down into the bulky battery over and over. Nothing. “We are short on supplies.” She embarrassingly admits. “I’ll be back with a different thermometer. Maybe I can find a battery for this one.” She takes off her garb and pushes it into the recycle garb dispensary. I think she is happy to go to colder climates.
I lay back hoping to sleep, cause it’s like 2:00 am. Her round little happy head pokes back into the room.
“Just one more thing, the maintenance men will be in shortly to install your air filter fan.”
Of course, they will.
In they enter. I cover my face with the hospital blanket, peeking out at them nervously glancing at me glancing at them. I have to admit they are quick about it. Fifteen minutes tops. The fan goes on. The noise is loud, but I am on a softer bed with a blood pressure cuff that will not wake me every hour, and I am breathing oxygen.
Michelle comes back in. She holds a manual thermometer. It beeps. She doesn’t say what it says, and I don’t ask.
“I promise I won’t bother for you like 4 hours.”
I like her. I’m sorry I stink so bad.
The Morning Comes
Michelle comes in to introduce me to my day nurse. “I’ll be back tonight.” Off she goes.
I think I will call him Michael. His name is on the board, I just can’t remember it. He has curly hair on top and no hair on the sides. I can’t see his face because of his mask. He carries a tray of food. And I realize I want to eat it! It is vegetable stock. I slowly spoon it in. There is also apple juice. That isn’t going to happen. And there is a lemon frozen treat. That happened. I ate almost half of the broth and the lemony treat. It felt so good.
Michael was checking out my vitals. “So, I have to give you some meds.”
I moan. He looks at me. He sees me. I tell him that I requested that they use my left arm, but they declined. He looks at it, and I think he smiles because his eyes crinkle up.
“I will fix this.” And he does. He mushes around on my left arm and says, get ready—a little prick. I don’t look. I look around and ramble.
“I can’t stand my body odor.”
“With all this garb on, we can’t smell you, but when we are done, I will change your sheets, and you can sit in the shower stall and take a shower. Sound good?”
Sounds great.
“When will you give me the meds?”
“I already did.” Then he took out the other IV, and I can see the frown wrinkles around his eyes. “Sorry about that one. I don’t know why people insert them in the crux of the elbow. I have to give you a shot into your stomach.” He rests the shot on my stomach. I begin to mentally prepare, but it is too late. He pushes down hard.
Yea, I screamed. He knew it was going to hurt. He’s a clever one, but he is also kind. I can see sad wrinkles around his eyes. He brought in soap, a toothbrush, toothpaste, a new hospital shirt, and a towel.
“The soap is shampoo and body wash all in one. I’ll wait out here in case you need me. Make sure you sit down all the time.”
I have never had a sit-down shower before. I have now. I turn on the warm water and scrub my armpits. It didn’t really help. I did it twice. I tried to wash my hair. It had turned into a hot tangled mess. I couldn’t even comb through it with my fingers. My body just hangs from its bones. The water within my body has not replenished yet. I look so old.
I come out dressed, and he hands me a flimsy comb for my thick, curly matted hair.
“Seriously?”
“You have a lot of time on your hands.”
I don’t have the strength. I tried. I failed. I slept.
Michael came back at 1 pm with lunch. More broth and a strawberry icy. Heaven. I was eating. Not a lot, but some. It felt great to eat. I took another nap. I didn’t have nausea. I didn’t have a headache. I know it was the drugs. I was grateful. I kept breathing in those flowers, and my temperature was low. I considered turning on the TV while I tried to comb through each strand of hair.
All of a sudden, a garbed up man backed into the room. I thought it might be Michael. It was not. The man started talking to me in an accent.
“You are very sick! You have Covid19. But today you are better. You have to decide. You going to go home today and not waste this bed or sleep here again. What is your decision?”
I look at him and ask, “Who are you?”
He looked a little insulted.
“I am Dr. Turk!. So what is your decision? You going home today or you staying another night?”
I am trying to process this. This is my choice? Isn’t he the Dr.? I think he wants me to leave. Should I leave? Am I ready to leave? I don’t want to impose. I look into his dark threatening eyes.
“I guess I’ll go home?”
“Good. I will order the oxygen.”
And he leaves the room. It is almost 5. I don’t think I will get dinner broth. I call Chris.
Michael comes in. His eyes look a little worried. “I have to test your oxygen. You have to stand up and walk around the room.” My finger monitor drops into the 80’s. Michael frowns. “Sit back down.” He waits a few minutes. “Let’s try it again.” It drops again.
The phone rings. The oxygen people tell me the oxygen costs and that a portable unit will be delivered to the hospital for my transport home. Another permanent unit will be delivered to my house. I provide my credit card information.
Then I get a call from the oxygen delivery man. “Good afternoon!” He has an accent too. He thinks he is funny. “Listen, I have to see a different client, so I will drop off the portable and stationary to your house after 6. Your husband can take the portable with him when he picks you up.”
“Well, that isn’t what has been arranged. The hospital is waiting for you right now.”
“Your husband can bring it.” He hangs up.
Michael quickly leaves the room. Less than an hour later, at 5:55 pm, he walks back into my room pulling the portable oxygen tank. “That delivery guy had no right to do that to you. It took a few calls. No big deal. You can call your husband and tell him to pick you up at the south exit in 10 minutes.”
Michael wheels me down. I ask him how many areas are COVID. He said, “Two. Both are full. 48 beds apiece. Your area is the 3rd unit. It is getting filled.” He sounded worried.
We exit the building, and Chris has the car door open. We load the portable in the back. We load me in.
“You were a good nurse. Thank you.”
His eyes smile.
I am going home, and I am alive.