How The Hell Are Ya?

 

UPDATE: How The Hell Are Ya?

I willllllllll livvvvvvvvve! 

    So, don't be making any plans. I didn't think that I wouldn't honestly. But it has not been a good time. We live a couple of blocks from Dr. Shah, our CDC director. I see him driving to work occasionally, his mom sitting on their porch, recognized him and his wife and dog when they went for walks. I took comfort in that. This is of course ridiculous. In the end, we are all vulnerable to COVID. Vaccines, boosters, masks, social distancing, and good general health will only get you so far.  This virus is not for wimps, nor this tale for the faint of heart. You've been advised. 

    David is doing great. He has taken his last dose of antiviral and is back to his usual activity. He does still test positive though. If you see him up in a tree or biking with the dog, he's sure to bellow at you "How the hell are ya" as is his trademark. But don't go near him yet. 

    I'm getting slowly better. It's been 13 days since my symptoms started. I still have a productive cough, a vague occasional headache, and fatigue. But the worst has been severe vertigo that started about 3-4 days in. I got worse fast. Friday, I was directed by a triage nurse to urgent care in Boothbay (an hour away) for monoclonal antibody therapy. 

    Barely up Route One, I started vomiting an eruption. My entire insides (ALL of the insides) became outsides faster than I could open the ubiquitous doggy poop bags. Vomit dripped from my glasses, my hands, my chin, the dashboard, and plastered the car seat. I floated like an untethered astronaut in an antigravity spaceship. I wanted David to pull over and stop the car so I could lie on the asphalt, not moving in the breakdown lane. I knew I could make him do it as a temporary fix. But I also knew eventually I'd have to get up. That would not happen; I'd die on Route one between closed antique shops in the no-man's-land between Dunkin' Donuts and Red's Eats. All of which seemed just fine, truthfully. Between rounds, I clutched the cup holder to keep from moving, though I wasn't moving. My head was a balloon drifting far from my body, lolling side to side. I think the car picked up speed. I don't know. The dog stopped whining in the back. I didn't know where I was. I felt David's hand tentatively on my back when I lurched forward to heave. And heave. And heave. 

The car slammed to a stop at Saint Andrews Urgent Care (The attachment of saints' names makes me nervous). "We're here, I'm going in," David jumped out leaving the door open. A wheelchair appeared. Shaking, I slipped to the seat clutching a doggy poop bag and my purse into which I had already vomited. We were whisked into a tiny negative pressure room with a huge roaring fan sucking away our diseased air.  I started crying when the plastic ID bracelet was put on because my arm dripped vomit. I apologized because that's what I do. "Don't worry about it, we've seen much worse," some admission clerk said. 

     A nurse standing over me told David, "She's got to go to the ER. She's too sick for us to treat. She needs more than we can give her here." I heard her as if far away. "We'll call an ambulance," she said. 

    "Can I drive her," David asked uncertainly.  I pondered if an ambulance would be better; I could lie down. Would that be better? I was too weak to voice my thoughts. She checked my vital signs and breathing assessing if I could make the trip. 

    "Where is it," David asked her. I heard the fear. 

    "Damariscotta," she said. "How do we get there," he asked. 

    "Do you know the area at all? Did you just move here?" She asked. I hoped David wouldn't try to explain. It was too much. "Do you have GPS in your car?"

    "Yes...but," was David's overwhelmed response. 

    "I'll write it down for you," she said. I wondered if he'd be able to read it. As she explained, I heard "thirty-five miles, " and "the River Road." I don't remember much of the ride except swooping corners and jarring potholes. I think I heard the car's hazard lights clicking time for what felt endless. 

    Somewhere along the way, David said, "ten minutes, it's ten minutes away." He started a countdown, "Five more minutes, we're almost there." "Two minutes..." "We're here." He left for a wheelchair. I thought about walking, but could not. In the lobby, a voice from behind a shielded desk yelled "Stop! Stay right where you are! Are you coming from Boothbay?" 

    I couldn't answer. David said "Yes, yes we are! We have COVID!" as if that declaration explained everything. A nurse appeared gesturing for us to come with her. David careened off several door frames over-correcting with each strike. The wheelchairs are all super-sized now. It used to be that only one in a fleet of chairs was allotted for the large. Now, they are all huge. Small in the chair, I was Alice in Wonderland on a mushroom trip, riding in a gigantic Adirondack chair for tourists, oddly on wheels, an out-of-body experience. Into another tiny room with a roaring fan. Onto a stretcher. 

    "You have to leave, Sir," David was informed. 

    "Where?" he sounded small, too. 

    "You have to leave the hospital. You can't be here. You have COVID." and with that, they ushered him to the door. I found out later that he had to go pee in the bushes because they wouldn't let him in to use the restroom. He sat in the car sick himself, for hours, with the dog. I cried. I cried because I was worried about him, being alone, and afraid for me. 

    IV hydration, IV push monoclonal antibodies, and antiemetics were administered. I was closely monitored for adverse reactions. "We haven't given much of this because it's so new. We just don't know yet how people will react to it. That's why we gave you all that information," explained the nurse. They had given to me five or six pages of small font text. After the first three lines, I lost it in the sheets somewhere, unable to continue. I would have consented to IV Draino. "You'll wake up feeling like a new woman tomorrow," I was assured. 

    But that was not to be so. I went home, still spinning hard but with an upgraded vomit container. I don't remember the ride until the dog announced we were pulling into the driveway. I took a brief shower and went to bed for three full days. I lived on Meclizine and broth. I lost 9 pounds. David calls it the COVID diet. It's effective, but I don't recommend it.  Five days since the ER, I'm getting better but it's slow. I still have the spins. I have started eating again. I got out of bed by 2pm today. I looked around in my gardens, afraid to bend down. But hey, I'm alive. People have said the gardens can wait. But, I know that time, tide, and weeds wait for no one. 

    My gratitude can't be adequately expressed for David's care and love. I forgave his bad driving. I'm grateful for the healthcare system we have, flaws and all, and that I have access to it. I'm grateful for my friends and neighbors who looked out for us, brought us food, went to the pharmacy, sent cards, flowers, and the best hot cross buns I've ever had (kicked my appetite back into gear), and so much more. Add that I'm alive to garden another day.