I have no symptoms other than a bit of a sore throat and a fever, but I take a rapid covid test. It shows a faint line. If you are on chemotherapy and have a fever, you are instructed to go to the emergency room because your immune system is weakened and can't fight infection. I "only" had to wait for just over an hour (compared to 12hr+ waiting times. I am admitted to my own room and a blood sample and covid swab (for a PCR test) are taken. Then I am started on anti-biotics to eliminate a bacterial infection, if there was one.
The emergency room is a contrast from the CCI. At the CCI, there are fewer patients per nurse. When the infusion pumps beep, they are quick to be attended to, whether there is air in the line or if the fluid is finished. In the emergency room, the staff have to manage many more patients. Pumps are constantly beeping and I can hear screaming down the hall, but the nurses are already busy attending to other patients!
I spend the entire day in a room in the emergency department and it becomes clear that this might be a multi-day thing. I call to let work know that I won't be in tomorrow either. I call the CCI to let them know that I'll be missing my final chemotherapy treatment, bleomycin. I get my dad to drop off some clothes, snacks, and a book. I meet with an infectious disease doctor who is actually very interested in something that showed up on one of my heart valves during a CT scan in January. Eventually around midnight, the results of the PCR test have come in and confirmed that I am positive with Covid.
At the time I was vaccinated 3 times (and have since been vaccinated 2 more times). It was my first time having Covid, I did not know how my body would react with a depleted immune system. Blood tests prior to beginning my final cycle of chemotherapy had shown that my white blood cells were below the normal range.
I was wheeled (along with my pump, still pumping antibiotics) to the ward for Covid positive patients. It was dark, it was late at night. Over the door read a sign that said "Intensive Care Unit". I was wheeled past rooms enclosed in glass to my curtained partition room at the very end of the hall. The head of the bed looked a little more complex with switches, control panels and places to connect cables and hoses. Nothing was plugged into any of these sockets but I was freaked out. Why was I here?
As I lied awake, I felt my chest tighten, as if something was clamping down on my entire rib cage. I was sure that I was not going to die in the hospital with help not far away, but I was wondering if this was Covid's way of taking over my body. I thought of losing all endurance abilities, never being able to even manage skinning up for one lap.
It was here that I thought about all of the wonderful moments in mountains I have experienced in my life and how the recollections of all the views, skiing powder, and topping out climbs dominated my memories.
A lot of stuff you do in life is maintenance stuff so that you can spend time doing what you love. A life consisting purely of those activities that you love would be considered "hedonistic", so society has a way of pressuring people to conform to some standard that only breeds mediocracy and stress. Cancer doesn't care if I make my bed everyday, pick up clothes off the floor, or clean the baseboards in my house. It doesn't care if I live my life modelled off of a 90's sitcom and go out to restaurants 5 days a week. It doesn't care if I follow the unwritten rules. All I wanted to do was to ski again. I wanted to strip the maintenance stuff down to the bare bones. I clean the previous day's dishes so that I can bake and make food for the next day so that I can be fueled for my bike or ski.
Fortunately the tightening disappeared, but the first night was sleepless. And it turns out, it was a former ICU that was being repurposed as a covid ward.
They didn't want us sharing bathrooms because we were covid positive, but being pumped full of liquids, the jug with the desiccant bag that I was provided was soon insufficient so I staked my claim for the washroom. The women in the partition next to me had a habit of walking around naked, so I made sure to keep my curtain closed.
Although I was in better spirits after eating and napping, I still felt vulnerable. I didn't leave the house for almost a week and yet I still got sick. How long will it take my immune system to recover from chemotherapy? When I am finally discharged, will I end up back here? Binge watching Tallboyz on CBC kept me going. I did a deep dive on Instagram and found some pictures of someone (I can't remember) having fun ski touring and that reminded me of how good the days can be. My hospital stay reminded me just how vulnerable I am, and how important it was to make the most out of those moments where you do feel strong.
I was to be there for 5 days until the run of antibiotics finished. 5 days of dragging around a beeping pump and no fresh air. 5 days in the hospital because people didn't want to wear a mask in the grocery store. I had to ask to get the covid anti-viral treatments which were approved for immunocompromised people. And finally, I received an injection which magically started to increase my white blood cells back to normal levels. My parents visited me each day, they had to wear disposable robes, masks and face shields, just like the nurses in the covid ward.
In addition to my last chemotherapy treatment, it looked like I was going to miss a CT scan scheduled in a week at CCI while isolating and I was able to reschedule that to happen during my hospital stay.
Finally, after 5 days, it was time to get released from the hospital. I was to isolate in my parent's master bedroom. Fresh air was brief but fantastic. It only consisted of a short walk to the car and sticking my head out of the window on the ride. For those that have been following along on Instagram, it is here that I opened up my childhood Lego bin and began building.
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