BY KIMBERLY DOWSON
It begins at the grocery store.
I don’t usually go to the grocery store just after the new year, but we needed things. I tell my mother and daughter to go on ahead, that I’d stop and get the cart. Walking over, I notice the woman beside me wearing a mask. An unusual sight I thought, but I was impressed at her efforts to take care during flu season. As she gets closer, I see a wad of tissue clenched in her fist. She looks grey, sweaty, like she belongs at home.
She’s right beside me as I reach for the cart handle. She starts coughing, hard, and removes her mask to catch her breath. I freeze in horror as droplets land on the sleeve of my newly laundered, black fleece jacket and the back of my bare hand. I’m right there. “What the hell?!” I say to her. I’ve had my flu shot so I should be okay. I hope. I’m going to get sick I know it.
It’s just a bad cold. I knew that woman would make me sick. I haven’t felt this bad ever but it’s mom’s birthday today, we have dinner reservations. I just have to get through dinner, then I can go home and rest. I feel really sick. In fact, I shouldn’t be here at all. I can’t eat; I can’t taste or smell anything and I’m too nauseated to look at anything. I can’t let anyone near my tissue pile, oh God I have to sneeze again.
I have a fever. I’m in intense pain with a splitting headache that feels like someone is ripping my brain out piece by piece. Something must be wrong. The room spins when I try to sit up and I can’t keep my eyes open. I’m weak and drowning in my own fluids with a debilitating nausea that won’t let me keep anything in. Choking on the thick river that flows non-stop from my chest and my throat. I’m certain I’m dying. It’s been two weeks and I’m just getting worse. Sweat is oozing from every pore but I’m too weak to shower, I’m so cold. I look at myself in the mirror because I’m struggling to breathe and I want to see my lips. I’m grey, like the walking dead kind of grey. My lips, greyish blue and I knew it was time. Call 911. That damn woman.
I’ve been here for hours, masked and waiting; attached to an IV and an oxygen tank. At least I’m amused by the characters one might expect to see in a city emergency room. I’m all alone and so tired. Across from me two rough looking men make themselves comfortable. I feel the need to make small talk with them, as if that would ensure my safety. Where’s the nurse? Is anyone else coming in? I’m so tired.
The one on the right keeps hiding his face and shifting in his chair. Checking his backpack for things but never takes anything out. I’m feet away from the main area. What if one of them gets too close? I’ve seen those crime shows. I can’t scream, I’m too weak to run. Oh good, there’s someone coming. It’s the doctor, he’s telling them they can go home. Ok good, I can relax again. Damn this cough.
Next an elderly couple walk in and seat themselves next to me. The husband appears agitated as his wife patiently struggles to keep him calm. I notice his skin, it’s red. Is that a sunburn? In January? Odd. She leaves me alone with him. He then gets up, starts mumbling, then pacing and is unnervingly irritated. Very weak and still attached to things, I tried to plan my next move in case I have to act fast. He’s too hot he says, oh shit, the pants are coming off. I press the call button, help!
It’s time to put an IV in him. His blood pressure is too high and he’s running a fever. His wife and the nurse struggle but it’s in and he sits down, calm again. The nurse leaves and a minute later, the wife. He’s up again. Mumbling he starts again, taking the pants off. The IV gets caught. Frustrated he rips it out of his arm and blood flies, splattering the wall. I’m scared, pressing the call button as if holding it would make them come faster. Blood everywhere. It looked like a small animal had been sacrificed. I want to go home.
What a nice room I’m in. I’m quarantined but at least the glass doors don’t make me feel alone. I wonder why they’re coming in the side, putting all that stuff on before they come in and taking it off before they leave? I must really be sick. Maybe this is a new hospital policy? Oh, I’m being moved to the fifth floor. Ok. Guess I’m here for a while. At least the rooms are nice, can’t I just stay here? I really need that oxygen; can you turn it up please?
Wow, this room is um, not what I expected. Or, you’re putting me close to the nurse’s desk, ok. I’m not allowed to leave my room? I’m too weak to walk anyway. The nurse points to the sign on my door. No one is allowed in our out unless they have masks, gloves and gowns on. I thought I just had pneumonia? They don’t say anything. I’m too tired to care. The bare, off-white shelves in the corner have a few towels for sink bathing, a hospital robe, adult diapers and a few hospital gowns. I have my own bathroom, woo hoo! No TV but I managed to borrow a charging cable so I can watch on my phone. My daughter is with my mother, she’s really sick too. We’ve never been separated like this. I’m so worried about her but I have to keep her calm. I have to stay calm. That’s the only way to get better.
It’s midnight and I can’t sleep. There’s a Russian woman at the end of the hall who won’t stop screaming. It’s as if she’s being attacked, it’s scary. I call the nurse; she explains to me I’m on the floor with dementia patients. That a few of them were sick like me and the fevers make things worse for them. I feel bad for the woman. I decide to call her Screaming Mimi, just to somehow tolerate it. I don’t want to be angry with her, she couldn’t help it.
Three nights of Screaming Mimi like clockwork, all night long. And during the day I have construction on the other side of my wall. Sleep? Yeah, not happening. The nurse comes in to check my blood pressure, she leaves the door open. I hear a stretcher coming down the hall. Why does it look like that? Why does it have a black cover over it? Oh. I can’t ask her to confirm what I just saw, but I never heard Screaming Mimi ever again.
Bob enjoys standing outside of my room, next to the nurse’s station, screaming obscenities at the top of his lungs. He’s taken over for Screaming Mimi. His favourite thing to yell out is that he shit his pants. I feel for him, but he annoys the hell out of me. My coughing keeps me awake, the construction keeps me awake, Mimi was keeping me awake and just as I thought maybe I could get some sleep here’s Bob! They’re really good with him though. Poor Bob.
I spend my days fighting with my body to heal, begging God to make me well again. I cry a little. I’m worried about my daughter, she’s as sick as I am. I worry she might end up here with the rest of us. I need to keep her calm; I need to keep her strong. We’ll get through this; I know we will. I assure her as any good mother would. I miss her so much. We’ve never been apart this long and I know she needs me right now. The doctor comes in, I’m still so unwell but I hope to go home. Not yet.
I spent a week in the hospital before going home to my daughter. It would be still several weeks more before our symptoms finally eased for good. Kleenex made a lot of money off of us those first couple of months of 2020. I think of the grocery store often, of the woman in the mask. That’s where it all started, the viral menace with her wad of tissue. I don’t shop there anymore.
