On a Friday afternoon in September, I started coughing. I thought it was no big deal. Often, when I eat something that contains an allergen, I cough. But on the next day, Saturday, I was still coughing. Now that was definitely strange—it was no allergy, maybe a virus? My daughter, Laura, who lives in Florida, was visiting and planned to go home on Sunday for Yom Kippur; she canceled her flight. I am so lucky that I have such support! But Sunday morning, my cough had gotten worse. I started to have trouble breathing. I could breathe in OK but was having trouble exhaling —my breath got stuck. I emailed my friend Jay to cancel my planned ascent to the Torah for the Kohen aliyah on Yom Kippur the next day. I definitely would not be able to make it, since I was then coughing my head off. This virus could be COVID, I thought. I still had a test kit that the government had sent me a while back. I read and followed the instructions. Hurrah! Only one line showed, which means negative. Thank goodness it was not COVID. It is probably bronchitis or some other virus, I thought. But my coughing got even worse, and I could not breathe properly; my daughter called 911. Five medical technicians showed up in the apartment, and we discussed options. My vitals seemed to be OK. So, we settled on my daughter taking me to the HealthPlex on nearby Lorton Road, and they carried me on a stretcher to my car.
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We take off in the dark. Route 1 to Lorton Road is a right turn—I know where the HealthPlex is located, right after the I-95 overpass, and I tell my daughter to turn left at the next light. Oh no, that’s wrong; it is left at the second light. I become agitated with myself, but she calmly makes the adjustment. In-processing at the Plex, the ID; I give her my military ID card. No, she wants my driver’s license. But the military ID card helps with my supplemental TRICARE-for-Life insurance! “No, the driver’s license.” My agitation is growing, as I just don’t feel good. I start looking for my Medicare card, which I know they will need. It is stuck in my wallet. I finally get it about one-third out, when the lady says that nothing else was needed, she has found me on the computer. At least some good news, I think.
Blood work and X-rays—that’s what they do in the HealthPlex. An IV is inserted in my right arm, which I recognize as standard procedure. Now they want another IV in my left arm—but why? That procedure is not comfortable; are they really going to use both of these? The nurse seems to miss the mark and starts stabbing me a second time, more agitation, but I keep my mouth shut. The bandage placed on the missed vein becomes bloody; apparently, she had not missed but was just impatient. I lie there just waiting for lab results. Finally, a person—a doctor, a nurse—who knows? Well, the news is not good, it is COVID! Did the old test not pick up the new COVID, or did I test too early, or was it a faulty test? I am sure they are correct here with the diagnosis, as my symptoms correlate with that virus. My freedom is lost. I am going to be admitted to the Mount Vernon Hospital.
One thing is certain when you are in the hands of the medical facilities, you’ll never get any sleep. Not that I could sleep in my state of distress, even though I am pretty exhausted. I wait a couple of hours, and finally the ambulance arrives. I am able to hop on the stretcher, and we start on an extremely bumpy ride. The ambulance is certainly not built for comfort—what happens to people with broken bones? And why are they not built for comfort? Private vehicles don’t bump around like that, and here, where people are hurting, they get tossed around? Some ride! Finally, we reach the hospital, and I am placed directly in a private room in their PCU. What’s a PCU? No idea, I thought it was named the ER, Emergency Room. At least no administrative hassles happen here, but I can’t sleep. I am still agitated that my home test did not work, and I lost a day of treatment, and also the stupid ambulance ride. I look around, and I can find no water, so I press the call button and ask for water. One hour later, and still no water has arrived. Then a low-level alarm starts to sound; it’s obviously from my equipment. I press the call button again and report my alarm, reminding the staff about the water. Fifteen minutes later, and still no assistance. Now I have lost my temper. “I thought that Mount Vernon Hospital prides itself in the way they treat their patients. It says here in large print: ‘Every Time, Every Touch, Excellent Care!’ I don’t see any evidence of that at all!” Wow, am I mad, and I feel like hell!
Within five minutes, a nurse assistant appears. His English has a heavy African-French accent, but I can understand him, even with my hearing problem. He obviously has been briefed about my unhappiness and is trying to be nice to me. He gives me water and adjusts the alarm. He tells me that his name is Abu, but then you also have to add the letter “K” for his last name, since there were two people with that name in the hospital. He says he is from Sierra Leone, a very poor country, and he fled to the United States so that he could survive. I tell him a little about my background and my similar attempt at survival. He tells me that he loves the United States. Yes, he is saying all the right things, and I am grateful he did not go into phony apologies, trying to excuse the flawed admittance. He certainly calms me down. Now he is ready to leave. He stands in front of my bed and looks me over. Obviously not satisfied, he approaches me and tucks the pillow into a better position behind my head and pats my brow. He then waves goodbye and leaves.
I am utterly surprised. Suddenly, my eyes tear up. It is the first time that anybody has tucked me in since my mother did that for me when I was a young child in Germany. The only difference, she kissed my brow, and he patted it. My entire attitude suddenly starts to change. I calm down and start to think about what has happened and why I had been so agitated. Sure, I did not feel well, but that was no excuse for all that negativity. There had been nothing that happened to me that was so terrible. Everything had a reasonable explanation. Lying there in the hospital with nothing to do but breathe and cough, I had plenty of time to think. And I thought all of this:
Home tests were known to sometimes have false negatives, and I might have tested too early. That’s why it is always stressed to retest.
Yom Kippur in the hospital was certainly a new experience, but you can’t time when you are going to be sick.
In-processing with the driver’s license is their protocol, and it is used to see if you are in the computer, which then eliminates so many more steps. Don’t fight the problem, as they really did that well.
The two IVs were necessary—one for hydration and the other one ready for the infusion of medication.
Everyone makes mistakes, even the best lab technician can sometimes fail to hit the vein correctly—give her a break!
The ambulance’s badly designed undercarriage was a flaw caused way back; that design should never have been accepted. But now, those vehicles are still serviceable, and you can’t just throw them away. When their useful life expires, we have to insist that the next generation is built for comfort, in addition to all the other requirements. But that is not a current concern.
Sure, I could have been treated better upon reaching the PCU (Patient Care Unit?). But they were a busy bunch at the time, with a lot of admittances, and everyone needed something. Nothing I needed was that urgent. Had there been urgency, I trust that I would have received a better response.
Even the alarm was not critical, just a nuisance to hear. The monitoring is at the desk, and they know when it is necessary to come in with a new bottle.
There was another reason why responses were not immediate. Every time anyone enters a COVID patient’s room, they must suit up with a plastic garment, and when leaving, discard that garment. It makes perfect sense to try to consolidate trips into a COVID PCU.
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It takes quite a number of days to recover from COVID. Today is a Wednesday in October, and I am finally feeling better. I am back home. I can breathe pretty normally, and the coughing has stopped. I am no longer infectious, and I got to get back to where I started. Tomorrow, I’ll try some of my stretching exercises again and perhaps a short walk. My attitude is much improved, and we can probably thank Abu for that!
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