Trending
Editor's note: This is the second of two parts on a Warren woman's first-hand account in her battle with COVID-19. Part one was published Saturday.
It took two days for me to figure out the hot and cold. These rooms at Warren General Hospital weren't built for this crazy adaptive use. The second night it got down to 54 degrees and I was shaking. The kind therapist that came in found a heat switch, put it on low, and within about an hour my room went from Anchorage to Aruba.
That was great until it got so warm in Aruba I was hoping for an umbrella cocktail to cool off. Blankets came off and I polished off my ice water. So we reversed the procedure, but not before a repairman came and sealed the window and a lot of cracks with duct tape. This time the cooling off didn't go all the way to Anchorage, maybe just Ashtabula.
Changed linens are bagged up tightly and removed daily. No trays are allowed in the rooms. Food comes up in boxes, bags and to-go type packages with plastic. Hot food is only a memory, but then again, so is taste. . . COVID took both my taste buds and smeller. Maybe I'll taste chocolate by Valentine's Day.
Everything that enters the rooms is thrown away. It's like camping. . . carry in your supplies and carry out your trash. One nurse said as she zipped the wall open for probably the tenth time (in just my room), "I don't think I'm ever going to camp again. Tent flaps will remind me of this for the rest of my life." We laughed - 'cuz what else can you do?
I started to get better and hoped to leave day three, but the lungs weren't clearing out quickly. At least my fear of being at death's door was calming and the docs were talking about sending me home. On Day four, blood work indicated some potential for a clot so I remained into day five. The most important development for me was that I was up and functioning, not the near-cadaver who had initially dragged into the ER.
They worked round the clock to get me better - they removed my second IV line on day three. There were the usual rounds of blood work and poking, but the medical protocol took root. I have what nurses lovingly refer to as "alligator skin;" it's hard to push the needle through and as it finally punches in, it blows the vein it's aimed at. It frustrates nurses who hate to hurt a "bad stick" like me. I met nursing supervisors, managers and instructors who took over, but they were also suited up and staying over.
Every nurse that wasn't working a 12-hour shift was working longer. People were staying because they were needed. A surgical nurse finished his shift in the O.R. and came down for four hours every afternoon. I've never seen such teamwork. I was stunned at everyone's can-do attitude, and I never heard one complaint - from anyone. They wish they had more help, but it's simply not available. Anywhere. So they all just worked harder.
I felt privileged to hear some laughter in the halls. It meant to me that they're coping and somehow surviving this grueling year. They have been forbidden to vacation. Leaving would mean a two-week quarantine upon return.
Now that I'm home, I'm overwhelmed by my good fortune. As I was leaving, the discharge nurse made me promise to follow my instructions so I don't wind up back in the "campsite."
"You must be diligent and vigilant with your instructions and prescriptions." Not a problem - once was enough. In five days their dedicated medicine and personal magic had converted me back to the hopeful senior who had life yet to live. I was glad to find her again. I was grateful that my children don't have to sit vigil hundreds of miles away . . . wondering. No, I didn't want to return.
I don't think I've ever appreciated our small town as much as now. Compared to what we're seeing on the news each evening, we live in a cocoon of hunkered-down, caring professionals. And I'm finding it's my neighbors and friends who have volunteered to feed us, shop for us, and check on us while we're on lockdown quarantine. Dear Richard, my devoted caregiver, has finally tested positive, but is fortunately asymptomatic
Warren General, like every hospital in the country, was ill-prepared to roll with this kind of punch. But roll they did, and they are caring for as many of us as they can cram in and bed down. We keep hearing that we're all in this together, but boy, I have witnessed togetherness for the common good that exceeds anything I'd ever contemplated and I'm so proud of my adopted home town. 42 years after coming here, I think I'm alive today because I did. Going forward from here, life, the one I wasn't sure last week that I was hanging onto, is more beautiful.
Stay safe, everyone -- we do indeed need each other. And although it's different, please have a joyful Christmas season. It's now the first Christmas of the REST of our lives.
Marcy O'Brien, a member of the National Society of Newspaper Columnists, resides in Glade Township with Dear Richard and Finian, their Maine Coon Cat. She can be reached at moby.32@hotmail.com