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Unwelcome. Alienated. Isolated.
Infected. Unrelenting. Dying.
Exposed. Fighting. Surviving…
These are the kinds of words that flew through my mind, smashing into rational ideas and breaking down any immediate hope of a calm thought pattern. The corridor, from the waiting room to the new and improved Corona ward elongated and stretched out like a rubber band reaching its limits. Through my blurry vision, it was difficult to discern whether the door was getting closer, or if my head was about to introduce itself to the floor. I heard a gentle voice to my side asking whether I was okay, but felt no calming sense of touch to accompany it.
To my right was the accompanying nurse, hidden behind a complete set of personal protective gear, masking her humanity from me. Was I? Not human? Why was this happening to me? A muffled voice with a strong accent kept the experience from being real as the navy blue colour was all that I could see, mixed in with a splash of white where the mouth guard consumed her face. Gloves, overalls, hair net, slippers and you name it. Blurred, and oh my did I need to breathe.
My feet dragged across the floor as each step seemed to be more tedious than the last. My baggy grey hoodie shielded my pale, anaemic, and hairless body from any fleeting eyes, with my hood over my head to give the same treatment to my bald skull. Yet, with my hands in my pockets, I felt a keen sense of power emanating from… somewhere. Deep blue and worn-to-shit sweatpants were low-hanging as I couldn’t muster the energy to draw the strings taut.
Security guards closed off the other entrances to the corridor to protect the rest of the public from me; the air I breathed and the aura I carried was to be mine alone. In my peripheries, I saw people gasping and being ushered away from this direction. How many guards were there? I passed one by and saw no expression of hope on his face, rather just a plate full of seriousness and determination, similar to that of a soldier following orders.
I suppose nobody really knew what to do with me during these weeks. A deadly cancer ate away at my organs, obliterating my immune system and leaving me exposed, vulnerable, and unable to fight for myself; being further diagnosed with the first wave of Corona well before a vaccine was close to fruition, well, I suppose they had their reasons for keeping me isolated.
But was it for my safety, or theirs?
With the drugs of the week before still fucking with my head, I struggled to arrive at a certain conclusion to this question. And so, as the mind does, it latched onto the nearest possible scenario. In my case, a morbidly fun one; a sinister chuckle meant that I pictured myself as a supervillain, mimicking a sickly-looking Lex Luther, strutting through the hallways towards his prison, after accomplishing something truly nefarious. A smug attitude rests evenly on his shit-eating grin and his stride, done at a pace that screams, “I own this place.”
There’s nobody here but me. No family member for me to rely on, nor friend to raise my spirits. Isolated in this long walk left me feeling like a prisoner being led to his fate. An insane mind spun recently-heard metal lyrics, incomplete thought patterns, and broken loops where the chemo side effects reared its ugly face.
And yet, despite all that, I felt strong. Strong enough to put one foot in front of the other and drive towards what lay at the end of the line. With each taxing step, the yellow door crept ever closer. The deafening hum of anxiety began to drown out the nurse’s voice until all I heard was noise — a rowdy kind of company to give me some level of comfort that I so desperately craved.
The nurse stepped ahead to pry open the door, revealing the long-awaited horror.
I should probably back up a little bit and explain why I was in this ward, and more so, under the protection of security staff and nurses. A week or so prior I had experienced a different collection of pain symptoms, ones that bewildered both the oncologist and pulmonologist assigned to me. You see, I had the first wave of Corona running through my system like a bull in a China shop, and with tests so rare to come by, it wasn’t the first thing that the doctors even considered.
I couldn’t talk, couldn’t walk and each breath was as strenuous as draining water from a dry brick wall. Nobody had a clue what was going on and it was only after I failed two lung tests back to back, did they do another X-ray, revealing that my right lung was half the size of my left.
Essentially, I was suffocating in fluid. They estimated about a litre, maybe more, but again the cause was unknown. Was it the cancer? Was it Corona? I didn’t get a straight answer, other than… “You need a thoracentesis”.
The door creaked open, and to my surprise, unveiled an empty room with a singular hospital bed. It was made, a pillow at the headboard and duvet tightly wrapped around the mattress — you know, like people hate — and there was nobody else around. I had the pleasure of sitting quietly, alone with my thoughts before the doctor and his assistant entered.
I was shocked, to tell you the truth and I think he was too — I recall being told that I was the first patient in their new ward. His tall and lean body was cloaked by his white and iron-pressed uniform, with a sterile mask covering his nose and mouth. He had a pair of transparent lab-googles over his eyes, tight blue gloves on his hands, and if that wasn’t enough, a splatter shield that spread over the entirety of his face. Not quite the most friendly-looking approach, thank god he had a kind voice, else I might have shat myself.
His assistant was dressed similarly, though without the face shield, and I recall distinct curly blond hair as her only defining feature. The lady that had accompanied me down the hall had since returned to her station.
I was instructed to sit on the edge of the bed, with my shirt off, and hunch over a pillow, exposing all of my back to the middle of the room. He informed me about what was about to happen, as the nurse handed him one piece of apparatus at a time. Starting from the collection bucket and small anaesthetic needle, before graduating to the long big needle-like pipe thing that he was going to drive into my lung.
Having had to address my fear of needles over the last couple of months, as the number of blood tests shot past the 50 mark, I would usually shy my eyes away and just deal with it. What possessed me to look, this time around, well, it was certainly a bigger contraption than anything haematology used.
He jabbed me with the anaesthetic and prepared for entry. The drainage needle was positioned to slot in between my ribs and puncture the sack that surrounds my lungs. If I understood correctly, he was going to drain as much of the red murky nightmare fuel as he could, but tactically, not all of it, to ensure that my lung didn’t collapse in the process.
Are you kidding me?
You’re planning to leave some of this stuff in me?
I recall the sensation like it was yesterday. A ribbing feeling, the physical stop-start sensation that one might experience with wet hands over a dry balloon, and that awful sound. Was he nervous? Why wasn’t it a clean-in? As he drove it deeper, I came to realise that my highly sensitive nervous system had overrun the anaesthetic and I was experiencing the sensation in full.
Ordered not to move by the drill sergeant to my six, I chanted the metal chorus over and again. I found that the melody and energy throughout the track brought me a slice of peace in an otherwise overly painful moment. The murky fuel left my lung and filled a container than lay on the bed behind me and after a few minutes of controlled breathing and frantically trying to calm myself down, did he remove the needle and instruct me to relax.
My recollection of the events that transpired after this procedure are a complete blur, but it definitely did have a car home with my Dad, a home-cooked meal, and a handful of paracetamol.
Many, if not all of my hospital experiences took place behind yellow doors, challenging me with more horrifying outcomes. But what that said, without each of these experiences and treatments, I wouldn’t be here today. If you’ve made it this far, thanks for reading!
Music and SFX credits available in the footnote1
If you’d like to show your support, I won’t turn down a (virtual) coffee!
See you in the next one.
~M.
Tense sad piano by Ashot Danielyan Composer; Dark matter metal by Alex Grohl; Balloon Scratching Sounds by Owi; Mister Sinister; Squeaky Door Opening by Solarmusic, all on Pixabay.
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