Her eyes tell me everything, and she knows it.
“I think you’re sick. I don’t think this is just pain from your dystonia.”
It’s 2:30 AM, and I’ve had to call my wonderful roommate, Claudia, to bring me some Advil. That’s the agreement with my roommate. In exchange for discounted rent, she agrees to be home by midnight and help in these scenarios.
I type, “I’ll go in tomorrow,” on my no-tech, laminated alphabet board, which is literally cardboard and paper laminated together.
“That’s probably a good idea,” Claudia agrees.
My chest feels like a hammer is hitting it—a dull, constant ache. I’m heading for urgent care first thing in the morning.
Kate, my caregiver for the day, gets me dressed, and we’re off. I’m fortunate enough to live five minutes away from a clinic, which I don’t take for granted. It’s 10 degrees, so I am bundled up and despising the arctic temperatures. Kate hits the button for the ramp to open, and I scurry out anxiously to get inside.
“Open wide,” the nurse instructs.
Kate, my caregiver, is with me in the exam room. “Do you want me to leave?”
“No. I need you,” I reply. My need for independence shrinks when I’m sick. I feel terrible, and I don’t care if the doctor knows how accomplished I am.
Standing behind my wheelchair, Kate gently holds my head so the nurse can do the strep test. I gag slightly but stay composed.
“Do you want a COVID test?”
“Want” isn’t exactly the word I’d use.
“Yes, let’s get it over with,” I say.
I’m a little less stoic during that test. A stick up my nostrils, combined with the dystonia, is horrible.
Fifteen minutes later, the results come back: NEGATIVE. A wave of relief washes over me. I won’t have to quarantine! Hallelujah!
The doctor checks my throat.
“It looks red and very swollen.”
I nod, as if to say, Sounds about right.
“I’m going to put you on antibiotics and a steroid. The steroid will help with the pain—it’s worse than I’d like to see.”
I agree with her. “Thank you for everything.”
All the doctors and nurses here at the urgent care clinic are professional and kind. I’ve never felt patronized here, which shouldn't even be a concern, but in the past, doctors have assumed I have the cognitive ability of a child.
Kate drives me to the pharmacy. We get much-needed medication. I will struggle to wipe my nose independently, but I can—and I have to. I would say wiping my nose is the hardest part of being sick, but I find a way.
I watched a lot of Gilmore Girls during my recovery. When a caregiver was there, I was able to lie down. Otherwise, I was in my wheelchair.
Readers, I am finally feeling better! Everyone has gotten sick this year, and I’ve felt bad for you. I was getting cocky, thinking I wouldn’t. Joke’s on me.
I hope you’re healthy and happy. I am ready for spring. How about you?
