I’ve spent the past twelve months determined not to get sick and thus become another burden on the pandemically overburdened medical establishment. That is, until last Tuesday afternoon when I took a crap and was alarmed to see a toilet bowl filled with blood. Not something I’d ever seen before; however, after giving it some thought, I surmised that it probably wasn’t really blood, but rather the aftermath of some blueberries I’d consumed at breakfast. Subsequent bloody bowl movements, alas, put that theory to rest. I hadn’t eaten an entire bushel of blueberries!
What to do? I decided to put in a call to my family physician, a man I’ve yet to meet in person since the family clinic where he works has long been closed to in-person consultations. However, after explaining that I was bleeding to death, an appointment was made for Friday. So I continued to hemorrhage all day Wednesday—until finally, late in the evening, I decided to drive myself to the hospital, where a series of tents have been erected in front of the emergency entrance. There, my temperature was taken and questions asked before I could proceed to the admittance desk. I was pleasantly surprised to find the waiting room empty, perhaps because patients aren’t currently permitted to bring along loved ones. Or, perhaps the sad truth is that nowadays hospitalized people have no loved ones?
No matter. I was greeted and treated well—almost as if the doctors and nurses and various technicians were excited to see a patient not suffering from COVID-19. Blood was drawn, vital signs taken, an IV drip started. Next, came the obligatory nasal swab, followed by an anal probe. Then it was off for a CT scan, which indicated that I was bleeding from a ruptured polyp in my upper colon.
From the ER I was shuttled upstairs to the sixth floor, which during the pandemic has served as an overflow ward for Covid patients. I was later to learn that just about everyone working there had contracted the virus, and even though infection rates have been dropping, everyone is still being super cautious. A masked orderly appeared regularly to scrub down the walls of my room and sanitize all surfaces; upon exiting, laetrile gloves and surgical smocks were discarded into an overflowing bio waste bin.
Meantime, the hospital’s GI unit was contemplating a course of action, which I assumed could entail a colonoscopy—although I’d been informed that my esophagus might be also in play. In other words, no orifice is safe from foreign invasion—much as Donald Trump has suggested.
In the morning, the team informed me that the safest course was to just wait and see if the situation will heal itself, and I readily agreed. So, throughout the day and following night I languished in an ill-fitting backless gown and baggy pants, gazing out a window that commanded a view of a busy heliport, beyond which rose a spindly tower crane. University Hospital is in a more or less constant state of expansion in order to meet the needs of ailing humans not just here in Salt Lake City but also from all over the Mountain West. Most go home cured, but others do not. My thoughts and prayers are with those who don’t make it, but mostly all I ever think about whenever I’m stuck in the hospital is getting myself out. And now I have gotten my wish—just in time to enjoy a sunny Easter weekend with my wife and cat. Am I still bleeding? Yes, I am. In fact, I’m in exactly the same condition as I was before going into the hospital, except that now my forearms are pocked with puncture wounds and I’m wearing a bar-coded identification wristband, which I’m hoping will expedite the re-admission process when the paramedics come to pick me up.