"Do you have the time / To listen to me whine / About nothing and everything all at once?" --Green Day, "Basket Case"
It has been a while since I last updated everyone on what's going on in the Dowdle household. There is a pretty big reason for that: One week ago, I came down with COVID-19. Since then, not only have I had little energy or desire to write, but we've been dealing with the fallout of that reality as best we can. Additionally, I've been putting off writing this update as it's supposed to be about my wife's battle with breast cancer, not my journey into being another statistic of a failed pandemic response. However, as there are a couple of new particles of information with regard to Gayle's treatment, I decided that now, while I have the stamina to do so, I will go ahead and make another entry. We had originally scheduled Gayle's lumpectomy on 13 Nov, then pushed it back for a week when we realized the genetics test wasn't going to be coming back in time. (We are still awaiting the results on that test, by the way, which means we made the right choice--for a couple of reasons--in postponing the surgery.) We have now rescheduled the surgery for 4 December, since we're dealing with my new problem. And my problem is just one on top of a whole cavalcade of rough news for my extended family: I mentioned in the last update that we were awaiting a biopsy for my niece's thyroid. The test came pack as positive for cancer, meaning that my sister-in-law, Gayle, and my niece (who is only twelve) are all battling cancer. My sister-in-law's surgery happened on Election Day, and the doctors don't see any other cancerous cells. They're confident that they got it all, so we celebrate that good news. Gayle's MRI that was done last week also looked good, with no additional tumors visible in her right breast. My niece's prognosis is still formative, but she definitely is going to need surgery. [From here on I'll be talking about what's been going on with me, so if you'd like to stop here, I understand.] So when I started to feel gross back on the 8th, I tried to convince myself that the sore throat and crummy feeling was my biannual response to the change in weather. It was snowing, after all, and had been all day. After such a mild autumn, it was to be expected that this new change in weather might do as it has always done to me: Make me feel lousy. Not only did I not want to think that I had COVID, but I was also one of the most diligently cautious people I knew. I kept my distance from everyone at school, not even rotating to different classes during the break (I walked in tardy to every 5th and 7th period). I always wore my mask, kept close to my whiteboard, showered and changed my clothes immediately upon arriving home; we avoiding going to stores, dining out, or being anywhere with lots of people. We listened to the livestream of Gayle's grandfather's funeral rather than attending in person; we stood far removed from the rest of family when we arrived at the graveside service. In short, we did everything that we could to keep this very thing from happening. That and my own naivete about what was happening to my body made me think that maybe it really was just a sore throat due to the weather. Alas, it was not to be: This past Monday I awoke feeling worse with a slight fever. I texted my administration and put some of our contingency plans into motion so that I could teach remotely. I managed to get through my morning section of classes by having the students work with me through a Google Meet. I didn't have the strength to do the same for the afternoon class, but my coworker who teaches the same curriculum was able to absorb my students into her class (as safely as can be done, I should add) and give them a similar lesson. Tuesday saw me feeling sick, still, but able to teach my morning class. I had my COVID test scheduled for one o'clock, which I thought would give me enough time to get home for my afternoon classes (which begin at 1:45). Unfortunately, Utah's testing capacities aren't necessarily in top-notch form right now; by the time 1:45 came around, I was still stuck in line. Fortunately, I had my phone with me, so I taught the lesson in the car, with the substitute helping out (he had seen my morning lesson and was able to replicate on the whiteboard what we had done earlier). It was…certainly something that happened. I tried to have a positive attitude about it, but it was one of the less thrilling lessons I've ever taught. I managed to get home in time to teach the second half of the lesson as I'd done before, which was nice because it made the lesson feel a bit more complete. The next day (Wednesday) saw me back in play for my whole school day. I had set up substitutes on Monday when it was clear that I wasn't going back to school this week, so I had a plan that was going forward well. I telecommuted to work, taught my classes, and felt pretty okay. I was still sick, but it wasn't that bad. Probably just the seasonal sickness. We'd isolated my middle son in his bedroom and sequestered our heart warrior son in the basement. Gayle and our youngest took up the middle floor. Our family was together but completely separated. It was precautionary, but both of the younger boys were feeling kind of sick, so…method to the madness, as 'twere. Anyway, after the school day was over, I was sitting in my bedroom, tapping away at my drum set, when Gayle poked her head in. "How are you doing?" she asked. "Not okay," I said. I started to cry. "I'm not okay at all. I don't know how to handle this. I'm so tired of all the news that we get is bad news, and the only good news is comparatively good." I could tell that all Gayle wanted to do was come in and give me a hug--but she couldn't. So far as we knew, she had yet to contract the virus. She needed to maintain space as much as possible. I sat in my bedroom, alone and comfortless. Later that night, we sat outside (still masked) to have a less-strained conversation. Gayle, in her typical, optimistic way, assured me that it would all turn out okay. My wife, who has breast cancer, was comforting me about it being all right in the end. She really is a remarkable woman. Thursday morning came and my doctor's office called me. That was when I knew that the test had come back positive. I highly doubted they would call me first thing in the morning if I were negative. Sure enough, that was the news. The nurse gave me a litany of things to do, almost all of which we were doing already, and then asked if I wanted to talk to my primary care physician. I said no, since I didn't even know how to process it all. I mean, I was assuming it was COVID and, at the same time, assuming it wasn't. I had done everything in my power--short of quitting my job--to keep my family safe. How could I be the one to bring death into my house? I did what most millennials do: I posted to Twitter and Facebook the three words no one wants to write: "I have covid." Sympathies and incredulity washed in, with lots of expressions of condolences and well-wishes. It was only when an internet-only friend--a fellow from New York whom I started following on Twitter for the simple reason that I liked his handle (it was an allusion to Coriolanus, which is unknown enough among non-Shakespeareans that I knew he was a fan of the Bard)--asked how I was doing that I lost it. By that I mean, I began to have a panic attack. My breathing became hitched and shallow, my sobs choked me, and I couldn't convince myself to stop. In that particular moment, I was fairly convinced that I had killed my son. Gayle came up to see what was wrong--what was specifically wrong, I should say--and saw me curled up on my bed, weeping my heart out. She tried to talk to me, but I wasn't hearing her very well. I felt a familiar, deeply-missed hand on my back, and rather than take comfort in it, I did something I've never done to Gayle in my life: I screamed at her. "Get away! You can't be in here! Get away!" I'm not proud of what I did. It isn't how I normally treat my wife. But at that time, I felt like I was a latent killer and I couldn't stand the thought of what I was doing--against my will--to my family. Gayle retreated, likely recognizing that her presence in my bedroom was making the situation worse. After a few minutes of breath-choking sobs, I finally regained enough composure to send a text to my administration, letting them know that I was positive and that I was in no mental shape to take over the classes that day. I had two or three more panic attacks throughout Thursday and Friday. Sometimes they would hit me out of nowhere and I would begin to cry. Once it happened when I was on the phone with my mom, who had to hear my heart breaking without being able to do anything more than listen. For the most part, I've tried to keep myself occupied--Netflix or Twitter or video games or books--but it's all been the kind of hollow distraction of deliberately fooling my mind into thinking about something else. Friday saw me in the worst shape thus far: Around midday, I got hit with a powerful bout of nausea. I don't think anyone likes throwing up, and I certainly hate it. I try really hard not to puke, even when my body is really convinced it needs to. I actually imagined a dialogue to my guts, telling them that I hadn't eaten anything, so the sickness wasn't in there. "Nothing to throw out, guys. Seriously, there's no need to puke!" My body didn't listen to me. I vomited painfully, off and on, for the next five or so minutes, with a thick ooze of sweat prickling my body. It drained me, though I admit to feeling a bit better when it was all done. By then, COVID had taken my sense of smell and taste, so at least I didn't have the nasty stink of vomit-breath to deal with. I bathed, then returned to bed. Thanks to my sister-in-law and mom, we got some prescription medicine for me to help beat back the nausea, as well as getting me some electrolyte-laced drinks to keep me from being dehydrated. The next day, we pulled out my son's pulse-oximeter, which we've had since he was born. It isn't always the most accurate machine, but we thought it would give us a sense of what my O2 saturations might be. I started checking myself regularly, only to see my sats dropping pretty regularly. At one point, it claimed 85, which is too low to be healthy. I called Telehealth and talked to a nurse, who was not happy to hear about the levels. She recommended that I go to the ER so that they could perform a chest x-ray and maybe get me some oxygen. By this time, Gayle was already at the hospital for testing of the two younger boys, so she had to drive them home, then head back to the hospital to drop me off. She made the round-trip drive to the hospital a total of four times in about forty-eight hours. She is absolutely the glue that's keeping the family together at this point. I walked into the ER alone--Gayle wasn't allowed to come with me--and I did what I've done for the past eight months: I scoped out who was where and how I could maintain distance from them. It was different this time: I wasn't worried about them infecting me; I knew that I could infect them. I got checked in and sat down as the shrill, miserable cry of a newborn baby emanated from a baby carrier in one pocket of the waiting room. Oh, how I remember the dread of being in an ER with my baby, anxious and fearful and beyond knowing what's next. I had only this small, comparative comfort: At least it was me in that room, instead of my own child. The nurses and doctor all treated me compassionately and (for a non-emergent ER) quickly, assuring me that my sats were actually fine (94 to 95) and the chest x-ray came back clear. I was grateful for that reassurance--though now I'm not so sure I can trust our own pulse-oximeter--and soon enough I was home. That brings us up to right now. Gayle's feeling worse--a coughing fit of hers awoke me in the middle of the night, and she is in a lot of pain from having to sleep on the couch for the past week. Our oldest has been transferred to his grandparents' basement in the hopes that will keep him further from harm (though the possibility we sent a vector of disease into their home hasn't left me; nevertheless, he's not feeling any symptoms at all, so I'm taking as much comfort from that as I can). We're awaiting the confirmation of what we already suspect--everyone else in our home is infected--but we won't know that for a while yet. Gayle doesn't have her results to her genetics test, though I imagine we'll get those tomorrow. She won't be seeing her students again until January (her school has gone to all-online for two weeks, then she's going to be going into surgery and recovering, so she won't return to her classroom until 2021). I wish I had some sort of optimistic reading on all of this, but it's all been extraordinarily difficult for us. Our boys are being great sports, for the most part, with our youngest living in his small tent in the family room with the middle child perched in his bunkbed, surrounded by books and his iPad and Nintendo Switch. We can say that we're surviving this. And maybe that's about as optimistic as I can honestly be. Comments are closed.
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