#school required virus tests and mine came back negative

[orcelito]

Great time to become deeply concerned and anxious about how life is rn and contemplating just quitting everything so I can focus on Not being exposed to The Rona Bc I’ve realized the number of cases in my county are steadily rising and it’ll probably have a sharp increase with the coming of all the new students (even requiring tests isn’t going to stop them from bringing it, tests are an imperfect system and they can Always pick it up in the time since taking it)

I’m already heavily considering dropping out of school for the semester (a decision supported by the knowledge that they Already have busted a big college party, an indication that my fellow peers will Not be responsible like they want them to be). I need money but like.

I’m scared, man.

I’ve got some savings to fall back on and people I could turn to if I needed help. I Could survive for a few months at least. But it’s not a long term solution. I can’t do that forever. But this virus, it’s not going away. I can’t just Not Work for the entirety of the time it’s here, because it’s not going away. I can’t depend on my government to help me not work so that I can be Safe. All they care about is money.

So I’m stuck. I’m stuck having to ride the bus almost every day, surrounded by people who don’t give a shit. Surrounded by people who, even after a government mandate on masks, still refuse to wear them or wear them shittily. I’m forced to walk past person after person on the streets who don’t have any mask on at all. Person after person who’s been to fucking restaurants and whatever else, because they don’t Care.

I’m stuck interacting with this world that’s dangerous to even be out in. And I am deeply afraid.

[patriciahaefeli]

A Cautionary Tale? A Love Story? You Decide

It's been one of those rollercoaster weeks, one that began with a great deal of pain, which I tried to ignore at first, so as not to ruin my 17- year old’s already Corona-compromised birthday party. At some point during our 5 p.m. family Zoom celebration, I quietly left the room and went upstairs to lie down, writhe in pain, get back up, bend over, moan, repeat. This continued through the night Monday – and at one point, I remember thinking that labor wasn’t this bad and that I should probably go to the emergency room. In this new world we’re in, that thought was quickly dismissed by one word: COVID. I paced the floor at 3 a.m., alternately moaning and then bopping my head and sort of softly singing what kept running through my head, which was the chorus of The Knack’s 1979 hit song, “My Sharona.” Only my version went “My Corona.” Yes, even while suffering, I’m clever that way. 

By Tuesday morning the pain had subsided. I was exhausted however, and slept throughout the day. “Tricia! Drink this! Jesus, she’s burning up.” It was the alarm in my husband’s voice that I responded to more than the command. I sat up, drank the water he was holding out to me, and when I caught my reflection in the mirror over the dresser I had the brief, feverously detached impression of someone who’d sat under a sun lamp for too long. Sun lamp, the words made me almost giggle out loud. Sun-lamp, sun-lamp, sun-lamp…Does anyone even know what that is anymore? A few hours later I had a virtual appointment with my regular GP, during which the decision was made for me to go to the office first thing Wednesday for a full exam. My instructions (my fever-addled brain again added the words “should I choose to accept them” - hehehe), for entering the building would come in the form a text. 

My office exam was efficient and thorough. Upon arrival, I called the office and someone met me at a side door. As we were both masked and gloved, we nodded and murmured muffled greetings. Two PAs and an MD palpated my tender abdomen while I stifled screams. They decided that I should have a C-T scan that day, with the expectation that the offending culprit was a kidney stone. As many radiology facilities are currently closed, it took a few hours for them to locate one that would take me. My scan took place at 4:30. I was the last patient of their day. 

 Fast forward to 6:30 p.m. Wednesday evening. I picked up the call, which was remarkable in itself because anyone who knows me knows how irritating it is that, a) my phone is always on silent mode, and, b) I rarely answer numbers I don’t recognize. It was another doctor from Vanguard, calling to let me know that my C-T scan showed no evidence of kidney stones – “Yay!” BUT, he cut in, it did show acute appendicitis. What I needed to do, he said, was to go directly to the nearest ER. 

So here’s where this story really begins, because I was about to get a reality check regarding the difference between the inconveniences of “social distancing” and quite literally, matters of life and death. For those of us who are shuffling around at home in our sweatpants, eating too much, complaining about the buffoonery of our President, laughing at all the funny memes, and who are, to one degree or another, COMPLETELY OBLIVIOUS to the fact that health care workers do not have the luxury of ANY of that, here’s the newsflash: The Corona virus has virtually SHUT down normal operations for hospitals and surgical facilities, so if you’re also laughing in the face of social-distancing guidelines, and just can’t wrap your head around the possibility of contracting this deadly disease, know this too: If you break your arm, or your spouse has a heart attack, or your child’s strange rash won’t go away and you’re just really concerned, good luck. We are NOT in Kansas anymore, peeps. 

 I considered doing a bit of a negative a rant on the first hospital that I went to here, but perhaps that wouldn’t be fair. “The nearest ER” for me would have been another hospital, but due to their somewhat dubious reputation, we opted to go just a bit farther away. The best thing I can say about that experience was that the safety protocols to enter the ER were impressive. Picture the scene in E.T. where the Hazmat-suited guys from the space program find out about him and “invade” the house in a tunnel of white - then picture the people standing six feet apart outside of say, ShopRite, only these people don’t look so great. They’re kind of bent over, or swaying, or leaning on someone else. Then count your blessings that your gut hurts and you’re not bleeding out…or struggling to breathe. 

Three hours later, after they’d reviewed my scans and completed all of the necessary pre-op tests (blood work, EKG, urine analysis), I got the word that most of the ORs were being used as ICUs for COVID patients, and they were only doing “emergent” surgeries. They sent me home with massive doses of antibiotics, and a referral to see their staff general surgeon - outpatient. 

I figured they were right, too. Must not be very serious. I was doing well with that notion until the following morning, when I heard the barely concealed shock in the voice of my regular MD.  

“Did they see your scans?” his tone serving only to increase my anxiety. 

 “Yeah. But my appendix hasn’t exploded yet.” I said. 

 “Ah,” he sighed, “I know things are being handled differently in the ‘current environment,’ but last time I checked, acute appendicitis was emergent.” 

Okay, pay attention now, because here’s where it gets really interesting: See if you can answer his parting questions: 

 “Do you have a general surgeon? Preferably one with their own facility?” 

 So, do you? And if you do, are you sure they’re even open right now? I sure as hell didn’t (and the name they gave me at the hospital turned out to be for a doctor whose answering machine told me he was not seeing new patients). And the idea that it was now pretty much my problem to solve was a little intimidating – especially for someone who generally needs to be told that they’re sick (enough) or in (enough) pain to seek help—but that’s another story. Now that doctor, who I respect and like a lot, said he’d be trying to find me one, but that I should do my research as well. 

 My husband and I made a fairly long list of people/places to call, and split it. Those we were able to reach at all offered possible solutions to my dilemma, but each dead-ended pretty quickly. I focused on the task now, trying to ignore what it might mean that the ache in my belly seemed to be spreading down my right leg. 

As of this writing, I have yet to hear back from my regular GP and yet, here I sit, post-op, able to get this down mostly because of a Facebook message I sent to one of the nurses in the Belleville Public School district. The only real help I got came from her, a nurse, who responded immediately to an “in-boxed” message, and kept responding for the next hour, sending me the names and phone numbers of doctors (sometimes with their credentials!), links to possible facilities, and words of encouragement. She gave me her personal cell phone number and encouraged me to call it if I had questions and/or to let her know how it was going. I felt like she meant it, too. I also think she was responsible for the first in a series of serendipitous events that just may have saved my life. One of the names she gave me turned out to be the dad of one of my kid’s friends. 

 At that point, things happened pretty quickly. I called him (at home) and told him my situation. In a matter of 20 minutes, he had my scans and had booked  a time slot for me for same-day surgery at Clara Maass. He’s a high-energy, outgoing kind of guy, and although I’d stood on sidelines with him and his lovely wife at many a sports event, I don’t know him well enough, nor did I think it was appropriate to laugh out loud when he laid out the plan: “With everything going on, I just really want to do you – and get you the hell out of there!” 

So here I am, more grateful to him than I can possibly express and having some time to consider just how random and crazy and dangerous that whole situation was (turns out, my appendix had begun to perforate after all, and the real fun was just beginning) and how fortunate I am. 

 But the real heroes here - Oh, and God, aren’t we all a little sick of the “hero” thing? – well get over it, and listen up! From the minute I walked through the door of Clara Maass yesterday, my experience was the best it could possibly have been. The nurses! OMG the nurses - I was in pre-op for hours. Lucky as I was to have been squeezed in to an already crowded surgical schedule, the truth of the matter was that my presence had required a quick shifting of resources—stretchers and space and - nurses. My sudden appearance in the queue was inconvenient, possibly even annoying. And yet all of them, including the nurse who ran the OR, came by to check on me, to give me extra blankets, to chat with me, and laugh with me. A friend’s daughter-in-law, who is a nurse there, got a text from him and even she came from three floors below just to say hello and charm me with her Australian accent and tired-but-twinkling blue eyes. I swear, for me? The whole experience was a cross between a weirdly sterile spa stay, and – as mine all happened to be women - a girls’ sleepover with your best girlfriends—only these were women I'd just met (but they’d also pretty much seen me naked, so, there’s that…). 

Most of them were nearing the end of a 12-hour shift. As I lay there, relaxed and warm, reading and texting, they race-walked back and forth among those of us who waited, or were recovering. I lost count of how many times one of them asked me if I was okay, or if I needed something. They ate their dinners on the move, taking bites and then sprinting off, tearing off one set of gloves, putting on another. These people Do. Not. Sit. The sink was right near my bed, so I saw a lot of hand-washing traffic too, and a lot of red, chapped, over-sanitized hands. They spoke in soothing voices to those who were waiting, and possibly scared, and loud-enough voices for those emerging from the cloud of anesthesia to understand. Sometimes they shouted good-natured complaints to one another, or teased one another – and me, as when one started repacking those bags they give you for your clothes, amusement in her voice as she yelled, “What the hell did you do here, shove it all in like a little kid? Your purse is open – Maria, come over here and see this – she’s a mess!” Hahahaha! One came by and pointed to the cover of the book I was reading entitled “The Silent Patient”, and joked “That’s the kind we like!” 

I even began to wonder if what I was getting was “special treatment” reserved for those whose surgeries were personally called-in by the surgeon. Once he arrived, however, it was clear that not only did they not know he was the one who got me in, but they chided him in the same affectionate way. At a point, I said to one of them, “Doctors think they’re all that, but nurses really run the show don’t they?” She winked at me and elbowed me a little, “Like husbands, honey – they just think they’re in charge!” 

I lounged, for over four hours while they stood on what had to be tired feet, hands on hips as they talked to me, telling me which part of the hospital they’d spent the morning in, or where they were headed next in this crazy, all-hands-on-deck environment. We chatted about jobs and kids, and only when the topic of this deadly disease came up did the lack of words become conspicuous. Then it was all a mime of sad shakes of the head and downward glances. 

It occurs to me today that after all of this, I'm not sure I would recognize any of them tomorrow if I saw them on street – nor they me. Of course, we were all masked. But maybe I would – if I could see their eyes again. And I'm not exaggerating when I say that most of all, those eyes conveyed a profound kindness. And laughter, and concern, and compassion, and dedication—and a toughness that allows them to do it all. 

I'll tell you a secret: I am a person who often has a weird response to unexpected kindness - it makes me cry. I welled up more than once yesterday afternoon. I may have been just one of many for them – this is just what they do - but for me, a bond was made. I will always remember them. 

Make no mistake: it’s no hardship to be home in your sweatpants with your gel manicure looking a little ratchet, and your spouse and kids seeming more like houseguests who have overstayed their welcome. Today, I want you to feel really, really blessed and grateful, and if you’re like me, a generally healthy person who never really gave too much thought to the job that these people do, I hope I was able to convey just a little of it. 

That school nurse who rescued me put it this way: “I took an oath when I graduated just as physicians do. I have followed it for 28 years and it has never let me or my patients down.” That whole oath thing is good and important and all, but the heart behind it gives it grace. 

So, if you get an invitation to do one of those car processions where you beep your horn and cheer for the local health care workers as they go in to, or leave, work– get in your car and go. Or, just mail them each a check for a million dollars. Either way.

[thnksfrthmania]

I need to rant and this is the only platform I can be sure no one I know or work with will see this.

I work at a health food store. The owner of which is VERY anti-science and modern medicine. Throughout this whole pandemic, ever since the beginning, the entire store (except for a few of us) was anti-mask, anti-safety precautions, and just didn’t follow health guidelines whatsoever.

Multiple customers and employees got sick the first year and they still never changed how they went about things. The fact that they never required masks in the store spread around and has attracted SO many people who are just hell bent on spreading this virus because they have “the constitutional right to do so”. I wore my mask every single day and people were down right nasty to me about it. It was even brought up by my managers in my performance review as a negative mark.

These past couple months things are getting really bad again. Case numbers have gone up drastically. More and more people I personally know have come down with it. Of course, every single one has been un-vaccinated. I got the Moderna vaccine as soon as I was able to and got SO MUCH SHIT from my managers and coworkers for it. Of course the entire staff, especially the owner, are actively preaching against the vaccine and urging people not to take it. He has let extremist groups meet in the store to discuss measures to prevent more mandates, especially for children in schools, and is actively spreading lies and misinformation about the origin of the virus.

Not only that, but he has little to no regard for the safety of the staff. Multiple coworkers of mine came down with covid after working in VERY close quarters with others and no one who worked with them was notified. We had to find out through the grapevine that we had been exposed. Thankfully I was exposed only after I had the vaccine and I did not come down with anything at all. One food prep worker got sick, no customers or staff members were informed. He tested positive multiple times in a row, had fever, cough, the whole nine yards. Want to know what my boss told him? “Don’t take any more tests, it will just be positive. Let me know as soon as your fever breaks and you can come back to work.” HE PREPARES FOOD.

Not only are we a super spreader location because of the blatant disregard for people’s health, the owner is someone who people in the community trust explicitly as an expert on health and wellness. They are coming to him for advice on what to do with loved ones who have severe cases. A three year old with covid, a grandmother who was on oxygen and her lungs were completely ruined, a son in college who wanted to go to the ER but his anti-scientist parents didn’t want him to. You want to know what advice he is giving them?

IVERMECTIN. He is telling them to go to our local feed store, buy SWINE AND CATTLE dewormer, and give it to their sick family members. He is actively advising them to ignore medical professionals. He is giving them Chinese herbs, instructing them to inhale oregano oil, and take a worming medication designed for ruminate stomachs. He is also telling them not to take covid tests because he believes that the swabs they use have a chemical on them that causes the test to come back positive regardless if the person has covid or not so they can run up the numbers to “control people”.

I have never been so furious and miserable in a job before. I am constantly seeing the worst in people and berated for trying to do my part in keeping others safe. I have been called names, yelled at, scolded by management, lectured, and treated like an idiot. They all talk about me behind my back. Everyone knew I had gotten the vaccine even though I had only told two people. They told me I would drop dead, I would be infertile, and that I was just a mindless drone following the government’s plan to take their rights away. They treat me like I’m personally responsible for what they perceive to be happening to them. Like I’m the one trying to “force them to take the jab” or “muzzle their children”. They can’t attack their government officials who they imagine are plotting against them so they take it out on me instead. The majority of our customers and my coworkers are people like this and I am so so tired.

This is the reality of existing as a person just trying to help keep others safe while living in a conservative area.

Ironically enough most of these people (definitely my boss) claim to be “Christian”. After this past year and a half I never want to be associated with Christianity or any religion ever again. I can’t count the number of times I have been outright been told I am “ushering in the anti-christ” or yelled at for wearing a mask or backing up six feet by someone wearing a shirt with bible verses or a local church’s name plastered all over it. I understand this isn’t behavior isn’t isolated to Christians or religious people but in my area 99% of the people acting like this are, or claim to be “christ followers”

I was raised extremely conservative. My family was part of two very religious cults when I was growing up, one of which is well known. I was raised on “republican values” in the south. I fully understand the thought process behind these people’s actions and it scares me even more. I want out of this state/country so bad. It’s only going to get worse and I’ve had more than enough.

This just in: Same people who like to call others "sheep" are now taking livestock dewormer.

[bananaairplane]

Fireball

I look out from the patio at the orange glow of the sun hanging over the wide blue line of the ocean. The sky is beginning to to go orange, and a fluffy margin of cloud rests on the water. The rays of sun shine through the leaves of a tree and gild the fronds of a giant bird of paradise. The air is still as the heat drains out of it. Where will I go next? I can go anywhere, and yet with Covid numbers spiking and communities locking down, the options seem extremely limited.

Some kind of descent into chaos was perhaps inevitable. I’m here in paradise, having an existential meltdown. I was supposed to leave San Diego, where I’ve been staying with friends, to start a cross country drive last week, but a brief, low fever made me hit pause for a Covid test. It came back negative. By this point I had quite literally missed the boat— a sailboat headed down the East Coast that I was meant to connect with in North Carolina, just south of Cape Hatteras. In the last week, I’ve run through Plans G, H, I, and J. I’ve pivoted myself in a circle, coming up with so many different backup plans I’m paralyzed. How to choose among them? Are any of them sensible, given what is happening around me, the pandemic running out of control? Throughout these months, whenever my plans have fallen apart, whenever the pandemic has taken a new turn, my thought has been, what did you think was going to happen? How could I expect anything different than disaster, undertaking what seems like a year of hubris and flight from reality? The only sensible thing right now is to be sheltering in place. Play it safe. To do anything else feels naive at best and at worst, callous to the real suffering going on everywhere, and to my own role in either spreading the virus or keeping myself and others healthy. But this isn’t really particular to my year of adventure— it speaks to the larger absurdity of trying to carry on normal life in conditions that are anything but. And yet, what alternative is there? The sun continues its path, indifferently, brutally, toward the ocean. Next door, a mother calls out to her child as they move among the trees and shrubs. She is holding a camera. A dog barks in the distance.

It’s easy to lose sight of the goal of the year, which is adventure and new experiences, when the whole world feels like it’s in such uncharted territory. Staying home and working remotely, or navigating the opening and shutting schools, is enough of an adventure for anyone. In the face of that, adventure seems like a lot.

I am choosing which chicken recipe to make from the British-Israeli restaurateur Yotam Ottolenghi’s repertoire. His recipes require long lists of ingredients, usually involving lemon zest and harissa, purple onions, cilantro, some kind of chile or other. You have to cook all kinds of component parts before you can actually begin cooking the recipe: roast vegetables, prepare elaborate sauces and marinades, pick cilantro leaves off the stem. Inevitably it all culminates with a heavily laden pan going into the oven for an hour, to be basted at intervals or covered in foil and then uncovered. Also a vegetable dish: “Roasted cauliflower with harissa chili oil” or maybe “Roasted eggplant with anchovies and oregano.” I am picturing platters of food, large chunks of vegetables with toasty brown patches; pieces of chicken nestled among onions and potatoes; a bowl of couscous with toasted almonds.

I will summon abundance out of nothing, out of a nest of filmy plastic bags set in the trunk by a teenage girl with an iPad strung around her neck in the garage of a local grocery store. I walk on the beach before it’s time for my curbside pickup and all the women around me are wearing black leggings just like mine. We are in a secret club. My feet kick up sprays of sand that fall into my sneakers. Huge lumps of seaweed lie around on the sand like beached sea creatures, glistening and inert.

Something about this bourgeois take on Middle Eastern food feels like what I want to eat right now: Wholesome and homey, vegetable and chicken, but sun kissed, spicy, transporting. Everywhere I am this year is somewhere else, other than where I would normally be. And yet, preparing and eating food imposes normalcy. When we look back on 2020, it may be above all the year we spent buying groceries. 

I’ll try again on the drive and the boat.