Dear Yuri,
It’s Day 15, my second hospital stay as a COVID-19 patient. I need oxygen, but am not ill enough for intensive care.
Hospital can feel like Groundhog Day. Each morning a new nurse, a new doctor, the same questions. Ward 6, Bed 46: I’m locked in a 4x7m room. A narrow window in the door provides a glimpse into the hospital’s inner workings. A sign saying Patslide on the wall. Google indicates that it relates to Patslide, patient transfer equipment. The window to the outside world is filthy, covered by the bleach used between patients now, the cleaner told me; it means you can hardly see out.
The hospital staff are brave people. I know that. You can see it in their eyes. They are very quick. No nice talk. Get in and get out as fast as possible. The masks de-humanise them, so that it’s hard to know if they have entered before. The introductions or explanations of past hospital visits are absent. Only the nurse who takes blood has chatted; her “you’re looking better” touched me.
Sleep is difficult. The room is neither dark nor silent. Fluorescent lights and beeps through the night keep us awake. I say us, as I know there are five other patients here. In fact, I know the entire medical history of the patient next door, as conversations occur loudly through her door.
Ward 6 is a holding bay. Patients are expected to leave quickly: either to ICU or home. I am an exception. Last night, there was whispered discussion about ICU for me. But I rallied and find myself dreaming of home.
As a patient, you need to practice patience. It’s a waiting game – for results to come back, for the doctor to come, for a meal to be delivered.