Sick at the Hospital

Sometime in the winter of 2023, a stomach bug was going around. My older son got it, his friends all had it, my husband got it, but I was NOT going to get it. I decided it was mental. If I held firm, if I didn’t give in, I could avoid it. It would skip me. Germs would flee in fear of my superior willpower and leave our household forever, telling their germy friends not to even bother. “She’ll fight you with her MIND, man. Never seen anything like it.” 

Obviously, this didn’t work. The problem was that Ben needed to go to the hospital for chemo, and it was my turn to take him. Now let me preface the following with a statement: none of my actions were rational. Matt would’ve switched with me. Hell, my parents were even over at the time. My mom would’ve taken care of me. But I was determined. I was going to go. I was not going to miss my boy’s appointment because of something as trivial as uncontrollable vomiting. 

I could not be swayed, despite Matt’s and my mom’s best efforts. I took my Pepto Bismol, loaded Ben up in the car, and began the drive to the city. I had the forethought to bring the Pepto with me, literally drinking from the bottle as I drove, clenching with all my strength to keep everything in that needed to stay in, at least while driving. I was sweating and achy and nervous about what was trying to come out of me and from where. We got to the parking garage, and I parked the car in between waves of nausea that were far enough apart that I could lie to myself that the Pepto had done the trick and I was feeling better. But then the time came to stand up and walk down a bunch of stairs and through the hospital campus about a block and a half to the Comer entrance. 

The air was blessedly cool as Ben and I inched along between the limestone hospital buildings, the main UChicago hospital on our left across the street and to our right, the Comer Child-Life outdoor playground that I’ve never seen a kid playing on ever. I caught my reflection in the windows once we were next to Comer, just a few feet of old grass and scrabbly looking snow separating the sidewalk from the building, and I did a double-take at the ashen-gray face looking back at me. By the time we were making our way around the automatic revolving door at the entrance, I knew I wasn’t going to make it up the single floor to the clinic before needing a bathroom. 

We emerged from the elevator, post pit stop, and checked in. I was worried. Prior to that moment, I hadn’t considered the broader consequences of my totally irrational actions. I was actively ill. I was not containing that fact. And I was about to enter a hallway full of nurses and sick kids. What kind of arrogant idiot was I to bring this bug onto THIS floor? Had I learned nothing from Covid? From that moment on, I was not only pissed at myself for getting sick in the first place, having somewhere internalizing the idea that succumbing to illness was a personal failure, but I was also pissed at myself for even presenting the possibility of passing this on to the nurses or, god forbid, an already sick or immunocompromised child. I grabbed a mask before walking into the clinic hallway and barely stopped short of bathing in hand sanitizer. 

Our nurse that day, Caitlin I think, could tell right away that I was sick, but to her credit, she just laughed at me and told me she was sorry I was sick rather than yelling at me and calling me an irresponsible jerk. She was funny and perfect and I’ll never forget her. I hunkered down in the corner, trying to stay upbeat and positive for Ben even though I could not hold myself together for more than 10 minutes at a time. After Ben had his blood drawn and chemo started, I excused myself to head for the bathroom yet again, but this time, it was occupied. This was an emergency. I mean, not really, I guess, given that real emergencies were happening on the floor below in the pediatric ER, and I was just some adult who’d made a stupid choice that morning and was about to puke in a cancer hallway. At the last moment, I ducked into the empty patient room across the hall from the locked bathroom and puked pink into the sink. I knew it was over after that, the way you just know when you’ve gotten out everything that could possibly be gotten out. I was still a little sweaty, but this time with relief. I walked back to Ben’s room completely drained, still feeling like a total idiot for being there in that state but fairly confident I could just focus on Ben for the rest of the appointment.

I can picture Caitlin’s face when I told her I was so sorry but I’d just thrown up mostly Pepto Bismol in the sink down the hall. I’d tried to clean it up the best I could but wanted to let her know anyway just in case. I still feel a twinge of guilt remembering her pity and genuine concern for me, when I should’ve just stayed home that day. She also remembered me at the next appointment, remarkable given the number of patients she probably saw in the interim, but I was the dumbass mom who came in sick - not a great legacy to leave there. 

After the appointment, I got us home and did what I should’ve been doing that whole day. I tagged out and went upstairs, falling asleep within minutes, secure in the knowledge of my vulnerability.