INTRODUCING: MR. I'M IN DEBT

ART BY ISAAC DELEON

It all started with a mild case of the cold. That’s all it was supposed to be. I’ll admit, I was being a baby about it. After Thanksgiving, my family made sure to lecture me on how I need to take care of my body, which I have been neglectful of. Shame loomed over me as I drove back in the dense fog of I-10. The cold and rainy weather seemed to be the sure culprit of my condition, but when I got back to my freezing apartment, that’s when shit hit the fan. 

First, it was chills, then the body fatigue kicked in, ultimately leading to paranoia, sending me straight to urgent care after. What I had feared came true, no Covid, no Flu or Mono; this wasn’t going to be a simple waiting game. So, after days of taking the speedball combo of Advil and Tylenol, I had lost all confidence that I could solve this myself. I was in so much pain, it felt as though the blood in my head pumped to my brain like trying to gulp down a dry sandwich with no beverage. I could barely look left or right. I bit the bullet and decided to go to the emergency room, which we’re all terrified of. 

The waiting room did nothing for my anxiety, as you could imagine. No décor, just a cold, white, and spread-out room with the Alabama-Georgia game playing on a fuzzy 30-inch LG TV. A woman with 2 kids nervously checking her phone, making calls and updating her family members on how her 15-year-old son was doing from a bike accident. An elderly man sat in a rusty wheelchair in the middle of the waiting room, in which he carried a defeated and exhausted face that told me he was used to coming here. You could tell who the regulars were by the way they spoke to the front desk. The man in the wheelchair glued his eyes to the floor, jumping in and out of sleep. It made me wonder if he let anyone know that he was even coming to the E.R. 

Finally, it’s my turn to open Schrodinger’s box. The nurse informs me of an abscess in my throat that caused an infection. It all made sense. As she wheels me up to my room, I got a glimpse of my floormates. Some with tubes up their nose, some elderly, others middle aged. I don’t think anyone could blame me if I thought I could be the youngest on the floor. It made me feel part of an exclusive club that I had no desire to be in, as if I was joined with them for eternity. In some ways I am. 

All this said, the room wasn’t bad. The nurse I met seemed very serious about his job, but already, I knew he was flustered. He had 10 other patients, to which I totally understood why he was so overwhelmed. My mom had dealt with 15 at one time while being a CNA, and every time she would come home, it would be silence and comfort she sought. The nurse, however, did everything with focus and diligence, especially at this time of year. Nurses are filled with pressure and an overwhelming number of responsibilities with shit hours, yet they have time to deal with a guy like me, which is greatly appreciated.

I was just lying there in bed for two whole days. The constant beeping of EKG’s pinballed in my head, and the thought of my own heart being in a state of desperation unsettled me. What if I was in that position? What if I was surrounded by tubes, liquids, and needles, but no family? I couldn’t help the introspection. Lucky enough, I was visited by people that love and care for me, even in times where I thought they shouldn’t, especially in a place like this to which I would understand if it was too much to ask. Hospitals have nothing in the air. They breed uncertainty and self-loathing. No one likes not knowing, and that fear consumes most of us every time we hear stories of unexpected deaths, and if you’re down just enough, it seeps in that maybe you deserve that same fate. The man I saw lying lifelessly in his room rattled my imagination. I felt like that was going to be the path I end up on if my reckless behavior continued. Aside from being lethargic and stressed out all the time, not exercising heightened that reality, and I could only think of how my family would feel if I let it get to that point. The disappointment that I’ve convinced myself they would harbor for me long after I’m gone gives me chills, I’d much rather the sickness than that feeling. 

When I got discharged, the feeling stuck with me days after. Daily tasks started to make more sense, in a way that felt like I was actually doing things with genuine meaning to them. As the week had settled, I’d realized that the cliché “keep yourself busy” really does have a way of distracting you from certain harsh realities, no matter how much you want to kill anyone who says that to you when things are rough. This shield can only hold up for so long though. To think that I’ve been sentenced to a constant battle with these realities in some makeshift psychological boxing match that I’m forced to last all twelve rounds in, can you really hold it against me if I told you I’m tired some days?

But there I was, faced with the idea of not getting another chance. I’m reminded of the floor of patients in grave condition, many not knowing whether they will make it out of here by Christmas, or at all. My heart breaks for them and apologizes even more so for using their condition as a lesson to not take my own for granted. The idea that I get to leave and continue to be as irresponsible about my health is not something I hope to be complacent with any longer. What I deserve I cannot say, I suppose I can only thank God for keeping me in the dark for a little longer.

I say all this not to treat you as my weekly journal-entry, but to give you a glimpse into how small things like a pocket of pus in your neck could be the thing that reminds you of how young you all are. No matter what age, we all come face-to-face with our own mortality, and we’re forced to ask ourselves, ‘what haven’t I accomplished and what did I not do yet?’ That’s a question that shouldn’t scare you, but to remind you about today. There is no tomorrow.