The conservatives who run Florida’s government have never taken this pandemic seriously. They closed the state far too late and reopened it far too soon. COVID-19 cases have now exploded. Florida, along with Arizona, leads not just the U.S., but the entire world in new cases. Over 40 Florida hospitals have already maxed out ICU capacity, and we are nowhere near the peak. On July 12, the Sunshine State shattered the U.S. single-day record, logging 15,300 new COVID-19 cases.
We are nowhere near done, and Gov. Ron DeSantis has done everything he can to make the situation worse. He fired the state’s chief data scientist tracking the virus for “insubordination.” She claims she was ordered to change the numbers to make them look better. DeSantis also lied about testing, purposefully undercounted the number of ICU beds, and then went back to his racist roots, trying to blame “overwhelmingly Hispanic” farmworkers for the virus. He refuses to issue a mask order, and refuses to even consider rolling back the state’s premature reopening. Worst of all, DeSantis is forcing all Florida students to go back to school in two weeks. Teachers won’t have to wear masks, and he vetoed the entire budget for online learning to force parents to send their children to our woefully unprepared schools. It’s going to get a lot worse.
Our family made a promise to each other early on in the pandemic as states that weren’t Florida began to lock down: We wouldn’t get sick. Our shared vow didn’t just apply to the coronavirus; we vowed to avoid any illness or injury because we all knew that getting good care and treatment during a public health crisis, particularly in Florida, would be difficult.
Unfortunately, I broke that rule.
For me, it started on Thursday, July 2. I woke up with a sore throat and wet cough. I convinced myself it was allergies and suffered through it. I woke up on Friday morning and both symptoms were gone. Phew! I thought to myself. Dodged that bullet.
Then came the afternoon.I felt great and was really craving hot soup, so I went to my favorite place for takeout. The lady who took my order was wearing a mask, but complained about it to me—because the pandemic “was already over, thank God!” I disagreed with her, pointing to the line in front of the urgent care center across the street from the restaurant. I had a friendly argument with this soup-slinging waitress, but I dropped it because who the hell cares? I was just there for some soup and she was wearing a mask. Also, she was a perfectly pleasant person, and I even envied her blissful ignorance somewhat, if not her faith in the governor. I went back to enjoying the morning.
Out of nowhere, my breathing grew labored. I couldn’t take a deep breath without pressure, which then became pain. I never realized how much I take breathing for granted until it didn’t happen without my focus and effort. This was followed by coughing, although this time it wasn’t wet. I knew that difficulty breathing and a dry cough are two major symptoms of the virus. My temperature also rose, but it wasn’t yet in fever territory. What was happening to me?
I regret to say that I did exactly what Donald Trump wants people to do: I tried to pretend it didn’t exist. I watched old 90s shows to try to calm me down. The terrible sitcoms brought me comfort and a welcome distraction, but by early evening I was panicked and in pain. I went to an urgent care center hoping for a COVID-19 test. Big mistake: The lobby was jam-packed, yet there wasn’t anyone at the desk. A sign on the door asked for patience, noting that several nurses had quit.
I wasn’t going to wait there all night, so I decided to try my luck elsewhere. I tried and failed to get tested at the local hospital. There I was told of another urgent care center where I could be tested, but when I arrived, I was given bad news: The center had tests, but it would take 10 business days to get the results. I needed a “rapid-results test,” which gives results in 15 minutes. The healthcare specialist at the counter told me that there were a few places that do walk-ins, but you must make an appointment to receive one.
I picked the closest one and drove there right away to try to get an appointment. Yes, they had rapid tests, which deliver near-instant results, but the next appointment available was 10 business days out. What the hell was the point?
After four stops, I decided to go back to the original urgent care center and do the slow test. A long cotton swab was rammed up my nose; I was told to wait two weeks for results. They might have them sooner, but I was told that not only was that unlikely, but it might be longer since processing labs are so backed up. If I do have the virus, my lungs would probably collapse before the results came in, but hey, at least I’d know.
As I left, a woman outside the clinic told me I looked “like death” and suggested I go to the emergency room. I agreed with her, but said it would be nice to know if I had COVID-19 first, since the hospital I went to couldn’t even do the damn test. She mentioned yet another place (it would be the fifth of this journey) that did rapid tests and allowed walk-ins, so I raced over there.
The nurse advised that if I wanted any chance of getting one of those 25 walk-in slots, I needed to show up around 3:30 AM—even though the clinic didn’t open until 8 AM. I followed her guidance, but even that early in the morning, there were already people sitting in lawn chairs. When 8 AM arrived, the line looked like one you’d see at an Apple store on the day of a new iPhone release. Thankfully, everyone was wearing a mask—even that lady in the Trump shirt.This new facility did accept walk-ins, but they’d run out of tests by the time I arrived. The nurse said they only allow 25 walk-in slots per day even though my county has about a million people. The lack of tests in this state is criminal, especially when you consider that Florida is seeing well over 10,000 new cases per day.
A clinic employee came out and asked me about my symptoms. He informed me that they are trying to conserve their tests, and that I might not have “enough” symptoms. (What?!) However, it was ultimately the physician’s decision. I waited for an hour in a little room before someone finally came in.
The nurse who saw me was frazzled, and I thanked her for what she was doing. She apologized for the long wait but told me that she and her coworkers are all working insane hours, to the point they couldn’t even take lunch. I got the rapid test, an EKG, and a chest X-ray. In a half-hour, I finally got the result I was waiting for: Negative.
I was thrilled! However, the doctor who saw me wasn’t.
The doctor didn’t believe the test, and informed me that although a positive result is highly accurate, a negative test is, at best, right 75% of the time. The doctor was blunt: She thought my difficulty breathing and muscle pain symptoms could be COVID-19, or maybe I was experiencing a heart attack. (What?!) She ordered me to immediately go to the ER; I wound up being delivered to the hospital in an ambulance.
Since my rapid test was negative, I wasn’t put on the COVID-19 floor. My nurse told me that was a good thing since that area was absolute chaos. The hospital’s ICU was already at full capacity, as were the ICUs of all the other hospitals nearby. My hospital was in the process of converting non-ICU units to COVID-19 units to add capacity.
I got to know my nurse quite well. She told me the entire staff is emailed a daily report about COVID-19. She said that not long ago the hospital had around 80 cases, but after Florida reopened it now had over 400 COVID-19 patients. The nurses were simply overwhelmed, I learned. Several had quit, others walked off shifts, and still others had to stop working because they tested positive for the virus.
It’s bad here in Florida right now. To put it like NBC’s Sam Brock did, Florida is in “free fall.”
I have to say that despite all of this, the nurses were spectacular. Any problems I had were with the doctors. Perhaps they too were overwhelmed, but I got the feeling that they really wanted to send me home as soon as possible. I didn’t feel that they listened to me as I shared my symptoms. Even the nurse tending to me told me that she’d argued that I should be tested again, but the doctor said no.
I stayed in that hospital overnight. I couldn’t sleep, so I walked in circles. The elevator nearby opened and there was a man groaning in pain. The attendant said “nope, not the second floor,” referencing the COVID-19 floor. I felt sorry for him. I hate this virus more than ever.
The hospital ran several tests on me, primarily examining my heart. All of them came out fine. Since it wasn’t my heart and I’d tested negative for COVID-19, the doctor announced he was releasing me. I was still very sick, but he said that I most likely had bronchitis. That would explain my symptoms, I was told, before I was taken to the front door in a wheelchair. In the lobby, a woman was uncontrollably sobbing because she couldn’t visit her husband. In case I didn’t say it, I really hate this virus.
I did feel much better by the next day, and felt like my nightmare was over. I really wish this is where the story ended.
Unfortunately, the pain has recently returned. It comes in waves. I’ll feel great and make plans to do things only to find myself coughing and pursing my lips to breathe later in the day. It’s been a week and a half and I have still not received the results of that initial COVID-19 test. I’m fairly certain my doctor was right about my probable bronchitis diagnosis, but to be on the safe side I’ve quarantined myself in one room, away from my family, until I hear of the final results. If it is COVID-19, I don’t know I’m supposed to do. Right now I don’t think the healthcare professionals know either.
I’m praying I don’t have it, and I really don’t think I do. Yet if I do, I have to inform the county of each person who I’ve come in contact with for the past two weeks so they can alert them.
I sure would hate to do that to that poor soup waitress.