Strangers in exile

By Reyshimar Arguelles

It is not until you are put on a hospital bed when the thought of your own mortality dawns on you. For all the talk of being courageous and living “life to the fullest”, nothing prepares you for an extensive stay at a white room that reeks of disinfectant, with nothing but cabled television to help you catch up on the chaos outside.

The very first time I was admitted was last year in the midst of a dengue outbreak. I had recovered from a serious case of chickenpox months prior and I never thought I would fall ill again. It was August when I came down with a fever. The more serious symptoms like bleeding from the nose and muscle pains were absent, so I still managed to come in for work. The fever did not abate, so G convinced me to get tested voluntarily.

The results showed the presence of IgM antibodies. G and I were not sure what that meant, so we visited a doctor who advised that I should get admitted. I was not feeling any chills nor was I vomiting, but I was told that my body was actively fighting the virus.

I was infected but asymptomatic at that point. Then again, the doctor told us that the virus would still do its work, reducing the platelet count and leading towards a severe case of dengue fever once all of my defenses had been picked off.

We could not take any chances. So, G brought me to a hospital in Mandurriao that still had available beds for dengue patients. While I waited for my room to be ready, I had my first time being hooked to an IV. It did not hurt at all, but the saline solution ran cold down the vein and, for some time, I felt my arm disintegrate.

Finally, I was wheel chaired into a cozy. I was not sure about the duration of my stay, but the nurses conducted blood tests from time to time to see if my platelet count had gone down, in which case I would need to stay longer.

It did not take long. In fact, the whole ordeal lasted only three days. But throughout this brief period of complimentary meals and trips to the bathroom where I had to drag the IV pole, I found how self-exile could play an important role in healing.

An ailment has no regard for a patient’s feelings. It is within its nature to render a person in a state where death could be more or less imminent. Anguish and sadness, anger and self-pity, your mind is in a tempest while your body lies immobile. You thought you were bulletproof, but you look at where you ended up and think if you could still live like you used to.

Sickness has always this effect of rendering you helpless and at the mercy of drugs and concrete walls that keep you away from the outside world. You are all but a free bird in a hospital gown, wondering if you could get back to being normal. But sickness is as normal a phenomenon as it gets. In your exile, you have no other recourse but to abide by the rudiments of medical science. The pills you take and the apparatuses attached to your limbs all work to keep you from succumbing, and that is not because the doctors and nurses want to keep the death rate low, but because there is a need to recognize the part of you that desires to live.

My ailment was not at all life-threatening, but I thought about those who had to endure not just the worst ailments, but also the worst forms of exile. We are already experiencing the latter, and no matter how much anger we vent and how many stones we throw, we are all still connected by the same IV tube.