Two months ago in early October, I had a bit of a health scare. Nothing terribly serious, but it was still alarming. I had a red rash on my leg that also hurt at certain odd spots when I moved. Notably on the thigh and below the knee. At the time, I thought I could simply tough it out, and wait for it to go away. Turns out that your motivation for toughing the pain away goes down dramatically when the pain doesn’t go away.
This perplexed me, because I hadn’t been in any kind of extraneous activity lately. The closest thing I could think of was when I accidentally twisted my leg while in an uncomfortable position around the debris in my room. But that shouldn’t have caused what was keeping me from moving properly. Another confounding analysis was that I’d bruised my leg before, but it was the other leg that hurt. My body has a strange reaction to pain.
My sense of taste was heightened, yet I could hardly eat anything, and was throwing up multiple times in the middle of the night. I couldn't eat a hardboiled egg, finding it loathsome even as I choked it down. To paraphrase a saying, when you're tired of eating, you're tired of life. But I developed a taste for fruit. I liked the strawberry jam, but didn't like the strawberries. The grapes and pineapple and the cantaloupe tasted good. I even ate some off-brand clementines that had too much pulp, and finished off the leftover grape juice.
The last time I’d felt this bad was when I had my Kawasaki, which ironically enough, has some Covid-related symptoms. If I experienced a milder version of what’s currently running around, then there was a chance I might be asymptomatic, and if so, take all precautions in preventing others from being affected.
What I was most upset about was that very same week, I had an appointment with my audiologist to get a replacement for getting my hearing aid replaced. I’d been given a loaner after my old h-aid conked out, and was fortunate to have that done in March when the Pandemic just started. (It's a wonder the loaner lasted as long as it did without breaking down.) But before I could apply for a new model, I needed to do a hearing test to be eligible for a replacement, proving that I was deaf and hadn’t been faking it all these years. And I couldn’t attend the simple 5-minute procedure since in terms of detecting dearness during a virus-laden society, it was low priority.
But now, it looked like I might not even BE able to make it to my audiologist, my mental willpower notwithstanding. The pain was starting to severely intervene with my motor functions, my temperature fluctuated between a high of 101 and a low of 98.6, and I had a headache along with a high fever, all typical symptoms of Covid, though my breathing remained the same. Any potential sniffle and cough was cause for alarm when they happened, and was only relieved when they’re gone the next day. It’d been two days now, and my leg still hurt, even with applying cold compresses to the affected areas. I looked up my symptoms online, trying to find a stronger link between my leg rash and Covid, and didn’t see much of one. Not seeing an obvious connection, I looked up pain in the leg. The results showed bruising and blood clots, but nothing specific.
Eventually, the pain got to the point that I figured I might as well bring attention to my parents. When I showed them the upper portions of my thighs, they reacted with alarm. Not at the discolouring rashes or my nonexistent shallow breathing, but from seeing the state of my knees.
I’d always had severely callused knees, not because of any kind of rough-housing, but because I often spent a large amount of time in front of the computer on my knees. This was a result from not only shifting positions from sitting down for long periods of time at end (I know, I know, sitting is the new smoking), and also needing to feel the direct pressure of the desk against my stomach, which the thin veneer of the edge isn’t enough to satisfy me. My early days of using the computer were of the bulky suitcases-sized variety which required heavy desks that could withstand their weight, and had large boards to press against. Today’s makeshift desks now have a flimsy slidable tray keeping a far distance away from the keyboard, which isn’t to my liking. To this day, I still have a kind of nostalgia for those oldschool wooden desks and chairs, even though my size and mass no longer fits. In fact, attempts to squeeze into that wedged space is something of a guilty pleasure.
But it turns out those days of kneeling on my knees more often than a church preacher had unintended side effects. In addition to building up calluses that flaked over my knees as a symbol of inappropriate pride, the resultant buildup was a pathway for pathogens to come through, and had a high risk of infection. And it was likely a malignant virus unrelated to Covid could’ve entered my bloodstream.
I’d been warned about my knees numerous times in the past, but this was the first time it really sunk in that it could be detrimental to my health. After all, one of the highest risk of old people is their legs, and like horses, when they can no longer properly walk, their independence fades away into the harsh sunset of the glue factory. For all my precautions at avoiding human contact, I’d foolhardily allowed a backdoor into my body at a knee-high level.
My parents had gone out of their way to make things easier for me during this state of emergency. My Dad braved out on shopping excursions, even though he could’ve simply ordered what he needed. My mother bought a bunch of transparent plastic masks to make it easier for me to lipread people, and here I was, making things more difficult for them at their most busiest. I always seem to get sick at the worst possible times, when it’s most inconvenient, such as when I had my gout.
Since going out to a clinic at this late hour (it was around 7:00 or so), my parents had to make do with getting a secondhand diagnosis with a family doctor by sending photos of the infected area. It’s much easier to get an accurate result when you can see the symptoms for yourself. After some back and forth conversation I was completely unaware of, the general consensus was that I most likely had Cellulitis, a deep infection inside my leg that could severely affect my internal nervous system and blood pressure if left untreated. For this, I needed to take some antibiotics and painkillers for 2 weeks until it went away.
I thought my old antibiotic cream would still work, and I’d only applied deliberately when certain body areas developed a scab from overuse. Turns out I wasn’t aware that there was an expiration date, and needed to get replaced, since it’d been sitting on the counter for over 10 years.
So my Dad went out to get the prescription for antibiotic pills and cream to apply over the infected area. The cream insisted on washing the affected area first, and since it was to be applied twice a day, I opted for simplicity by taking a shower. Easier than lifting my leg to fit under the faucet sink. Then, after drying myself off, I’d apply two kinds of cream on my leg, the clear one first, and the milky white one after, taking care to wash my hands before and after. While waiting for the cream to take effect, I noticed that the points where my leg hurt the most was the most used spots for when I’d rest my elbows in the bathroom. So I couldn’t even enjoy reading in the ‘library’.
I thought this would be enough, but my parents didn’t want to take any unnecessary risks, and wanted to follow the doctor’s recommendation that I go to the hospital immediately. Unfortunately, I couldn’t go to the hospital right at that moment because it was late at night, and raining, making for precarious driving conditions, even in the event of a potential emergency. No point in getting into an accident and having to go to the hospital via ambulance. Better to go early in the morning instead.
That night, I had trouble sleeping, not just from the pain in my leg, but my thoughts constantly racing over the certainty that I was going to die without having accomplished anything I’d set myself out for. I still had loads of notes that still hadn’t been jotted down for my Web Novel which I’d kept putting off. I had piles of old articles on Asperger’s I’d been organizing and left an awful mess out of. One thing I can tell you, the fear of impending death is a great motivator for firing up the creative juices. Nothing like the impending threat of morality breathing down your back to motivate you to get your writing down. That's why they call them DEADlines. It’s also an appetite suppressor, though I wouldn’t recommend it as a diet plan.
Even though we were supposed to leave at 5:00 AM, I was so upset I couldn’t stand waiting, and sleeping on the wrong side (my hurt leg kept me from feeling comfortable) and having a thick Reader’s Digest Medical hardcover pressed against my stomach during times of stress wasn’t helping me much either. I started off by preparing food for the upcoming trip, peeling the pulp off the off-brand clementines and packing grapes off their stems wrapped in napkins to absorb the moisture, not knowing just how long I would have to wait. (No point using perfectly good paper towels when we’ve got plenty of napkins)
My Dad found me in the bathroom at 4:00 AM, throwing up for the third time and decided to leave earlier than expected, which was something of a relief, getting the suspense over with. However, he was such a meticulous planner that, even with the two of us departing at an earlier schedule, we still wound up leaving at 5:00 anyways.
This early in the morning, there wasn’t much traffic, but still a few cars running at stop lights. I was annoyed that even in the presence of a pandemic, there were still too many people around. The air was cold, and the parking spot we found was far away from the main entrance, so we had to make our trek there, and I rushed peg-leg style, impatient to get this ordeal over and done with.
Upon arriving and seeing the white plastic sheet covering everything at the rear entrance of the Emergency room, all the strength went out of my legs, and I had to force myself to take further steps towards the daunting doorway, the enormity of the situation I was walking into began to weigh down on me.
I was guided to a waiting room with the resident nurse who’d determine the severeness of my illness, and where I’d get the chance to use the latest feature app on my Android cell phone, Live Transcribe, which I wrote an essay for a volunteer organization in a hearing magazine. (Reproduced below)
Live Transcribe
As a person with a profound hearing loss, I’ve always been notoriously shy. Unless I have a specific request or task to do, I’m helpless in communicating with people. For the longest time, I had oral interpreters, and never thought I’d have to face a time where I wouldn’t always be able to rely on their presence to let me know what was being said.
When it comes to talking to complete strangers, I’m always intimidated, because I never know for sure if I’ll be able to understand the first words that come out of their mouths, let alone whether they speak English or not.
I’ve been waiting for the longest time for real-time captioning, (where text would slowly reveal what reporters are saying during the news) to show up outside of TV, so I wouldn’t have to try following snatches of conversations, flipping my head back and forth like a paddle ball on a string.
After a decade of stalled progress, that time has come.
There’s an app called Live Transcribe that’s available for Android phones. It can convert speech to text, showing what people say. It’s all I’ve ever dreamed of. It’s really good compared to other free apps on the market. In fact, it’s almost as good as a person doing real-time captioning!
Granted, the technology isn’t exactly perfect, as some words tend to get garbled and misunderstood, and it’s not great at filtering out background sounds in a crowded noisy environment, but it’s a promising start. Hopefully, future upgrades will be able to improve on these glaring flaws and fill in the gaps, including differentiating between who’s talking and what background music is playing, but maybe that’s a little too much to ask.
The app has an extra feature, a colourful box that pops up when a certain kind of background noise comes up. Some of these noise notifications include, Traffic, Laugher, Barking, and the like. But like the Live Transcribe, it sometimes has trouble telling the difference between various sounds. When I whistle, it thinks I’m a Singing Bird.
In the meantime, it comes in handy for understanding what’s going on when people are talking to me, or when there are a few people engaged in conversation when I’m around. I can get the gist of their conversation without having to worry about jumping in and interrupting. And if I think of something I’d like to say, I can bring it up when I see an opening. Contributing what you know is a wonderful feeling.
An added bonus is that when I leave it in a room, it will retrieve all kinds of idle gossip spoken by people who talk freely, never knowing that their conversation is being recorded. Then, when I come back into the room, I can easily catch up on their dialogue without having to ask them to go through the trouble of recapping what they’ve just talked about.
Just as hearing aids aren't miracle cures for being able to instantly hear everything, the Live Transcribe app isn't a miracle cure for hearing rapid conversations in a crowded room... yet.
Tips to use when using the app:
- A stand you can rest your phone on is recommended. Preferably one that’s attached to your cellphone holder if possible.
- The size, dimensions and colour of the text can be increased and adjusted to make it easier for you to read. Large, extra-large, white on black, or black on white.
- Limit the amount of background music/noise. It doesn’t work as well if there’s too much noise, which may “confuse” the app.
- It works better if there are not too many people talking. If possible, find a quieter place if you want to talk to a specific person.
- Ask people to speak slowly and clearly. Considering their natural speaking speed, this might be an uphill battle.
- If you plan to attend meetings or lectures, you can purchase a mic that connects to your cellphone via Bluetooth. The mic can be given to one specific person, such as a teacher or speaker. If needed, the mic can be transferred to whoever’s going to speak next.
However, as much as I lauded this app, this feature has a glaring problem. It works better on one-on-one conversations without much background noise. And it doesn’t work well behind muffled masks. Especially if the speaker has a French accent. My Dad had to intervene on my behalf. And to make matters worse, he refused to bring a clear mask, because it ‘felt uncomfortable’. So I had to listen harder to what he said, making my already stressful visit more stressful.
After some more dialogue I was completely out of the loop of, we were now shunted to another waiting room. My Dad later told me that we were now in the Covid section of the hospital because I had a fever, and didn't want me to possibly infect the other patients. The walls were separated by temporary dividers between beds, and I could see another patient sleeping through the panel closest to the wall. *I* didn't want to get infected by these other Covid patients! I’d brought a book to read, but the low lighting made reading the small dry text practically impossible. And asking the staff for brighter light didn’t seem like a worthy option. So I passed the time by updating my mother with a series of increasingly complaining texts about the situation. She wanted to informed of what was going on, and would catch up later, and not worry about waking her up.
By the time the doctor came around to check my symptoms around past 7:00 (earlier than expected, but still not exactly on time), the rash had started to clear up, thanks to that fast-acting cream. This was like when you bring your car or computer that's been acting up for inspection, only to have it behave perfectly normal when observed. Oh, and in order to see my leg clearly, the light was finally switched on at a bright enough level for me to read properly. That would've come in handy an hour ago if I'd had the courage to speak up back then!
And then, just as I was about to leave without further incidence, my Dad brought up the subject of subjecting me to a Covid test. This was the very thing I’d been hoping to avoid. And he was bringing it up now?! This was equivalent to the nerdy kid reminding the teacher of homework just before the bell rang. Looking back, I can understand his precautions, since the elderly are among the most susceptible victims, but at the time, I felt betrayed.
If I was infected with Covid, then I’d have to stay quarantined, and it would take at least 3 days before I could get a verdict. Meaning I might not be able to make my audiology appointment I'd been waiting six months for a hearing aid replacement, and I’d have to wait around in an uncomfortable mask around the house in uncertainty, never knowing if I’d be able to make my appointment or not.
Being unable to find a way out, I decided to play it safe, and insisted on lying flat down on the bed, since I couldn’t trust myself not to move my head back in reflex. The nurse moved in closer, brought the exploratory appendage towards the tip of my nose and GNAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHH.
Once the offending Q-tip was extracted from my nostrils, I lay there in a stunned state, still recovering from the shock. It wasn’t an experience I wanted to repeat. Not just for the physical sensation itself, but for the sheer difficulty in communicating with the hospice staff. Just trying to talk to someone is an ordeal in itself, and that was even before masks were introduced. There’s even more reason to avoid human contact outside my limited social circle, leaving me more socially isolated than I already am.
Oh, and I got the verdict from the rapid test fairly quickly, coming later on that same day, which came as an immense relief and a weight off my shoulders. And after all that death-inspired fear to clean up my notes, I started procrastinating again, and they’re still a scattered mess. Go figure.
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