Fantasy meets reality.
For the first time in my life, I created an Excel spreadsheet for a non-work reason – rankings for my fantasy football draft. On one hand, I commend myself for being organized and prepared – if you do something, do it well. On the other hand, I created a spreadsheet for a fantasy football draft. Some Rubicon was crossed, and there’s no going back.
I woke up on Sunday excited for football. Not only would I get to “watch” my fantasy football team, but Caleb Williams was also making his first start for my Chicago Bears. I planned to have breakfast, write, and then settle on the couch around 11:30 to get my screens in order and half-listen to the jamokes on the pre-game shows.
At 11:50, I was lying on an ER bed in a putrid green smock, scanning the channels of a 30-inch wall-mounted TV, praying that the hospital picked up local channels.
Stage One: Immediate Care
Two weeks prior, I came down with COVID-19 for the first time. With kickoff a few hours away, I was still testing positive on rapid tests; fatigue came easily, and when I coughed, there was a pain in my chest that felt pneumatic. I’d had pneumonia twice before. Each time I drove to immediate care, they confirmed pneumonia with a chest X-ray, and prescribed antibiotics that cleared my chest quickly. My plan on Sunday was to drive to immediate care at 9 am, and those antibiotics would be doing their job as Caleb Williams threw his first NFL touchdown at approximately 12:03. Neither the antibiotics nor the TD pass made an appearance that day.
At immediate care, they pressed stickers on my chest, the first sign that things would not go as planned. COVID is a trickster. Among its many potential side effects are cardiac issues. When I said I could feel a discomfort in my chest when I wasn’t coughing, the doctor ordered an EKG. It came back clean – onto the chest X-ray.
I’m sure there are gabby X-ray techs, but mine was a Hemingway guy. He greeted me with his name, title, and the purpose of my visit, then informed me I’d have to lose my necklace. “You’re gonna go hug that square.” He was referring to a beige-grey plastic cube the size of my chest cavity suspended from what I assume was an X-ray machine. I did as instructed. “Breathe in deeply. Exhale. Breathe in again. Hold it. Okay. It’s going to lower a bit. Breathe in. Exhale. Breathe in. Hold it. Okay. Turn to your left and grab the bar above your head. You’re tall, so rest your wrists above the bar. That’s it. Breathe deeply. Exhale. Breathe in. Hold it. Good. Okay. Check back in downstairs and they’ll call you when the results are in.”
They came quickly. “You don’t have pneumonia, but we can’t rule out blood clots or swelling of the heart.” The doctor’s eyes met my Bears hat with sympathy. “So I’m going to advise that you go to the ER.”
Stage Two: The ER
It was now 10:30. I was angry for the first time as I drove the mile to the ER. I had been sick for two weeks. All I wanted out of my Sunday was to watch football and not to be sick anymore. And now the second priority was putting the first in jeopardy.
Traffic was light in the ER. I was first in line and quickly ushered into a curtained exam room where I asked the nurse taking a preliminary EKG the odds that I’d be home for a noon kickoff. He laughed. “Very, very low.”
I passed the EKG (again). Then, the nurse quickly found an open bed. Suddenly, he was intrigued by the possibility that I’d be home by game time.
In my room, I waited with a jittery knee as hope for returning home by kickoff slipped away – five minutes passed, ten, fifteen… twenty minutes later, some species of blue-smocked hospital professional arrived to draw blood. He told me the results would take about an hour, and more tests might be needed after that. My noon dreams had ended.
I was left alone to flip through channels with a scowl. Then, a doctor rushed past my room toward the source of rapid, high-pitched beeps. A revelation struck me with sudden, clarifying force: I’m the asshole in the episode of ER who’s bitching that he has places to be as George Clooney is elbow-deep in blood two rooms over. Yes, proximity to death puts things in perspective. Life is for living. My plan for life that day was to sit on the couch and watch other people do things. I was angry I could not live vicariously through others while people nearby were engaged in the ultimate act of living.
Stage Three: Acceptance
If the universe was punishing me for caring too much for stupid things, I couldn’t argue. So, I relaxed. I found the Bears game on the TV and watched Caleb Williams suck on his first drive. My results came in. All clear. Likely viral pneumonia, a pulled muscle, or both. The doctor prescribed a cough suppressant as I noted that I’d be home for the second quarter. “I took this shift because I hate football,” she mused. I envy her.
I made it home by 12:30 and watched the Bears win on the back of defensive and special teams scores. My fantasy football team had a fantastic week, lifting my spirits after a long day. People did things, and I got excited. The spreadsheet worked.