Moving up in the world, one ward at a time

This latest episode of my misadventure kicked off Monday afternoon with a visit to the St. Paul’s ER, courtesy of some persistent shortness of breath (SOB—and yes, the acronym is entirely appropriate).

Because I’m immunocompromised, I spent the first night in the "prestige" of ER isolation. It even has its own toilet! By Tuesday morning, I’d migrated to a standard ER bed, and by evening, I’d truly hit the jackpot: a "sleeping pod" in a four-person room in the Medical Unit. While the bed was a marginal improvement, the real feature was the "Sheryl Upgrade." Having her there makes the scenery—and the situation—infinitely better.

The staff at St. Paul’s was exceptional. From triage and the admitting ER doctor to the tireless ward nurses and the respirologists who took the time to explain the "why," the care was consistently warm, human, and sincere.

I was finally paroled on Wednesday afternoon. My final tally for a first-ever stay in a Canadian hospital after 23 years in the country: six pokes for blood tests, one IV line, a genuinely aggressive PCR nose swab, and a thoracentesis that dr ained 1,750 ml of what looked like a robust, dark red wine from my lung.

The respirologist signed my release papers, because they’ve run out of tricks. I’ve headed home still a SOB coughing and sporting a 37.7°C glow, but at least I’ve been decanted.