Mondays with Mike: Sweet Home Chicago

Great news! Beth got her cast off!

I can’t remember when, though. And all that, well, it seems like a long time ago. Between eight days in isolation at home with a fever, six nights in the hospital, and three nights in isolation at a boutique hotel that the city used to keep me until I was positively, absolutely safe for the world, I’m feeling a little like Rip Van Winkle.

There will be detail that comes to me I’m sure, but right now I’m left with impressions. First, I’m concerned for all the good front line health care providers. They’re living a strange and lonely existence. Our doctor friend has taken an Airbnb—she doesn’t want to carry the virus home to her family, and she hasn’t seen her family in a month.

My own doctor was fantastic. I got a call from him within hours of reporting symptoms. He directed me to self-isolate immediately. Beth and I had already taken up separate kingdoms at home, texting and making sure we didn’t pass too close. He was responsive, supportive, and gave me great advice—including “get to the ER, now!”

Nurses rock. I’ve known that for a long time, but it just got reinforced. All of mine were fantastic, but one really stood out. She was from Cincinnati, graduated from nursing school at Ball State a year ago, and is coming up on one year working at Northwestern. Imagine this being your first year. She was professional, self-possessed, and impossibly perky in the right kind of infectious way.

She allowed, as did two others, that the worst part of this is they are urged not to spend much time with patients. And spending time with patients is the part these nurses liked most. Rather than coming to the room to check on us, nurses would call our rooms to check on us, only visiting to take vitals and take blood. As they left they peeled off their rubber-plasticky aprons and dropped them in a hamper, never removing their masks. I have no idea what any of them looked like from the top of their noses down, I never saw them without masks. To my mind, they were the extent of my human contact, and as such, they were all beautiful. Including Edgar, my overnight nurse.

The sense of isolation—on all our parts—was palpable. And anyone who’s been in the hospital or been with someone who needs medical care knows the value of having a third party around when the docs visit. It’s two minds to remember what was said, and two minds asking questions. There is no substitute. But there were no visitors, so I was on my own, and often lacked the answers to questions Beth had.

By the end of my stay, I made a point of engaging my nurses. My Cincinnati RN’s boyfriend hailed from Beverly, and is a die-hard White Sox fan. She of course is a Reds fan. I had similar chats with others, and it became clear that they needed it as much as I did.

I’ve found myself trying to remember all their names, but alas.

The other impression is one that still leaves me gob-smacked: Our state and city governments and leaders are kicking ass. It’s been a long time for us Illinoisans, but I think we have keepers in Pritzker and Lightfoot. My personal experience: After six days in the hospital my symptoms had waned, but they wanted to take no chances sending me home. So the city has deals with various hotels. One is for cops, fire department staff, and other first responders who want to avoid taking the virus home. They stay free at a pretty nice place downtown.

When I was discharged from Northwestern Hospital last Wednesday, a Chicago Fire Department representative came into the lobby to retrieve me. We walked to a City pool van. He pointed at the back door. I got in—we were separated by a huge plastic curtain. He drove to the service entrance of a boutique hotel just a few blocks from the hospital. As I left the van, he said “Good luck.” That was the extent of our interaction. A gowned up, masked up woman with a clipboard greeted me and checked me in. (We’d had phone calls about the details in advance.) Then a woman in a full hazmat suit wanded me for weapons.

I was escorted to my room. No key, as they didn’t want me or others wandering. Inside there were masks and hand sanitizer galore. Three times a day I’d hear a knock on my door. I’d don my mask, open the door—no humans in sight, just a bag of food in front of my door, and at about a dozen doors down the hallway.

Each time I retrieved my food and ate like a stupid person. The food was essentially bar food—everything came with fries! OMG, after the hospital food, I couldn’t get enough. I also developed a Coke jones—and I hardly ever drink soda. Twice a day a nurse would call and run me through a questionnaire, and then wait on the phone while I took my temperature. (The electronic thermometer had memory so there would be no cheating.)

On Saturday, 10 days after I took the cab to the ER, a nurse handed me a letter from the city that stated I unequivocally was no longer radioactive and was clear for normal life, whatever that is. I got in the cab, and took an other-worldly ride down Michigan Avenue on Saturday afternoon. There were more construction workers on the streets than anyone else (also smart: Chicago is going all out on street construction during this quiet period).

I’ve never been happier to walk through my front door.

I think for a while I’m just processing vignettes from the past few weeks.

But there is this one thing: I never worried once about Beth while I was laid up. I didn’t have to. Because our friends delivered food, and friends and family called from points around the country to check in. One couple from the neighborhood offered their apartment to me while they were out of town—but they have cats so that wasn’t going to work.

Collectively, they all had our backs.

I can’t name you all. Just know that it meant everything to me. George Bailey has absolutely nothing on me.

I love my city, I love my neighborhood. And we love all of you who helped prop us up. And we can’t wait for the day that we can tell you in person.

It was not a typical Saturday cab ride down Michigan Avenue.