Kelly McCabe
Four years ago, I died.
While my death was fleeting and obviously not permanent, it was the start to the sanitized lifestyle of being immunocompromised. I woke up to chest pain dulled by a cocktail of fentanyl, lidocaine, and morphine, and lungs that weren’t mine. I had to learn to breathe, walk and eat again over the next few months. Along with the 20 new medications added to my regimen, there was a mandatory order of self-isolation for the next 9 months. My family established a strict routine of constant hand washing and hand sanitizer in every room, anyone with even a sniffle was quarantined elsewhere in the house. If I did venture out, I wore my bulky N100 mask and my hand sanitizer was never out of reach. With time, the anxiety faded and precautions relaxed but with the current global pandemic the trauma of transplant feels fresh again.
Long before the toilet paper panic buying began, I received calls from my transplant clinic letting me know to be on high alert as there was a new virus floating around. I was advised to wear my mask in public, be even more aware of those around me, and increase hand washing. When San Francisco announced a stay at home order to help combat the spread of coronavirus, I thought I was prepared – we had been training for this for four years. But being no stranger to isolation did not protect me from the panic attacks, despair, and fear that came with shelter-in-place. I struggled to fight the panic that gripped me – I had beaten death once, but I knew my chances against COVID-19 were slim. And I realize how clichéd this may sound, yet the one thing that has truly kept me sane is the pup we rescued about 6 months ago. With her double dewclaws and silly prance, Domino has been a source of immense comfort and motivation in the past months.
Extra Domino cuddles are a welcome addition to quarantine life
Having a pet during these uncertain times has been invaluable to me and I’m sure countless others, whether immunocompromised or not. Living in a tiny one bedroom apartment in the heart of San Francisco means the girl needs lots of daily walks to keep her healthy and happy. Prior to coronavirus, these walks were a time for us to bond, train and exercise together – I loved our walks. Now they fill me with fear and anxiety. Domino forces me to confront the fear of leaving the house. Her wellbeing is my responsibility so I glove and mask up several times a day to make sure her needs are met. Her bathroom missions also give me the much needed exercise I require to keep my transplanted lungs happy. Transplant is not a cure, it is exchanging one set of problems for a different set. If we do not keep our lungs in shape, we risk things like infection and rejection. If I didn’t have Domino, I probably would have boarded up my apartment door and hunkered down for the foreseeable future, therefore putting my new-ish lungs at a different risk.
It has always been too easy for me to make excuses to not take care of myself. Prior to transplant, it is how I got through. Cystic Fibrosis had ravaged my lungs and my mind for 22 years before receiving my double lung transplant in 2016, and denial was a close friend. But old habits tend to rear their head with stress and I could feel myself slipping into the “I’ll do it laters” and the “I can skip todays.” Now, with Domino, I can’t make those same excuses when it comes to her wellbeing. She holds me accountable for the things I need to do for her and for myself. It’s easy to lie to yourself but harder to do so to a creature that has no concept of deception. Plus when I try to ignore her requests to go outside, she launches all 45 pounds of herself at my chest and sits on me until I comply – it is hard to argue with.
Being immunocompromised means that everything around you is a constant threat to your health, worst case scenarios are always running through your head, and that is without the addition of a global pandemic. And while I know Domino has no ability to comprehend what is going on around her, I truly believe she senses something has changed. There are extra snuggles on the couch, more goofy antics around the house, and she leans just a little harder on me while I type away at work. Her gentle, and sometimes not so gentle, reminders to take a breath and step outside my head have become essential to me. Without my beloved long-legged weirdo, this quarantine would look entirely different. I would be less joyful, less healthy and more complacent. Isolation is hard, no one will challenge that. But having a companion to ride it out with makes it infinitely easier. As much as I love the extra time with my girl, I am ready for this to end. So for the sake of people like me, please wash your hands and stay the hell inside.
