TheOtherJack

I’ve been on chemo for a few weeks now. I had an appointment yesterday; normally, I have about 24 hours after an appointment before I feel sick—not so this time.

To avoid crowds, I’ve been doing my laundry very early in the morning, usually about three or four o’clock. Aside from the attendant I was the only person in the laundromat. After the machine started, I went outside for a little walk and some fresh air.

So, there I was walking in the Far South Side of Chicago in the predawn hours of the morning with a big empty sac strapped to my back, as one does. I was doing nothing suspicious except for everything I was doing. I saw blue lights flash from behind and I went into the “my hands are visible and away from my pockets” position before turning around.

The younger of the two officers frisked me and decided to ask questions about my port. I’m not sure what kind of weapon would be under several layers of clothing and attached to my chest, but I assume the young officer’s fear was a good faith reaction. Less than a minute into his questioning—I’m not sure if it was nerves or I subconsciously willed myself to do it— without warning, I vomited all over the young cop. A bitter, bilious mixture of lentils, rice, and digestive juices spewed forth, arching in the air like a decorative fountain as I tried to point my head down and away. He was utterly covered: it was in his mouth, on his pants, dripping down his bulletproof vest—it was everywhere.

The older cop, who had been standing further back, piped up, “Aww, my wife had breast cancer. How ‘bout we drop you off, then I’ll take this one [pointing to the younger cop] to get hosed down.” He was being genuinely helpful; I mean that without any sarcasm— which was a contrast to his partner who seemed like a bit of a power tripping prick. Anyway, that’s how I puked on a cop without any consequences.

I’ve blown off a few of you over the last week, I’d like to give an update about what I was doing in that time.

Last Saturday, 2 December, I awoke to an almighty pain in my groin. The pain was such that I could not bring myself to think straight for more than a few moments at a time, and so I decided to go to the hospital with what I suspected was ischemic priapism.

I found my roomiest pair of pants, arranged myself that my condition was minimally noticeable, and put on my baggiest sweater. I took the bus to the hospital; being early in the morning, I had the bus to myself, but proceeded to stand the entire way out of an inability to slide into a sitting position.

I went to the main entrance of the hospital, but was told to go to the emergency room two blocks away, on a different street— it was a cold, rainy, and rather painful walk, made worse by the bag I was holding strategically in front of me and which, like a sadistic Newton’s cradle, would periodically smack me square in the testicles. At the security line for the E.R., I had to wait for a male guard to prove that I didn’t have a pistol tucked into my belt.

In intake/triage, I filled out paperwork; I don’t actually recall this, I think it’s the first time I either passed out or blacked out from pain that day. In reviewing my paperwork, I saw that under chief complaint, I had started a long, loquacious retelling of the events of the day, only to cross that out and in a rough hand, write: “dick pain”.

My next memory was talking to the emergency physician on a gurney and being told that I would have to be transferred to the larger general/teaching hospital, because the present hospital had no urologist on call. During her examination, my pain level, heart rate, and blood pressure were all spiking dangerously high and I was given my first dose of morphine. It was a fairly substantial dose, but it did nothing for the pain.

After an hour or so I was picked up for transfer. We spent less than half an hour on the road, but it was easily one of the most painful experiences of my entire life. I either passed out or blacked out several times during the trip. I don’t recall arriving at the general hospital, I just remember being there at some point and talking to a new ER physician.

I was given a dose of fentanyl, which, again, did very little for the pain. I was given a penile nerve block, which is similar in function and procedure to a digital nerve block, but in my experience much less effective. Now on Fentanyl and strong local, I was given my first penile injection and aspiration.

It began with a large bore needle. I could feel the needle as a de-localized pressure on the outside of my penis; as the urologist worked it in, I could feel a dull, tearing pain as it penetrated the cavernous body. The pain, even under sedation and anesthetics, was eminence; I cannot recall the particulars of the procedure. At some point fluid was pumped in, which made it feel as though my penis was about to burst. At another point, the Urologist attempted to suck out some blood, but all that issued was a blackish red sludge of “dead blood”. The procedure was ultimately unsuccessful, and I was admitted to the hospital for the night.

My next memory was waking up on the ward to the sounds of a man crying out in pain. The man was next to me, he was my roommate, and he was howling. For privacy sake I’ll not go on about his specifics. I gathered he had a history of drug use, and the narcotics he’d been prescribed were insufficient to alleviate his pain.

This is a common problem with prolonged opioid use or abuse—effective doses become less effective over time. My roommate was not drug seeking; I don’t think any of the practitioners thought he was drug seeking. But an effective dose of strong pain relievers for him would be dangerously high for most people. In his own words, he felt “illiterate when talking to professional types.” This began a week-long relationship in which I would “translate” what the staff wanted to do with him and try to calm him down during outbursts.

In the next part I’ll talk about the first surgery and an accidental Prince Albert.

I would like to thank all of you on this site for everything you’ve done for me: after many delays due to renovations and the removal of wasps, I have moved into an apartment. The power was turned on yesterday. A few days ago my futon arrived; in a few weeks, I will be the owner of blankets and a pillow. After that, I plan to purchase a pot or dutch oven and some cooking utensils.

In shopping around for the above, I’ve come to realize that I have no idea what a ‘good’ price for anything is. I realized that I think virtually everything is overpriced, even in second-hand stores and thrift shops. While I know that inflation is a thing, I think much of the problem is due to the fact that I haven’t used American money for a significant purchase since the Bush administration; all of knowledge of dollar-values is nearly two decades out of date.

I have secured a good job with a revised start date of the 2nd of October. The company has a rather draconian social media policy; unfortunately I can’t go into specifics here.

I plan on having a thank you/ house-warming party for those of you in the city at some point. There will be booze. I’ve never thrown a party that wasn’t for a fraternity, so any tips or ideas for what you guys might want would be appreciated.

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Since coming to live in this apartment, I’ve noticed that there is a constant state of precarity among working neighbors. This workers’ precarity is different from that of the unhoused. Among the unhoused, there was a sort of precarity of comfort; a sense that things wouldn’t or couldn’t get much worse. Among the workers, there is a tangible sense that one false step could be the end of everything they hold dear: the loss of a job, the loss of housing, the loss of family or children; perdition is only a mistake away.

I have a neighbor, a single mother, who works a full-time job. She is afraid to file for welfare because she thinks she might lose her job if she “admits” (in official/government documents) that she’s having trouble making ends meet. She’s been seeking help from a certain church based charity, but they are slow to approve applicants.

I think part of the reason she’s afraid she’ll be fired for applying for welfare, is because she works around money (as in hard cash). She’s convinced her boss will think she’s either actively stealing or has a good reason to steal, and fire her as soon as he finds out she's applied. I don’t know about privacy laws regarding welfare applications in the US; I don’t know about employment laws; I thought welfare in the US handout to corporations– that it was designed to keep wages low by providing just enough to survive and maintain a steady pool of low-wage workers. I don’t know if her fears are legitimate, but I do know they’re very real.

I’ve given her part of my food. I had to convince her that I was a vegetarian/ vegan and that I had stockpiled canned meats (tuna, chicken, sardines, and SPAM) and dairy products (macaroni and cheese, dried eggs, and powdered milk) from food dispersals and care packages. Thankfully she accepted the food, so I know her children will be fed for the near future.

The Immigration Men and the Rumor

There is a pervasive rumor going around the undocumented community in Chicago: if an undocumented pregnant person goes to a hospital, they can be deported in 24 hours or less.

I have been unable to ascertain the origin of the rumor. About three people I’ve spoken with claim the rumor started in Texas and that it followed a group of immigrants expelled under Gov. Abbott’s purges. Many others, including a midwife I’ve been working with recently and two social workers I’ve come to know, have told me that the rumor was begun here in Chicago and was initially spread by Americans who presumably opposed immigration.

All persons in the latter group claim to have seen a pamphlet or flier a few months ago, though none of them seem to have retained a copy of the document. I’ve requested any extant copies of these pamphlets or fliers but most of them claim to have destroyed copies whenever they were found to prevent the rumors from spreading.

The rumor seems to be pointed squarely at expectant mothers and their unborn children; for instance, no one has claimed that accident victims presenting to the emergency room will be swiftly deported. The rumor usually contains three elements: (1) at the risk of their licenses, medical workers must report undocumented pregnant persons to the authorities; (2) if any of the said patients report to a hospital or clinic, they can be deported in less than one day’s time; and (3) even patients in active labor could be given certain drugs to delay the birth of their child until after they’ve been deported.

Of those who say the rumor started in Chicago, they agree that it was first spread by a seemingly organized group of Americans. They are generally called the “Immigration Men [or People]”; more often than not they introduce themselves as working for the government, a law firm of some sort, or with immigrants in some other professional capacity. These Americans are described as being mostly White with a few Black members. A minority of the members speak Spanish with some fluency and some have given stereotypical Latin names when introducing themselves.

The motives of these “Immigration Men” can only be speculated upon. Some allege motives of pure evil: that the Immigration Men wish to see harm come to expectant mothers and their children through lack of medical care. Others, including myself, believe the rumor was aimed at having undocumented mothers give birth in non-institutional settings which might make it harder for their children to gain American birth certificates. Although the two needn’t be mutually exclusive and nothing about the latter precludes the former.

Victims of the Rumor

A midwife called me to talk with a young pregnant woman. The woman was clearly suffering from a serious condition called preeclampsia. After speaking with the midwife I found that I was called less to act as a physician and more because I was an American who was generally trusted by the woman’s family. The woman, believing the rumor, was refusing to seek care even though she was within a few days of giving birth and her blood pressure dangerously high.

The woman’s family, the midwife, and I told her of Illinois’ TRUST Act, that Chicago is a sanctuary city, and that it would unethical to administer tocolytics for such a purpose. In the end the woman was convinced to ignore the rumor by showing her the docket of the US District Court for Northern Illinois and proving to her that US courts simply don’t move fast enough to comply with 24-hour time constraint stipulated in the rumor. She did eventually go to a hospital and ended up giving birth to a healthy baby later the same day.

The Other, Older Rumor

The midwife told me of an older rumor; she dates it to several years ago during the Trump administration. The main conceit of this rumor being that any undocumented woman who gives up her new born for adoption by an American family would be given a Green Card. No one else I spoke with could recall such a rumor; although one of my social worker friends said he had heard something similar during Bush’s second term as president.

I am less inclined to believe that this was something being popularly shared around as it strikes me as something a Dickensian villain might offer. It’s just cartoonishly evil to say, “Trade us your baby for the right to stay in the country.