Things To Do In Denver When You’re Not Quite Dead

“Blucifer,” the allegedly cursed horse that guards the entrance to Denver International Airport

“Should we take a trip for your fiftieth birthday?” asked my wife Shannon out of the blue when I was still technically forty-eight. 

“Sure,” I responded, even though I have never been much of a traveler by nature. I am far too addicted to the comforts of home. But from time to time, I have been lured out to see the world. We had done a large family trip with my in-laws to the UK a few years before, and that quenched what little desire I had to be an international globetrotter. A nice, homey country where they have pubs with display racks of crisps and where I speak a similar (not quite identical) language is about my speed. I’ll admit I’m intimidated by going to a foreign country where I don’t speak the language (which is pretty much all of them except the UK, Australia, New Zealand, and most of Canada). Shannon said many people around the world — especially in the restaurant and hotel businesses — speak English just fine, but then you have to ask that horribly embarrassing tourist question “do you speak English?”, which I would hate to do, even though I am, in fact, a horribly embarrassing tourist. 

Shannon is fluent in Spanish, so I suppose Spain and Latin America are always options, but if anyone thinks I’m rucksacking around Cambodia, sleeping in hostels and squatting over a hole in the ground, they’ve got another think coming. I need a hotel, preferably with a bar and powerful air-conditioning. Which brings up another travel barrier: expense. To travel the way I like to travel (if I have to do it at all) is not cheap.

“A fiftieth birthday is a big deal,” said Shannon when I pointed this out. “Everyone will chip in. Where do you want to go?” My travel-averse mind tried to come up with a destination. Then it occurred to me: I had never been to Boston. As a history teacher specializing in the colonial era and the early republic, it was downright odd that I have never seen the Birthplace of the American Revolution with my own eyes.

“Boston it shall be,” said Shannon, and I thought no more about it as my fiftieth was almost two years away.

The extended family actually sprung it on me on my 49th birthday that December. It was still officially considered a 50th birthday present as the actual traveling would be done in June of 2024, the summer before my fiftieth birthday. We would leave on Sunday the 9th, the week after school ended. Plane tickets were bought, hotels booked, itineraries planned. 

Then came the last week of school. Sunday night, myself and the entire 8th grade class returned from the school’s annual graduation trip to Disneyland. Monday was a much-needed day off for all of us. Tuesday was their class breakfast, yearbook distribution and signing, locker clean-out, and graduation rehearsal. The graduation ceremony and dance was Wednesday. 

I woke up Wednesday morning feeling…off. Not necessarily ill, just wrong. My skin felt incorrectly aligned on my bones. I was light-headed. At the time, I paid scant attention to these signs. I had a graduation ceremony to attend, an award to give out (Outstanding Achievement in History) and a little speech to go along with it. I showered and dressed, waiting for the odd sensation to go away. It did not. I made it to the venue for the 11:00 am ceremony. By now, my head felt like a balloon on a string floating above my body. I handed out the award (to whom I have no recollection now), made it through my short speech to a good round of applause (I can talk on autopilot when I have to), and then started sweating copiously. I mean Springsteen-performing-in-the-Philippines-in-July copiously. The kids got their diplomas and did the formal single file recessional walk-out to “Pomp and Circumstance.” All the teachers brought up the rear, also single-file, out onto the back patio area of the venue for congratulatory back-patting and photos. I did not stop walking, but continued on out the back gate and to my car and escaped before the sweat stains became (more) visible. By the time I got home, it looked like I had run a 5K in my dress shirt and tie. I had six hours before the dance I was scheduled to chaperone commenced. Not thinking clearly at all, I figured I just needed some rest, maybe another cool shower.

I didn’t want to miss another graduation dance as I had done two years before because of getting COVID, most likely picked up on the annual Disneyland trip.

COVID! My heart sank. The symptoms felt different than last time, but who knows how nasty mutating viruses like that present themselves in one’s system two years apart. As soon as I got home, I tested myself. Negative.

When I woke up after a three-hour nap feeling worse, I knew I had to bow out of attending the dance. 

Then my heart sank again. It was Wednesday night. We were leaving for Boston Sunday morning. I had less than four days to shake off whatever was ailing me. With all my 8th graders graduated and gone, there were only a few light duties remaining at school. Thursday I dragged myself in and proctored an online exam for one of our advanced math students (by “proctored” I mean “curled up in my desk chair and slept”), and on Friday took a halfhearted swipe at doing the usual year-end room cleaning. I decided most of it could wait until later in the summer. I still didn’t know what was wrong with me. A second COVID test was negative, but I honestly couldn’t think of any other cause. I don’t get sick very often, but when I do, it is easily identifiable.

Not wanting to spoil the trip, I hid the extent of my suffering from Shannon. She knew I was “a bit under the weather,” but not that every gesture was an effort. On Saturday, there was a lot of work to do as far as packing, laundering, and generally prepping the house for the house-sitter. I projected an air of cheerfulness and excitement, and managed to get everything done by doing thirty minutes of work, followed by a full hour of rest. Thirty, sixty, thirty, sixty…all day into the late evening.

On that fateful Sunday morning, I felt a little better. Was I just telling myself (and Shannon) that? No, no, I genuinely felt better. It was the morning of the big trip, and the rush of adrenaline was causing my body to send false signals of imminent recovery. We were on our way to Boston, with a lengthy stopover in Denver. I made sure I had a big water bottle to fill up at the airport (something I generally don’t bother with), and hoped hydration would see me through.

By the time we got off the plane in Denver, the adrenaline was gone and I had crashed. Our business-class tickets (the part of the birthday gift that was from Shannon’s parents) entitled us access to the lounge, with free food and beverages. (“Not free,” Shannon’s mom would remind us. “Included in the cost.”) I did not eat, which was not unusual (travel has always been an appetite-killer for me), but when I said I did not want a “free” beer, Shannon looked genuinely concerned. This was serious. The only thing I took from the buffet was ice for my water bottle.

By the time we got on the Boston-bound plane, my condition had deteriorated even more (for an obvious reason — remember where we were). The sweating began again. I turned the overhead fan nozzle on. It was warm air. I sipped from my bottle. I took off my hat, which was soaked through. 

“Do you have any ibuprofen?” I asked Shannon. She dug through her bag and found some Advil. I took four. The plane pushed back from the jetway and began its slow reverse roll onto the tarmac.

“How are you?”

“Not so good. I think I’m going to…”

The next thing I knew I was staring into the very concerned faces of two (or maybe three) flight attendants, all crouched down at seat level. A doctor (answering the “is there a doctor on this flight?” call) had her stethoscope on my chest. Shannon was terrified. I had hid the severity of my condition to make sure our trip happened, but I had done it too well. She had no idea how bad off I was until now.

Evidently I had been unconscious and completely unresponsive for several minutes. My skin had turned gray and I was drooling. (That’s the only part of Shannon’s recollection I dispute — there was no evidence of it on my shirt front, and I have a pretty thick beard, so any moisture around my mouth would linger and be quite noticeable. But she insists, so I’ll include it.)

For a moment, there was a back-and-forth about soldiering on and proceeding with the trip (my vote) and getting me the hell off the plane (everyone else’s vote), but it was decided pretty conclusively we should return to the gate. All the healthy passengers let out a collective groan, and it was all my fault. Luckily, we were in the first row so my Walk of Shame off the plane would be witnessed by very few. I was met at the plane door by an attendant with a wheelchair. At first I was embarrassed, but at that moment, sitting down and getting pushed along felt more and more like a damn good idea. As I was rolling back up the jetway, Shannon’s United app alerted her that our flight was delayed due to a “medical emergency.” Thanks, United.

At the gate area was Jake, a medic with a small cart. He hooked it up to me via several electrodes, and soon my vitals were scrolling across a small screen. “Any chest pains? Any tingling in your arms or legs?” No and no. “Hmmm…” Jake looked grimly at the screen. “Your blood oxygen level is 91%.” Now, to a teacher, 91% is pretty good. An A-minus! But for blood oxygen, I guess it is extremely bad. 

Jake turned to Shannon, who was getting over her initial shock, and began asking her questions about the lead-up to my little incident. I stared blankly ahead. Another wave of light-headedness and perspiring came over me. I looked over at the screen, and saw all of the lines move slowly but inexorably downward. The blood oxygen level dipped into the 80s. I tentatively raised my hand like a student to get Jake’s attention…and I went out again. (Shannon recalls three instances of my losing consciousness, I recall only two. In this case, I’ll say she likely has the more accurate version of events.)

When I came to for the second or possibly third time, I was on the (probably filthy) carpet of the terminal gate. Jake had been joined by two more EMTs. I had an oxygen mask in place, and one of the medics cut off my shirt. I thought that was a little over-dramatic. Electrodes were affixed to my chest. Shannon was terrified all over again, not knowing if I was going to die on an airport floor. I wanted to reassure her that I was fine…well, not fine, but I was certain I was not going to die. The mask and my tenuous connection to the conscious world made conversation a little difficult, and she was still fielding questions from the medics.

“Is he on any medication?”

“No.”

“Should he be?”

Next came two IV drips, one in each arm. That was the only part of the whole experience that was painful. Little kitten sips from my water bottle, no matter how frequent, had not been cutting it hydration-wise. Next came the discussion of whether or not an ambulance should be summoned. The better-safe-than-sorry option won out. I heard someone radio someone else, using the slightly dehumanizing but perfectly accurate description “49-year-old male.” I was about to have my first ambulance ride. 

The gurney showed up, and two medics lifted me onto it (with more than a little effort and some grunting noises — “slightly obese 49-year-old male.”) I was then being wheeled, shirtless, through a busy airport like the world’s least appetizing dessert cart. “How are you feeling?” asked the gurney guy. “Mortified,” was my honest response. I could almost hear his eyeroll. “I mean physically.” “Just very, very tired.” To prove my point, I closed my eyes to try and ignore all the curious heads swiveling in my direction (but stayed conscious). 

A door opened, and I could smell jet fuel and feel the heat of the day. I could sense bright sunlight behind my closed eyelids. We were on the tarmac. The ambulance was waiting with a running engine, and I was loaded into the back. Shannon got in the front passenger seat, and we were on our way, siren wailing.

There were two ambulance attendants, an older one and a younger one, and both immediately barraged me with cheerful questions about my home town, family, and a bunch of corny dad-jokes (I can’t remember any of them now, just that they were deeply irritating). I wanted them to shut up and let me rest, but of course they were doing what they were supposed to do — keeping me conscious and (unwillingly) alert until we got to the hospital. 

Entering a hospital from an ambulance is just like you see on TV. They really blast that gurney through those swinging doors — BLAM! — and suddenly I was surrounded by green-scrubbed attendants and wheeled into an examination room. They slapped on a blood pressure cuff, shone a penlight into my eyes, stripped my shoes and socks (and the last shred of my dignity) to attach still more electrodes to my ankles, all with a sense of urgency associated with a genuine life-or-death situation. It must have been a slow day in the trauma ward. As soon as they determined that this was not a cardiac episode, and that I was in no immediate danger, there was almost a sense of disappointment. The immediate loss of interest among the occupants of the room was palpable. They all wandered off. I swear one of them tossed their latex gloves over one shoulder as they left the room. The lone remaining technician took some blood, and then I was shunted off to a room with far less expensive equipment.

As time wore on, and my hydration and blood oxygen levels climbed back where they should be, I began to feel a little more human. I raised my bed to an upright position. We then had to make a heavy decision very quickly. Get a flight later that night or early the next morning into Boston, and hope I was over the worst of it? Or pull the plug?

This time, I was absolutely honest: “I don’t think I can do it.”

Shannon leapt into action, getting us a flight back home, cancelling reservations, and arranging refunds where possible. (We did take out trip insurance, thank goodness.) At some point during all this, they came back with my lab results.

Influenza A.

It was a case of the damn flu, exacerbated by Denver’s altitude. I don’t know why that possibility never crossed my mind. My thinking had been a little muddled, and most of my symptoms I’ve never associated with previous flus I’ve had. No nausea, no chills, and despite all the sweating, no fever. But of course, there was that one symptom I didn’t fully consider, the one that did match most of the flus I’ve had: the fatigue. I had spent every day since the previous Wednesday so bone-tired I didn’t realize I was bone-tired. I’m pretty sure I caught it at Disneyland, and I even think I can pinpoint the exact moment — wedged into the super-crowded “stretching” foyer of the Haunted Mansion on our last day at the park.

A nurse’s assistant came in to remove the two IVs, and frankly, botched both of them. Blood spurted everywhere before my leaking limbs were wrapped in gauze and adhesive. Most of it went onto the floor, but my pants and newly-restored shoes caught some of the gore.

Now the next question. Should I be officially admitted to the hospital as an overnight patient? Or gather my things and head out with no more fuss? After sitting in the emergency center for the better part of four hours by this point, I decided I had been the cause of enough drama for one day. We informed the person manning the nurse’s station of our decision to leave, and he simply gave us directions to the nearest exit without any further questions. A far cry from how I came in. They had my info, the insurance people could take over from here.

There was one problem left: My shirt was in (now bloody) shreds, still wedged underneath me. I was given a very stylish paper shirt by the hospital folks, and Shannon summoned an Uber to take us to the airport hotel. But before we went there, we had to stop at Target as our luggage was probably still on the way to Boston. Shannon went on her phone and ordered us up some socks, underwear, and t-shirts for in-store pick-up. Even for the few minutes it would take to pick up the order, I refused to enter the store looking the way I did. In retrospect, it did not look much better to have me hovering outside by the store’s front doors. Clad in a paper hospital shirt, arms wrapped in bloody gauze, dried blood on my pants and shoes — I looked like a crazed killer that had escaped an asylum. 

After an overnight stay at the airport hotel, most of which was spent scrubbing off roughly a hundred spots of electrode adhesive, we were back home early on Monday. I was worried that 1) a similar incident could happen on the return flight, and 2) I would be feeling better on Monday and the trip would have been cancelled for nothing. I had nothing to worry about in either case. I survived the trip home, and still felt like I had been hit by a good-sized panel truck. I didn’t feel partially functional again until about Thursday, which would have been over halfway through a very active trip, and I didn’t pronounce myself fully recovered until the day which would have been our return. 

Boston had waited 394 years for my arrival. It could wait one more.

More to come…

A victim of Blucifer?