UNC Emergency Room Turns Away Covid Patients
If you don't have health insurance and haven't gotten a Covid 'vaccine', you can expect to be shown the door at UNC Hospitals.
“UNC Hospitals is a public, academic medical center operated by and for the people of North Carolina.” – UNC Medical Center
While UNC Hospital claims to be a not-for-profit, it is actually a multi-billion dollar organization that is all about profit. One of the first things they asked me on my arrival was how was I going to pay for the visit. Things went downhill from there. Here’s the story:
On New Year’s Day, 2022, I received a call from a relative asking if I could take him and his wife to get tested for Covid. They were both too sick to drive. She had been vaccinated and boosted but had come down with one of those all-too-common ‘breakthrough’ cases while visiting family over the holidays. Shortly after she returned, her husband fell ill as well. He had not been vaccinated. Neither had I.
News reports indicated that the new Omicron variant of Covid-19, while not nearly as severe, was highly transmissible and was proving resistant to the vaccines, as evidenced by the fact that more than a dozen members of Congress had fallen ill to breakthrough cases. Also it was becoming increasingly clear that there would be no way to halt the spread of Covid and that it would become endemic, as announced by Anthony Fauci in November. In Orange County, North Carolina, where I live, there were reports of Covid spreading like wildfire, with about a thousand new cases reported the previous week, and five times that number projected in the coming weeks. Covid was quickly closing in.
I considered my options: 1) take my relatives to a Covid testing center and likely get infected, or 2) decline the request for fear of catching Covid. But as Dr. Fauci had assured the public, virtually everyone was going to catch Covid at some point, and given the numbers in my area, it was likely to be soon. Even if I had been vaccinated, there was a strong chance I would come down with Covid, especially since I was about to be exposed to a strain of the virus that had already broken through the vaccine.
The choice was not difficult to make. Loved ones needed my help, and I was going to give them that help. Besides, natural immunity is better than a vaccine, so the downside seemed acceptable. I told them I’d be right over. I drove to their house, picked them up, and took them to a testing center. A few hours later, we got the news that they had both tested positive.
The following evening, I began to show signs of Covid. My temperature began ticking up and I was beginning to feel a bit sick. By the morning of January 3rd, I couldn’t get out of bed. I spent the entire day horizontal. But the day after that, I woke up feeling pretty OK. My symptoms were all but gone and there wasn’t much I couldn’t do. My only symptoms were that I felt just a little under the weather. I was about 80% normal. Wow. That was easy.
Not so fast. On the 5th I was back in bed again. And it was even worse. But that’s usually the way the flu hits me too – I get hit hard for a day or two, then I start feeling almost 100%, then I get hit again even harder. But after a few days it’s over – so I wasn’t surprised. And just as with the flu, I was feeling better within a couple of days.
But then a third wave of symptoms hit, and this was way worse. I couldn’t take more than a half a breath, and even then the pain in my lungs was agonizing. I was as weak as a kitten – it would take hours for me to gather the strength just to roll over in bed. My appetite was virtually gone. I barely had the energy to drink the water and tea my kids were making for me. The following two weeks were pretty much a blur. I vaguely remember canceling virtually all of my online tutoring sessions, managing somehow to will my way through the most important ones. One of my sons came over to help take care of me. He brought a steamer and a boatload of cold medications.
Basically all I remember about those two weeks were 1) focusing on taking my next half breath, 2) marshaling the strength to roll over every couple of hours, 3) shuffling to the bathroom, 4) taking the medications my kids were giving me, 5) trying to work up the strength to take a sip of water, and 6) everybody in the house coming down with Covid and getting over it before I’d even gotten through Round 3.
On the morning of January 17th, I barely had the strength to pick up the phone and cancel the two online sessions I had scheduled for the day. I could no longer work. I hadn’t even had the energy to lift my head to drink for the past two or three days. This, on top of the fact that all my energy was focused on breathing, made me decide to text my son (a project in itself) and ask him to take me to the hospital.
Throughout this ordeal, I had resisted going to the hospital because I was sure I would ultimately come out of it OK. I had always been the picture of perfect health, and in recent decades, my immune system was only getting stronger. Having been a classroom teacher for nearly two decades, I’d been exposed to germs galore, working with students as young as four and as old as 74. I also had never gone crazy avoiding germs and washing my hands every time I had to wipe a kid’s nose. Many times, the flu would burn through school districts and leave me unscathed. I hadn’t been sick in years.
My son picked me up at around 10:30am and we headed to the UNC Hospital Emergency Room in Chapel Hill. During the ride, I felt a sense of relief. I had fought long and hard and had given it my best shot. But now I couldn’t work. I couldn’t do anything. My existence had boiled down to balancing my need for oxygen against the searing pain each breath caused. This was not living – it was merely surviving. And although I suspected that this visit to the hospital would saddle me with debt for most if not all of my remaining years, it would be worth it to get healthy again. There was much to be grateful for. I was looking forward to being in good hands.
When we arrived at the hospital, I was able to get out of the car on my own (albeit at a tectonic pace) and make my way to the main entrance, my son following close behind. Immediately, things looked promising because the waiting room was empty. I figured that I would be seen right away, and I was.
A young woman led me through a couple of short corridors into what seemed like an adjunct waiting room. This is when things began to get weird – it wasn’t anything I could point to specifically – just a creepiness about the place. First, there wasn’t a patient to be seen – just a handful of workers milling about. I couldn’t help wondering why, given the thousands of Covid cases reported in Orange County in the previous two weeks, the Emergency Room wasn’t packed, let alone completely empty. I looked back, expecting to see my son. Instead, I saw a man peering from behind the door I’d just walked through. Just his head and one of his shoulders was showing. Like he was keeping his eye on me to make sure I didn’t rob the place. It gave me the creeps. But I looked right back at him, not backing down. He didn’t back down either. We looked into each other’s eyes for about 10 seconds. Then the intake person arrived and directed me to one of the rooms and told me to sit down.
My son later told me that he’d been stopped at the waiting room exit and told he wasn’t permitted to go any farther because he could risk getting Covid. When he told them he’d already recovered from Covid, they dropped the ostensible reasons and simply gave him a hard no.
Nearly all the lights on the entire floor were out. Were they saving energy? I don’t know. But it was like being in a haunted house. And just as with the waiting room, there wasn’t a patient to be seen.
The intake person began asking questions:
From 1 to 10, what’s your level of pain? About an 8.
Do you have insurance? No.
Are you vaccinated and boosted? I haven’t done any of that.
At that point, his demeanor changed from bored, going-through-the-motions, slightly annoyed, to visibly angry. He instructed me to open my mouth. When I did, he jammed a metal thermometer under my tongue as though he were sticking it into a brisket. His hostility was unmistakable. And as my sense of foreboding grew, he told me to take a seat outside the room.
Next, a young lady gave me some payment plan paperwork and told me to follow her down a dark hallway. She wasn’t walking fast yet had to stop a few times to wait for me to catch up. We turned a corner and she led me to a small room at the end of the corridor. The room had a cot with wheels. She told me I could lie down. That was easier said than done because I had to take my shoes off. I felt like a mountain climber in the Himalayas. Everything I did was in slow motion. When I finally got onto the cot, she asked me if I wanted a sheet. It was pretty cold, so I definitely said yes. She came back with something that felt like one of those fans you make out of a piece of paper. And I’m not complaining. I’m just trying to describe my experience in detail.
I lay on the bed trying to breathe, trying to sleep, hearing the incessant beep of the machine next to me. After about 45 minutes, a young lady walked in. I asked her what they were going to do and she said, “Covid’ll getcha!” That didn’t sound reassuring. I told her that I hadn’t had anything to drink in two or three days and could she give me a bag of Ringer’s (Ringer’s solution is essentially water with electrolytes, typically given intravenously to patients suffering from dehydration). I figured she’d know what I was talking about. She looked at me as though I’d asked her for some Zimbabwe. I explained Ringers to her and she said, “Ringer’s lactate?” Yes, please. Would you like some water? I told her that would be fine, but I insisted on the Ringer’s as well.
A few minutes later, she arrived with the Ringer’s, set it on the cot, and turned to the computer. I could see that the bag of Ringer’s was about to roll off the cot, so I said, “Hey, that bag’s gonna fall.” She turned her head and gazed at the bag as it rolled off the cot onto the floor. She might have been watching paint dry. “Oops,” she said. I guess it’s not a big deal, but what is a big deal is that she didn’t seem to care about her job or her patient. She was phoning it in.
Before she gave me the Ringer’s she tested me for Covid. Again, I’m not complaining, but all she seemed to care about was herself. I’m going to put this swab up your nose. Don’t move, don’t flail, stay perfectly still, and don’t hit me.
Next came the needle. I wasn’t very worried because I’d donated blood about a dozen times and gotten plenty of blood tests. My veins were good. In 40-plus years, not once had there been a problem.
But there’s always a first time.
She slid the needle into my forearm muscle. It hurt like hell. But I stayed still. Your vein hated that! Cheerful, matter-of-fact, no worries. She tried it again. Same thing. Your vein rolled! A third time. Once again, no dice. At that point, I had to get involved. I pointed to the vein and said, “Put it right there.” Success. Four times a charm. My arm ended up looking like a dark version of poi. Maybe I’ll post a picture of it.
I fully understand that nurses and doctors and other healthcare professionals always have to appear calm and reassuring rather than frustrated or panicked. I get it. But this nurse or phlebotomist or temp or whatever she was, wasn’t reassuring in the slightest (and neither was anybody else that day). But she certainly had the calm part down.
The next person who came to my room didn’t even have that.
After an hour or so on the Ringer’s – no surprise – I had to go to the bathroom. The bathroom was right across the hall, but the bag of Ringer’s that was attached to my arm was also attached to a wall. I was hoping I could get one of those IV bag holders with wheels on it so I could get to the bathroom. So I pressed the ‘Nurse’ button on the remote. A man’s voice came over the intercom:
Yeah?
I have to go to the bathroom.
OK, a couple minute.
It didn’t take long, but the guy who arrived seemed in a panic of sorts. It took him about 20 seconds to figure out how to work the sliding door. Then he fumbled around in the supply cart next to my bed and pulled out a plastic container and dropped it into my lap.
“That’s it?” I said.
You Covid! And then he bolted. As he was leaving, I asked if there was any way I could use the bathroom across the hall instead of a plastic container. He was already on his way down the hall as I heard him shout, No! You Covid!
Another hour or so later, somebody came to my room with a portable x-ray machine in tow. She did a chest x-ray. Very professional, in and out. Best part of my day.
Finally, after nearly four hours of shivering, trying to sleep and trying to breathe, I saw a doctor slide open the door and briskly walk in. I knew she was a doctor because she was wearing a lanyard that read ‘Angela Allen, MD’. I felt a wash of relief and began to get my hopes up that I’d be getting some sort of treatment before long. Doctor Allen said, “How are you doing?” Very cheerful. Very professional. But for some reason – I couldn’t put my finger on it – my sense of foreboding returned. Nevertheless, I gave a weak smile and replied, “Shitty.” I could tell she was smiling behind her mask when she said, “Covid’ll getcha!”
Angela Allen, MD
That was the last thing I wanted to hear. And as it turned out, it pretty much was. My hopes had been dashed by the cheerful ‘Covid’ll getcha!’, obviously code for ‘Fuck off.’ I knew immediately that there was little hope of my getting any meaningful medical treatment. Still, I asked what the plan was. Doctor Allen told me that “The pain is just pain” and that I would “Just have to push through it.”
“I would take Tylenol ‘round the clock,” she said. Then she checked herself. “But don’t take any more than what it says on the box.” Thanks for the sage medical advice. I’ll get right on it.
“And that’s it?” Why wasn’t I surprised.
“Yep.” Something told me that if she felt as sick as I did, she’d be doing more than taking Tylenol ‘round the clock. Then she said, “You can go now.”
But there was a problem. There was a tube running from my arm to a bag of Ringer’s lactate hanging on the wall. There was also a sensor taped to my finger and plugged into a machine next to my cot.
“How do I do that?” I was certain she would recognize my predicament.
“Just go out the sliding door and turn left,” said Doctor Allen, sounding very helpful, very cheerful, and above all, very confident. “There’ll be a door right in front of you. Just open it and you’ll be in the parking lot.” She wasn’t kidding.
“But I’m attached to the wall.”
I don’t know what Doctor Allen was thinking at that point, but this time, her response was nonverbal. She blinked twice. That’s the letter ‘i’ in Morse code. Could she have been sending me a message? Maybe she was about to say, ‘I didn’t realize you were attached to the wall.’ Or perhaps, ‘I was just thinking about what to order for lunch,’ or, ‘I’m being held hostage in a fortune cookie factory!’ The possibilities were endless. And at this point, so were the impossibilities. One thing was certain – I wasn’t getting what I expected, which was to see Ashton Kutcher jump out from behind a curtain and tell me that I was being Punk’d.
Alas, I would never find out what Doctor Angela Allen was about to say, if anything, because I would never see her again. She looked down at my arm, then followed the tube with her eyes to the wall. Then she glanced furtively around the room. I half expected her to say, ‘You Covid!’ but I think she was just looking for the door. She quickly found it and made her escape.
And there I was, alone again, straining to take my next half breath. My cell phone rang. It was my son. He was asking me what was going on – they’d told him that I would be coming out any minute now. I explained my dilemma and told him that he would just have to wait.
And wait he did. About 45 minutes later, a nurse (I’m assuming) came in, unhooked me from the wall and told me I was free to leave. Draggingly, I put on my shoes and jacket and slid open the door. And just as Doctor Allen had said, there was a door to my left that opened onto the parking lot. And there was my son, waiting to take me to the comfort of my home.
I’ve often wondered why, with the thousands of cases of Covid reported in Orange County in the weeks leading up to my visit to the UNC ER, there were no patients in the waiting room and none to be seen as I was being led to my room. Did word get out that UNC was turning away Covid patients? I don’t know. But given the fact that U.S. hospitals operate under a business model rather than a healthcare model, a Covid death is much better for the bottom line than treating an uninsured Covid patient.
Also, why didn’t they let my son come in with me? I will say this – he definitely would have advocated for me had he seen the way I was being treated – or not treated. I think I just answered my question.
Now UNC is sending me a bill for $529. They also gave me a phone call but I was working and unable to take it. I haven’t yet gotten around to returning the call. The question is, will I pay the $529? I may not have a choice. While I have no doubt UNC Hospital can handle the loss, the fact that it made $4.2 billion in 2019 (according to UNC Health's most recent annual report) means it certainly has the muscle (and the temerity, from what I understand) to make an example of somebody. I guess we’ll have to wait and see.
Looking on the bright side, in a way I’m lucky. How many people can say that a doctor told them to get up and walk out of a hospital while they were still connected to a wall by one of their blood vessels?