Fever Dreams and Medical Nightmares

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The flu hit me like a freight train carrying my own stupidity as cargo. Three days into AWS re:Invent—after the crowds, the recycled convention center air, the handshakes with thousands of tech bros who probably sneezed into their palms—my body decided it had absorbed enough conference pestilence and staged a full-scale revolt. Fever climbed to 102, bones ached like someone replaced my skeleton with rusted iron, sinuses packed with concrete while my throat felt like I'd gargled broken glass and lit cigarettes.

The Official Wendy the Druid: Queer Space Playlist, Is Always Growing.

Keira drove me to urgent care, her hand steady on the wheel while I shivered despite the car heater blasting. You need actual medical attention, she'd said, voice carrying that particular certainty she uses when I'm being stubborn. Not your usual 'tough it out and drink bourbon' approach.

The urgent care waiting room smelled like antiseptic failure and desperate hope. Fluorescent lights hummed with malicious intent, making my headache worse. Insurance card, ID, fill out forms while hands shake from fever. The intake nurse—middle-aged white woman with helmet hair and evangelical judgment radiating from her pores—took my information with professional courtesy until she reached my legal name.

So this says... William? Her voice pitched up, eyebrows climbing toward that shellacked hairdo. But you're presenting as...?

Wendy, I said, voice raw. My name is Wendy.

Well, according to your insurance—

According to my driver's license too, I interrupted, too sick for this particular bullshit. I’m working on the legal name change, that said been Wendy for six years.

She typed with aggressive keystrokes, lips pursing like she'd bitten into something sour. Made notes I couldn't see. When the doctor finally called me back—twenty minutes that felt like hours—he walked in reading the chart with expression suggesting he'd found something distasteful.

So, William—

Wendy.

—it says here you're experiencing flu-like symptoms? He didn't look up, didn't acknowledge the correction. Mid-fifties, probably played golf on weekends, wore his authority like armor against having to see patients as actual humans.

The exam was perfunctory, cold. Stethoscope pressed against chest while he barely concealed disgust. Questions about symptoms delivered with clinical detachment suggesting I wasn't worth genuine medical attention. When I mentioned the hormone therapy—because doctors need to know medications, because being thorough might fucking matter—his expression shifted into something colder.

Well, you understand that these... lifestyle choices... can compromise immune function.

Lifestyle choices. The fever made processing slower than usual, but rage cut through brain fog like lightning through thunderclouds. My being a transwoman has nothing to do with catching influenza at a conference with seventy-five thousand people.

I'm simply saying that when you alter your body's natural—

I left. Walked out while he was mid-sentence, grabbed my jacket from the exam room chair, and went to find Keira in the waiting room. Didn't get the prescription for Tamiflu, didn't get the doctor's note for work, didn't get basic fucking human decency. Got misgendered repeatedly, got lectured about lifestyle choices, got treated like my existence was medical aberration requiring explanation rather than sick person requiring treatment.

Keira took one look at my face and stood. What happened?

Let's just go.

Now it's Thursday night, and I'm at Sanctuary Bar despite still feeling like microwaved death. Body aches persist, fever broke yesterday but exhaustion clings like cobwebs. Probably should be home in bed, but isolation makes everything worse. At least here the music drowns out the ringing in my ears—Genesis playing "Land of Confusion" through speakers that crackle with affectionate distortion, Phil Collins' voice declaring the world's insanity while I nurse my own particular variety.

Miguel materializes before I fully settle onto my stool, bottle already in hand. Mom, you look like shit, he observes with brutal affection. Like actual warmed-over death that someone tried reheating and gave up halfway through.

Flu, I croak. From the conference.

He pours without asking—Woodford Reserve Double Oaked tonight, amber liquid catching basement light like captured sunset. The bourbon's scent hits first: vanilla and caramel, toasted oak and dark chocolate undertones, sweet complexity promising warmth my body desperately craves. This batch has been aging in barrels kissed by fire, he says, sliding the glass across polished wood. Figured you needed something with staying power.

The first sip burns beautifully down my raw throat, heat spreading through chest like internal sunrise. Rich, smooth, slightly sweet with spice underneath—everything I need and nothing I deserve after being too fucking stubborn to stay home.

Ezra bounces over, blue hair catching light like electric silk, piercings glinting. Mom! Then they register my condition, enthusiasm dimming into concern. Holy shit, you look terrible. Like, genuinely awful. Are you okay?

Flu. Plus bonus medical discrimination.

Oh fuck, what happened?

So I tell them. The story spills out with fever-rough voice while they listen with growing horror—the misgendering, the lifestyle choices comment, the doctor's barely concealed disgust. By the time I finish, Ezra's vibrating with rage.

That's such bullshit! That's literally medical malpractice! You can report him, right?

To who? Della emerges from the kitchen carrying a plate of something that smells like heaven—chicken soup with actual chunks of vegetables, steam rising like prayers. The medical board that's probably full of more assholes just like him? System's designed to protect doctors, not patients. Especially not patients they think are freaks.

She sets the soup in front of me with aggressive tenderness. Eat. Your body needs fuel, not just bourbon.

Sarah leans against the bar, flannel shirt crisp despite the basement heat, boots making authoritative statement against concrete floor. The medical industrial complex is fundamentally hostile to anyone existing outside normative categories, she observes, voice carrying philosophical weight. They pathologize difference, medicalize identity, turn bodies into battlegrounds where their authority gets reasserted through systemic violence disguised as healthcare.

Fuck, Eileen's voice pitches high with fury, flight attendant posture rigid with indignation. That's exactly the kind of shit that kills people! Not the flu—the discrimination! The refusal to provide basic care because someone's gender doesn't match their expectations! She's pacing now, kinetic energy of someone who just witnessed injustice and mentally composing protest signs. We should organize a sit-in at that urgent care. Make them address their discriminatory practices publicly.

Brandon looks up from his notebook, gin and tonic sweating in his grip. I've written about this—the medical gaslighting trans people face. How we're simultaneously over-medicalized and under-treated. They obsess over our transitions but refuse to treat our actual health problems. His hands gesture wildly, animated with writer's passion for capturing truth. Like your flu has nothing to do with being trans, but suddenly that's all they can see. Your entire existence reduced to your medical history instead of your actual symptoms.

Sage hasn't spoken, but their colored pens move across napkin in concentric circles—drawing patterns that somehow capture the conversation's emotional architecture. Blues bleeding into reds, purples spiraling outward like bruises forming. Art as witness when words feel inadequate.

That's fucking typical, River says, voice carrying clinical precision cutting through emotional chaos. The medical field is toxic as hell for trans and gay people. We're supposed to provide care but half our colleagues see us as abominations requiring conversion therapy instead of respect. They lean against the bar, wedding band from their partnership with Phoenix catching light. I've watched patients get refused treatment, misgendered on charts, denied pain medication because doctors assume we're drug-seeking. It's systemic violence with a stethoscope.

Phoenix's voice cracks with street-rough survival instinct. When my parents kicked me out, I got pneumonia living in that shelter. Went to emergency room and got lectured about 'lifestyle choices' instead of antibiotics. Like being queer caused bacterial infection instead of, you know, sleeping in a moldy fucking building.

River's jaw tightens, protective girlfriend energy radiating like force field. That's why I specifically requested Tuesday shifts at the 24-hour urgent care on Morrison Street. I wanted to be there for community members who need care from someone who won't treat their existence as pathology. They meet my eyes directly. I'm there every Tuesday, 6 AM to 6 PM. Come see me instead of whatever transphobic asshole you got stuck with. I'll actually treat your flu like a medical condition instead of a moral failing.

Tuesdays, I repeat, committing it to fever-addled memory. Morrison Street.

Yeah. Ask for River when you check in. They'll page me even if I'm with another patient. Their voice softens. You deserve actual healthcare, Mom. Not whatever dehumanizing bullshit you got Tuesday.

Keira's been quiet through all this, sitting beside me with book open but not reading. Now she closes it with decisive snap, her voice cutting through conversation with surgical precision. You just sat there and took it.

The bar goes momentarily quiet—Genesis fades into Fleetwood Mac's "The Chain," Stevie Nicks crooning about breaking bonds that can't hold. Keira doesn't raise her voice, doesn't need to. Her words land like scalpel cuts, clean and precise.

You sat in that exam room while he misgendered you repeatedly, while he blamed your identity for viral infection, while he treated you like your existence was offensive. And you just... took it. Like you deserved it.

I was sick—

That's not an excuse. Being sick doesn't mean you surrender your dignity. Her eyes hold mine, dark and unflinching. You wouldn't let someone talk to Phoenix that way. Or Ezra. Or anyone else here. You'd burn that urgent care to the fucking ground if they treated one of your kids like that. But yourself? You just accept it. Like you're not worth defending.

The truth of it sits in my chest heavier than flu symptoms, heavier than fever or exhaustion. She's right. I walked out instead of fighting, left instead of demanding better, accepted degradation like penance for existing.

I’m not worth fucking defending. I take it and maybe others wont have to. What was I supposed to do? My voice comes out smaller than intended. File a complaint they'll ignore? Demand respect from someone who sees me as abomination? I just wanted medicine and to leave.

You were supposed to remember you're worth more than that treatment. Keira's voice softens but doesn't lose intensity. Worth more than accepting dehumanization because confrontation feels hard. You don't have to accept abuse just because someone has a medical degree and access to prescriptions.

Ezra touches my shoulder gently. She's right, Mom. You teach us to stand up for ourselves, to demand respect, to not accept bullshit. But then you don't apply those same standards to yourself.

The soup's getting cold but I take another spoonful anyway, letting the warmth spread through my chest. Della's cooking always tastes like defiance—like she's saying fuck you to a world that doesn't feed its marginalized people properly.

It's exhausting, I admit finally. Fighting every fucking day. Every interaction potentially hostile. Every medical appointment possibly degrading. Sometimes I just want to get through it without turning everything into battlefield.

But that's exactly what they want, Sarah interjects, stoic voice carrying weight of someone who's thought through every angle. They want you exhausted. They want you to stop fighting because fighting requires energy you don't have. That's how systemic oppression works—it's not just active violence, it's wearing you down until accepting abuse feels easier than resisting it.

Brandon nods, scribbling in his notebook. That's the insidious part. They make defending your own humanity feel like unreasonable burden. Like you're the problem for not accepting their dehumanization gracefully.

Sage holds up their napkin—the pattern has resolved into something recognizable now. Concentric circles forming target with figure in the center, arrows pointing inward from all directions. But in the middle, the figure stands. Doesn't fall, doesn't crumble. Just stands. They slide it across the bar toward me without words, letting the art speak what language can't quite capture.

"The Chain" builds toward its crescendo, bass line throbbing through basement walls like heartbeat, Lindsey Buckingham's guitar work cutting through like fury made melody. Run in the shadows / Damn your love, damn your lies...

Miguel refills my bourbon without asking. You know what I think? His voice carries that particular tone mixing childlike wonder with smoky wisdom. I think you're so busy protecting everyone else that you forgot you're worth protecting too.

Phoenix leans forward, electric purple and gold hair catching light. When my parents kicked me out, you told me I deserved better. That I shouldn't accept their version of love that looked like violence. Why doesn't that apply to you?

Because... I start, then stop. Because what? Because somewhere deep down I still believe I deserve punishment for existing? Because transition cost me my daughter's trust and maybe suffering is penance? Because accepting abuse feels easier than fighting when you're already exhausted?

Eileen's not pacing anymore, but her voice still carries that pitched fury. You don't have to be everyone's punching bag just because you're tired. That doctor was wrong. His treatment was wrong. Your identity didn't cause your flu, and you deserved actual medical care instead of bigoted lectures.

The fever's made everything sharper somehow—emotions closer to surface, truths harder to deny. Keira's hand finds mine on the bar top, wedding ring cool against my skin. She doesn't say anything else, doesn't need to. Her point's been made, and now she's just present while I process it.

Tuesdays, I repeat, looking at River. Morrison Street. I'll remember.

Please do. River's smile transforms clinical precision into something warmer, more human. I became a physician’s assistant specifically so I could provide care without discrimination. So community members wouldn't have to endure what you just described. Let me actually do my job properly.