Disclaimer: I’m suffering from a bit of brain fog, so if the below post doesn’t make a whole lot of sense, I apologise in advance…
After a year of being careful and socially distancing and all that good stuff, covid has finally arrived in our home. I’ve had this feeling right from the start of the pandemic, that before all this is over, every single one of us will be touched by this diseased whether directly or indirectly. Everyone will know someone who has been seriously ill. Everyone will know at least one person who maybe didn’t make it. In a way, I’ve been waiting for this, which might have been the biggest reason I’ve felt so out of sorts mentally all year.
It all started two weeks ago when my husband developed a low fever. We didn’t think anything much of it, because we were (mistakenly) under the impression that covid caused a high fever. It doesn’t.
After a few days of that, he got tested, and it came back positive. My test came back negative at that time. Fine, no problem, we’re young and relatively healthy, so instead of thinking too much of it, we contacted our doctor, who gave us a list of medicines for him to take and instructed that everyone at home should self-isolate to stop spreading it further to other family members. We live with my elderly in-laws, who had luckily already received their first vaccine a month earlier.
For the medical nerds out there this is what my husband was prescribed: Ivermectin, Doxycycline, (3 days each), Favipiravir, Dexamethasone, Paracetamol, Aspirin and a bunch of vitamins and Zinc. Yes, it’s quite the list.
Camping in my home office, away from my husband, was the hardest thing ever. It made me so anxious to know he was right there, but I just wasn’t allowed to be around, so I couldn’t make sure he was ok. I felt that if only I could *see* him, I’d know.
His symptoms were relatively mild, until the side effects of the medications kicked in, and even more medications were required to get that under control (he developed dyspepsia and constant hiccups). We were advised to get baseline blood work done, which revealed quite a few abnormal results, so that was a concern as well and he’s a lifelong asthmatic, so we knew we had to be careful.
But, the medicines we got were the best we could get, and apparently it would take time for this thing to pass, so we could do nothing else except wait. That’s what we did. We waited, in stasis. Just about twenty feet apart. I only saw him when he occasionally stretched his legs outside, or I had to come in fully masked and holding my breath in order to use the bathroom.
Still no real symptoms for me except a mildly raw throat, and a general feeling of something being wrong, which both of us put down to seasonal allergies and anxiety. It wasn’t that. I tested positive 3 days later, with a temperature of 99F, a headache and some mild post-nasal drip.
And so I moved back into the room, thrilled that at least we were together and I could keep an eye on him. My blood work came back largely normal and I did not get the mountain of drugs that were prescribed to him.
But my feelings of relief that at least our individual isolation was over did not last. On day 9 of his symptoms, he got worse.
The fever, which had subsided for a day or so came back even higher. The cough became more persistent. His oxygen levels were starting to fluctuate a bit. The doctor ordered a follow-up blood test which revealed that the infection had gotten worse. I have to add that our doctor is absolutely amazing and I don’t know what we would have done without him. He took time out during his lunch hour at the nearby hospital where he works and examined my husband, putting his own safety and health at risk, just to satisfy himself of what was really going on. He was not happy with what he found.
We had him admitted with covid related pneumonia on our doctor’s advice. His blood test results (CRP and liver markers) were terrible. Though his blood oxygenation was quite alright when he reached the hospital. I feel this is in part thanks to the comprehensive cocktail of medicines he’d received up to that point, and the strict discipline with which he’d been doing breathing exercises since his initial diagnosis.
No visitors or outsiders are allowed inside the Covid ward at the hospital. And because I’d already tested positive, I stayed in the car rather than enter the emergency room as well. I didn’t want to expose anyone else unnecessarily. We’re lucky to have phones and internet and all, or else things would become unbearable pretty quickly.
It’s day 3 now of his hospital stay, and finally things seem to be looking up, beit slowly. His oxygenation dips down occasionally but not so much that he has to be put on supplemental oxygen. His CRP reading skyrocketed until yesterday, but is showing a downward trend today. His liver function is still very abnormal. Luckily his CT scan came back “not too bad”. Whatever that means. Not to bad generally, or not to bad compared to people seriously ill with Covid? His fever has finally broken on day 12 of the disease.
And I’m still at home, alone in our bedroom and away from everyone else and even the confused and heartbroken puppy, because I might still be contagious. My symptoms are mild, mainly just a headache, a runny nose and burning eyes. Fatigue is setting in and my brain, which is normally full of ideas and stories feels like a pool of drying cement.
I would have liked to be part of the way through my next book by now. Instead, I’m sleeping roughly 16 hours a day and staring blankly at my phone the rest of the time.
Counting the days and hours until my husband comes back home.
This isn’t a joke. Please wear a mask. Take all precautions. Get vaccinated. Nothing is fullproof, but at least you’ll know you’ve done what you could.