Body aches, nausea. Things are a blur. It鈥檚 hard to breathe. It鈥檚 hard to think.
My husband stops the car outside of the neon-lit front doors. He鈥檚 not allowed in the hospital. I want to kiss and hug him. I want to scream. Will I come out of here? Racing thoughts. A close friend has already died from COVID-19. I鈥檓 not sure I鈥檒l ever see my husband again.
I have trouble walking from weakness. And from fear.
They lead me to a room, and post a sign warning 鈥減ossible COVID鈥� on the glass window.
I wait for what feels like 20 minutes. Then a young doctor and nurse enter, wearing full masks, face shields, gowns and gloves.
I start to cry. I tell them I鈥檓 scared. They give me an EKG. Listen to my heart and lungs.
The doctor isn鈥檛 unkind, but he鈥檚 not reassuring. My throat is swollen, my chest tight. But he says I鈥檓 getting enough oxygen. You鈥檙e fine for now, he says.
Go home, he says.
I鈥檓 back home when they call. It鈥檚 a shock to hear it out loud. I鈥檓 COVID positive. But I haven鈥檛 been anywhere in months!
Forms
I fill out forms, doctor鈥檚 notes, HR paperwork. You get 14 days leave. But COVID isn鈥檛 a 14-day problem. I鈥檓 exhausted. It takes a week to finish the forms.
One day I wake up puking. Seven to eight times. Dizzy.
Back to the ER.
They think it鈥檚 my inner ear, from the virus. They give me three meds.
The dizziness wanes. But the fever comes back. It comes every day.
The doctors say I鈥檓 a long-hauler. They think I鈥檒l be sick another three weeks.
Mostly, I lie still and listen to TV. I close my eyes and let the 鈥淧roperty Brothers鈥� blither in the background.
One day on Twitter, I see a photo of blackened lungs. Permanent damage from COVID, the headline reads. So scary. I had no idea if I might be going back to the hospital, or what damage my body would sustain forever. I have no control.
I鈥檓 worried about my family: My mother and father seem to take more risks than I want them to. Mom wants to see her sister. Dad wants to do his plein-air painting class. They鈥檒l stay outside, they tell me.
Loneliness is the hardest part. My husband and I social-distance inside the house. I miss close eye contact, dinners at the table, hugs and sleeping cuddled next to each other. We talk from adjacent rooms or text each other, but we can鈥檛 touch.
Comfortable Prison
Five weeks out: I鈥檓 still trapped inside this comfortable prison. Not able to go out, not able to be part of the outside world. I feel like Rapunzel. But, I鈥檓 lucky. I鈥檓 not on a ventilator.
At night, I can鈥檛 breathe. My heart races and my lungs feel so tight. When I lie down, I panic.
People bring sunflowers, strawberries, sausages, pies, GrubHub certificates. They send cards, emails, texts. Mom and dad call daily. Prayers. One friend drops off a tiny plastic cowboy and his horse 鈥� so much love. They think I鈥檓 getting well. But I鈥檓 still struggling for breath.
The fever keeps coming back. My doctor says I have to hit normal three days in a row. But I can鈥檛.
I鈥檓 ready to jump in a lake. Go camping. Zoom with my friends. I hate my couch cushions. Been staring at them too long. Being stuck here itches against me like a tag in the back of a shirt that needs to be clipped.
Grateful
Today I sorted tupperware, matching lids to bottoms. Knowing the fever will probably come in an hour or two.
I made it to the stop sign at the end of the block today. It鈥檚 harder to breathe in this mask. A neighbor on her stoop waves as I heave by. I stop at every power pole to catch some breath. Chest heaving. Pain in my lungs. They feel like concrete. But I get there. It鈥檚 a small victory.
I am grateful my body is healing. I鈥檓 grateful that my family is OK. But it's been six-and-a-half weeks now.
***
And then I make it. Three days in a row with no fever.
I鈥檓 back.
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