What?! The Pandemic? Not Again! A True Story. Part 1: The First Wave.

I had Covid19. I thought I was immune after that. It was a long haul and it took way too long to feel good enough to deal with daily life. And then, I had to face the aftermath. This is how it all began…

A Conniving Virus

I heard about it the first week of February, from a dear friend visiting town. I had been abroad for a while, and we hadn’t seen each other in years. We laughed hysterically because she had been calling it “Con-A-Virus” repeatedly. I knew that couldn’t be the name, and we searched it online. It was a moment to remember: over Mexican food and drinks, laughing, chatting, like we used to, so long ago. Cherishing memories, and sharing updates on our lives. We laugh so much. She is astonishingly smart and funny. We had no idea of what was about to happen. Oh, the irony! It never occurred to us that her tongue-slip would end up being a bizarrely suitable name. We could not possibly imagine the magnitude it would take. The deaths. The horrors. The politics. The misinformation war. The fight for the vaccine. The fight for everything. The fears and how that would shape everyone’s lives. We could not possibly know, back then, the economic hands that delayed the announcements, which made a lot of money for a very few. Or the skewed politics that would unfold. The massive hysteria that would follow. The social unrest. The outrage, the handling of the crisis, the aftermath. We could not foresee how much and how many of the most vulnerable inhabitants of our whole planet would be affected by the pandemic. People struggling to survive, this means so much more than surviving the virus. It means staying alive, yes. But also putting food on the table, paying the rent and bills, homeschooling, cabin fever, working remotely, the ever-present fear as all the progress to protect the minorities, the land, the planet, was being undone, with the struck of sharpie.

My friend finally went back home and wishing I could leave with her, I returned to my normal life abroad: semi-comfortable self-confinement in the old continent.

One Last Memorable Hug

A week later a friend came to visit me. He wanted for us to go out for drinks and tapas, mainly because he was worried I had not been going out much since I fell ill the year before. I went through bronchitis and pneumonia. Then the winter came. I was not feeling up to going out. I felt fatigued, suspected I had caught a cold, and asked him to hang out at my place. The virus hadn’t gained the pandemic title yet. He wasn’t feeling well either: the yearly seasonal allergies hit him a bit sooner than usual; and also, a lot heavier than usual. But he assured me it was a seasonal yearly struggle, and that I shouldn’t worry. We hugged, we talked, and we hugged again. I love him unconditionally, and fiercely. He is one beautiful soul. He has a rational mind, a dark, witty sense of humor, deep soulful mesmerizing eyes, and the most comforting, assertive, honest words, and smiles. And he is a great hugger.

I love just looking into his eyes or being held by him. We have shared amazing moments. We both needed it so bad. To hug each other, I mean. To sit, side by side, and talk. To laugh and cry, together. I will never forget that day, or how he saved my life when I first met him. Giving all in your power to save a stranger is a rare occurrence in these times. I had no idea how long it would take for me to get another hug, or to see him again.

Fever, Cough, and Lady Death

The symptoms got worse for both of us. He was worried about his parents. We both feared we had the virus, and he was terrified of exposing his family. The “official” news were devastating, but negligible when compared to the news we were receiving from people living the nightmare in their own skin. We talked on the phone the few times he had the strength to pick up and actually make the words come out of his mouth. He had self-isolated when he got the fever. So did I. I called the Coronavirus Hotline three times, and they kept asking if I could breathe. “Yeah, perfectly; I do have all the other symptoms, though. Including fever.” They told me that they didn’t have enough tests or units. Unless I was dying, they could not come for me to get a test or to get treatment. I was told to stay put, isolate myself, and, if I could not breathe, only then, I should call for an ambulance.

I had spent a whole month of struggles with all the other symptoms when the cough showed up. Until then, I expected a “normal” cough. I didn’t realize what it would feel like. I had never experienced something like that before. My body –apparently I have a strong immune system, and I am grateful for that- had been struggling for so long: first bronchitis that turned into pneumonia; then bronchitis during the winter. Now, “probably”, the Covid19 virus. My body was a warrior. It took the virus a whole month to make its way into my lungs.

It started at 2 am, as an annoying cough. It just wouldn’t stop. Dry and constant, it didn’t let me sleep. It worsened by the minute, and up to the point in which I could not even move. To the point in which I thought I was dying. So did my dog. She stayed close to me, anxious, on alert. She tried again, as she had done before, to drag me out of the apartment by pulling my pants, and running back and forth, showing me the way to the door. This is her signal to follow her, and how we came to rescue her puppies when they were trapped, many years ago. This is how she behaved the day I had to be hospitalized because of pneumonia, the year before. She knows exactly how to tell me this: “you’ve got to follow me”. She knew there was little that she could do for me at home. She knew that we needed help. Immediate help. She also tried barking –but the neighbors were not able to tell the difference between her normal barking and this one- and hitting the door with her small paws. I coughed non-stop for 10 hours. I cannot begin to describe the level of overtiredness this means. Anything, non-stop, and lasting 10 hours, is horrible. But this was something else. I wanted to call an ambulance or the hotline, but I couldn’t. As the thought of death crossed my mind, and unable to call for help, I kept trying to get to the door to leave it open, or to reach for the phone, even though I could not speak or even text. I thought of my dog. I struggled as much as I could. An ambulance. A friend with keys to my house and a car. A neighbor. Something…

It finally stopped. I had lived through the cough. I could breathe, not perfectly, but it was something. Nonetheless, the headache and the pain in my muscles were excruciating. I couldn’t stand up. I couldn’t walk to the bathroom. I couldn’t talk from the pain in my face, my neck, and my head. I had blurry vision. I decided to lie down for a minute, before making the call, to let someone know what had just happened, but I fell asleep in an unavoidable collapse from the 10-hour muscle involuntary contraction of my whole body, and the subsequent exhaustion.

Far Away, so Close

I woke up, coughing again, at 4 am. This time I cough for 5 hours. Again, it was non-stop. For the last 45 minutes, I could not breathe. “This is it”, I thought in despair. Dialing for an ambulance was out of the question. I couldn’t reach the phone. I had to wait until it stopped, fearing it would only stop after my breathing. Nobody knew this was happening. My dog would be left without water or food until someone figured out something was up and came looking for me. When the cough finally subsided, I tried to get an ambulance, to no avail. “You’re very close to the healthcare center; we cannot waste an ambulance picking you up. Get up, and walk”. As usual, the emergency services in this place were not clear on the terms that bring them to existence: neither the words “emergency”, nor “services”, seem to ring a bell. As soon as I could muster the strength to do it, I overfilled the water and food bowls, for the dog, and took the usual precautions for when I have to leave the house for longer or unknown periods of time. I texted a few people to let them know what had happened and that I was leaving the house to go to the center. I walked, slowly but surely (and stopping frequently to rest) to the healthcare center. In those conditions, it felt miles away. It usually takes me 10 minutes to get there. Not this time.

The Invisible Beast

They checked me and ordered an ambulance to take me to the hospital. They ran some tests, but the queue was so long, they expected the results to be ready in a few days. Days?! No wonder people were dropping dead at that rate! Experiencing the hospital in the midst of the first wave was quite the experience. I tried to keep myself busy and optimistic by reaching out to people through social media. Giving updates. Taking pictures. Making phone calls. Liking the posts of people wishing me well, from all over the world. I also engaged in small talk with the other people in the room. The gaps that are usually present didn’t seem to be there. We were all one; together in fear. I tried to provide comfort and made them smile, and asked them about their stories. They welcomed it. Silly or witty comments made them forget, for a minute, they were waiting for news on their tests. An intimate space had been created by the possibility of having crossed paths coronavirus. I thought I would get better news. I smiled at each one that was called with good news, and wished them well, as I saw the nurse’s arm signaling them the door to leave. “You are okay. You can go home now”. When they finally called my name, it was different, though. No arm pointing to the exit. No “you’re okay”. I got a “please, follow me” instead. I still felt strong; I was at the hospital, after all. I came in time. I had had the cough only for less than 2 days, and now I was breathing normally, the oxygenation in my blood was almost perfect, everything seemed fine, and my vitals were healthier than normal. I hadn’t had much rest, but I was feeling well, all things considered (and already accustomed to the everlasting fatigue). In that room, in which fear reigned, I could smile for all, but my world was turned upside down a few minutes later, and there was no encouragement for me. I was taken to a doctor’s room, with several people in it. They took all my vitals again, while they talked to me. Thinking it couldn’t possibly be that bad, I was hit with force when they explained the situation. My eyes could not contain the tears, as fear plagued every inch of my body.

Doctors and nurses were amazing. They were all professional and efficient. Everything worked like clockwork. They were tired, but they were warriors and determined to do their best. They were also very humane and made me feel like a person, for a change. They wanted to help, and they were clear and calm, at all times. The x-rays revealed that I had bilateral pneumonia, in a particular pattern. The danger, I was told, was that I could not rely on one of the lungs, if the other one failed, as they were both compromised. The hospital had no ICUs available, and I was to be taken to the place we all feared the most; the place from which the horrible news came, day after day. Doctors told me it was definitely Covid19, and that they knew it because the patterns in the x-rays were very distinctive. After discussing the options, reviewing my medical records and history, and engaging other specialists, I was able to obtain a letter explaining why I was not being sent to the temporary hospital-camp, and that I was not refusing treatment, or leaving against medical advice. That it was a mutual agreement, with the nod of the specialists. Otherwise, not following the protocol would allow the centers to refuse to give me the treatment, even in the event of imminent death. I felt assured having this letter that would protect me if I had an emergency. Later, I would find out it did not protect me at all. It was legal protection, but, as often happens in countries with rampant corruption, that meant little for all practical purposes. Fortunately, I did not require a respirator or ventilator, as they may have been denied any treatment to me. The doctors gave me a treatment to follow, and allowed me to go home, under two conditions: if at any point, I felt I could not breathe, I had to call immediately for help, as they would need to bring oxygen and equipment; also, they gave me a strict follow-up protocol. On the third day, I already felt a lot better. After completing the 5-day treatment, I had to wait for 4 days (continuing the intake of the other medications), and get new x-rays and blood work, to see if the treatment had worked. If it hadn’t, they would give me a different treatment. The “speed tests” were not ready yet.

Another low blow hit me when my primary doctor refused to follow the protocol prescribed by the hospital, arguing both that they had received a new protocol from the local government, and that I had left the hospital against medical advice. I explained that I didn’t, letter in hand, and this is how I found out that the letter meant nothing if your primary care doctor thinks otherwise. She scheduled the follow-up for 8 weeks later. I fought tooth and nail, with the little vitality and resources I had, and finally managed to get the tests ran, over a week later than recommended. The blood work results showed I still had the virus. My primary doctor panicked. Her whole demeanor changed. Until then, she dismissed any information I gave her, most of my requests, and spoke to me in a scolding tone that reached yelling at some points. She knew she might have done irreversible damage, and, from that moment on, she changed her attitude towards me. Now we are getting along better. Until then, it felt I couldn’t really trust her. She tried to speed up all the results, scheduled urgent x-rays, contacted the hospital and doctors that had been dealing with coronavirus cases, i.e. the “experts”, if anyone was, with this new kind of virus. The x-rays showed the “stain” had reduced in one lung and disappeared in the other one, and I was getting better. Unfortunately, the blood work revealed that I still had some viral charge in my body. I hadn’t received the original PCR test results, of course. The paperwork reflected that I “probably” had Covid19. Namely, my name did not count on the statistics. The numbers were through the roof, and people like me (and many other cases), were not even counted. This allowed the official channels to provide the public with “better” numbers. Letting political agendas handle a major health crisis is a dangerous thing.

It took around three weeks to get the PCR results. A lot had happened since then. They came up negative, and when I asked how come, I was told that several factors might have affected the results: the PCR itself is not extraordinarily reliable (an understatement, as the statistics, were apparently between 50% and 70%, at best), even with a high viral concentration; it had been over a month since the peak of my viral charge; the defective tests that had been bought (for a small fortune of taxpayers money) were not thrown out but mixed with the good ones, and being used as well. There was no way of knowing. They were sure it was Covid19 because of the x-rays and the effectiveness of the treatment. However, the paperwork and statistics did not count me as having had Covid19. I couldn’t help but wonder what the real numbers were.

Out of the Woods, and Into the Fog

No additional treatment was required, other than staying confined (for a period of time) and resting. The fatigue slowly got a bit better, but it lingered for months. This piece is the background story of my adventures -and misadventures- dealing with the dreaded virus that, still today, some people claim does not exist. I know it does. I learned it the hard way.

I was out of the woods. I felt encouraged by the fact that I was in no danger and immune –probably- for a period of time –which nobody knew for sure- to the virus. And –most likely- I was also immune to the mutations –but it was hard to say-. Confusion and misinformation ensued. Or, as I call it, “the fog”…

(To be continued…)