October 14, 2020
There's a wildfire burning out by Mona, so my lungs feel a little tight. Nothing new there--it's been a summer of wildfires, with most of the west coast burning at some point. I've spent the past four months with asthma symptoms, so when my sister Krystle suggests we can pears that night, I agree. I confidently proclaim, "Asthma, not Covid," when I start coughing during the peeling and cutting of the pears.
We spend several hours across the table from each other, and bottle some beautiful fruit. I'm tired and wheezing slightly, but that's to be expected.
My first clue that something may be wrong wrong is when I stand up to leave. I feel dizzy, and my whole body aches. This does NOT feel like asthma!
October 15, 2020
I wake up feeling like I got hit by a MAC truck. Luckily, it's fall break and the kids are home from school anyway. I call the local hospital and schedule myself a Covid test at their drive in facility. Then I throw on some shoes and drive myself over.
The man in full hazmat gear walks out to my car when I get there and call to let them know I've arrived. He sticks that swab so far up my nose, I feel like he's scratching the top of my head with it. And just when I think it can't go any further, he goes that extra 1/4 inch. Yowser! I make some inane comment about at least buying me dinner first, we chuckle a little bit, and I drive off.
As I drive away, I start sobbing. I'm in so much pain, and I already know in my heart that this is Covid. When I get home, I make a Facebook live video about feeling like hot garbage and being worried it's Covid. I can't bring myself to walk into the house.
Literally minutes after finishing the video, I get the call from the infectious disease nurse at the hospital (she's also a family friend, and one of the nicest people I know). She gives me the bad news. I have Covid.
I sit in the car and digest the news. I think about all the places I've been in the past week. It's a short list, since we've been hyper vigilant about the virus.
In the end, I call my mom as a precaution. I have been massaging her hands daily, but I've insisted on doing it outside and both of us wearing masks the entire time. She thought it was silly, but humored me. Now she doesn't think it's so silly, as she is sitting in the car with my 87 year old asthmatic grandmother when she gets the news.
The hard call is to my sister, Krystle. Throughout the pandemic, they've been the only people we have socialized with as normal. We made a conscious choice to do it, for our mental health and theirs, but now I have to call her and tell her I have Covid and her whole family has been exposed. Her husband has Cystic Fibrosis. I have to face the reality that I may have just killed my brother in law.
I call my husband to let him know. He calls his boss, and is IMMEDIATELY sent home from work. Essential worker at a grocery store, so he could literally infect thousands of people in a day at work.
It's only been a few hours since I got my diagnosis. I've taken care of the necessary business and have started to try to isolate from my family. I'm feeling worse by the hour, and my temperature is already at 101F and climbing. I'm trying to manage this like it's "just a flu," but it's not enough to keep me even comfortable. I go to bed alone, as we are trying to avoid me giving the virus to anyone else in the hopes that their quarantine won't need to last as long.
October 16, 2020
I'm burning up! Every time my cocktail of Tylenol and Ibuprofen starts to wear off, my fever spikes to around 103F. I can't get comfortable, no matter what I do. I'm trying to stay in my bedroom, but it's unbearably hot. I take over the front porch, and keep putting cold cloths on my head. They dry out completely within about ten minutes of application. My entire body aches. Every single joint is swollen, even with the anti-inflammatories. Even without the fear of respiratory complications, this is almost unbearable.
While I am writhing in agony on the front porch, my superstar husband sets up my "plague room." He moves our small TV in there, and lines up a big row of trashy novels at the foot of the bed. He gets my nebulizer ready for use. I have all the drugs on my nightstand. He moves all of his pillows, vitamins, books, and chargers out.
I spend the entire day either lying down or shuffling slowly to the bathroom. Trying to stay hydrated.
October 17, 2020
The respiratory symptoms are kicking in. I've begun using my maximum dose on my nebulizer (thanks, ShaNeil, for getting it for me on your Amazon review group) and applying my TENS unit pads to my neck to help with the muscle pain from coughing.
I THINK this is the day when the nausea started to get bad and I lost my sense of taste and smell. Drinking fluids is getting difficult, and eating is pretty impossible. I'm trying to force fluids, and friends and family are dropping off drinks to try and help. Every kind gesture nearly brings me to tears.
This is also the day (I think) when I find out that my much loved brother in law has tested negative for Covid. Even though I am so sick, I'm so relieved. There's a good chance that I haven't killed him after all.
I post a picture of myself using my nebulizer with face mask (my preference, because then I can have both hands free during my breathing treatment) on Facebook, and one of my "friends" accuses me of faking it for attention / a political agenda. Really??
October 18, 2020
It's a bad night. I can't sleep well, and start hallucinating. I literally can't tell the difference between my dreams and reality, and at one point I find myself lying on the hardwood floor of my bedroom because I think that it's a good idea. I think I'm just severely dehydrated because of the nausea and sweating. I wake Martin up, and tell him "I think it's time to go to the hospital." It's about 5.30am.
We get to the emergency room, and I'm seen pretty quickly. They test my O2 sats. Low 80's. The hallucination wasn't from dehydration, I guess. Though I AM also dehydrated. I'm admitted to the hospital.
THIS IS WHEN THINGS START TO GET REALLY FUZZY!
This day is a little bit weird in my brain. I think I went into the emergency room on my own and Martin went home. I KNOW he couldn't come to my hospital room. I think they did a chest X-ray, but I don't know the result. I know I could eat, because they were giving me anti nausea medication in my IV, and what I mostly had was Jell-o and soup. I did another Facebook live video. I tried to do the breathing exercises they had given me, and it hurt SO BAD! I talked on the phone with a lot of people, because it usually helps my lungs clear out when I'm having a bad asthma attack. That seems about right.
October 19, 2020
This day is very similar to the day before--at least to start with. I lay in bed doing nothing for most of it. More attempts at breathing exercises. More talking on the phone. The supplemental oxygen keeps needing to be turned up. My GP comes to see me, and we discuss Remdesivir. He tells me it costs about $5,000 per treatment, and I will need a minimum of three treatments. The hyperventilating helps my O2 sats a bit, and I agree to try this experimental drug.
I get the bad news that the hospital doesn't have enough Remdesivir for my treatment, but they are expecting a drug shipment later that day. Treatment can't start yet, so I just have to wait. I spend as much time as possible in a prone position, but it's starting to not be enough. Even with nearly full flow supplemental oxygen, my O2 stays in the low 90's.
Night shift starts, and I am being checked on every four hours or so. The nurses are NOT prompt with my asthma inhalers, and in the middle of the night, I am almost completely unable to breathe. I frantically press the call button, but there is no response. I feel the beginnings of a panic attack, which I know will only make the breathing worse. I force myself to calm down and focus intently on my breathing. I breathe in joy and breathe out toxicity. My mind fastens on one joyful thought, and it sees me through the next hour or so. I picture the face of my beautiful nephew, Horatio. He's usually such an Eeyore, all doom and gloom. But occasionally, when something goes well, his whole face lights up like a beacon and he radiates pure happiness. Horatio, you saved my life tonight!
October 20, 2020
This day blends into the last one, with the shift change and a nurse finally coming to check on me and give me an inhaler to use. I'm so angry that I nearly died in a hospital without anyone knowing it! But my oxygen is so low that my brain isn't functioning well enough to express that anger. And I don't have the energy for it, anyway.
My room becomes a hive of activity now, as the Remdesivir didn't arrive in the drug shipment and I am on the verge of needing to go on a ventilator. At least, looking back now, that's what I'm inferring. In the moment, it's a blur of people running in and out of my room, speaking in hushed tones, while I ramble distractedly about how the ceiling looks like it's covered in undulating blobs of peach and fluorescent green.
Someone tells me that I'm being sent to another hospital. One with an ICU. I text Martin and ask him to get some things together for me and see if my mom can bring them over. He cant' bring them since he's quarantined.
The EMT in the ambulance is Marty from high school. It's so nice to see a friendly face. He opens the windows of the ambulance as we speed to the nearest hospital with an ICU bed available, 50 miles away. I watch the sunrise, and drift in and out of consciousness even though I am on bipap oxygen. I think to myself, "At least I got to see one more sunrise." I think I'm dying. I probably am.
We are greeted at Timpanogos regional hospital by what seems like at lease a dozen people. I am rushed up to the cardiac care unit, which they have converted into a Covid ward since the regular ICU's have been overrun with Covid patients. Immediately, I am fitted with a high flow nasal canula which forces warm air into my lungs (the hospital in Nephi had me at 10. They started this one at 40). They are so blocked at this point that I know this must be what water boarding feels like, but I know that if this doesn't work, I will be ventilated. And I know that most patients on a ventilator end up dying.
Another team comes in to insert a PIC line. That's not an experience I'd care to repeat. But the medicine they're about to start giving me makes it necessary and it IS more comfortable than a standard IV. Once it's in.
Oh, and they inserted a catheter. At least I won't have to get up to pee.
By mid afternoon, my condition is more stable. I am able to communicate briefly with friends and family. They've started me on Remdesivir and Dexamethasone. Later, I will find out that Dexamethasone is an end of life steroid given to dying patients to relieve cranial pressure. It's probably why I needed the pic line. It's about six times stronger than the steroids I normally take for my asthma. I'm not getting better, but I'm no longer getting worse.
That's something!
October 21, 2020
I spend most of this day lying in my hospital bed, completely focused on breathing. I mean that, too. It literally takes every ounce of energy I have just to force my lungs to work. Decades of practice with different breathing techniques for my asthma are literally keeping me alive right now. It feels like familiar territory. It's worse than any breathing problems I've ever experienced, but I'm used to breathing through the pain. So I think about how I don't want to miss out on all of the milestones still to come in my kids' lives. I think about how much I love my husband. I think about all of the simple joys in my life. And I make myself take every single breath. I fight for my life.
My doctor approves me for convalescent plasma. I'm the first patient in this hospital to receive it, and my nurse tells me how lucky I am to be getting it. It's not available to everyone, and the most perfect set of stars have just aligned. I bless the fact that the lab where they make the plasma has a great working relationship with my doctor, and the fact that I am usually so very healthy even though I'm packing extra pounds. No diabetes, no high blood pressure, perfectly functioning thyroid...just terrible lungs.
I receive the convalescent plasma late that afternoon, right after my second Remdesivir treatment. It looks like egg yolk, and I am acutely aware that I'm having people parts injected into my blood stream. I have a brief "Soylent Green" moment, before I say a quick prayer of thanks for the people who generously donated their plasma to the cause.
While I'm receiving the treatment, a news alert pops up on my phone. Remdesivir has been officially approved by the FDA for the treatment of Covid-19. Experimental treatment no more!
I start to feel...better. Maybe.
October 22, 2020
A lost day for me. Honestly, I don't remember much of anything. I know it was another day of fighting for breath. I also know that this is the day they started bringing me protein shakes with my meals because I wasn't eating enough. The night was significant though.
I'm lying in bed, trying to sleep, when the night nurse comes in. He's chatting to me as he checks everything, and he asks how I'm feeling. I take honest stock of my current situation, and I tell him I'm feeling a bit better. And I start to sob again. I grasp his arm and gasp, "I'm going to get better, aren't I!" And it's not a question. I know I'm going to get better. I know I'm going to live. I feel hope for the first time in nearly a week.
October 23, 2020
I'm getting better. I sit in the chair in my room to eat my lunch. I have my catheter removed. I play a few games on my phone instead of just staring at the ceiling trying to breathe. I get taken off the high flow nasal canula and put back on regular oxygen. My sense of smell is starting to come back. I'm very aware that I haven't showered in nearly a week.
We start to talk about me going home. Possibly tomorrow!
October 24, 2020
My doctor makes a flying visit (most of my care has been provided by nurses, who are absolute heros in my book). She assesses my O2 saturation without supplemental oxygen and promptly writes a scrip for home oxygen along with blood thinners and steroids.
I contact my sweet Martin and tell him to come and get me. The nurse helps me gather up all of my stuff. I have the final bag of IV Remdesivir. Martin phones when he gets there, and I am wheeled down to the hospital entrance. Then Martin helps me into the car, and we set off.
The view when we crest the hill south of Santaquin and start to drop into Juab county is perhaps the most beautiful thing I've ever seen.
I feel like a stranger in my own home. The bathroom is so far away! I take THE BEST SHOWER OF MY LIFE. I'm exhausted, and little do I know the hard work that's still ahead of me.
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