COVID-19: My (Possible?) Story

Since becoming sick with what could be COVID-19 (to be clear, I have no diagnosis other than I’m sick with something causing my asthma to flare up — which deserves its own write up because I lack a clear action plan because both physicians I’ve seen for it were traveling doctors due to a regional shortage of pulmonologists) I’ve written about my experience as a person in the food industry amid a pandemic as well as my trip to the so-called secret testing tent that’s not much of a secret if you take a trip to a certain area in a nearby town. What I haven’t written about, at least in any depth, is how I feel, both physically and mentally.

Because it’s what I was searching for when I first fell ill, I’d like to share how I felt and continue to feel, what this experience has been like in the corporeal sense. Please note, this is my account. I am merely one person. And I am not a medical doctor. I am a 33 year old woman, I’m ill due to unknown causes (although I personally suspect COVID-19), self-isolating at home per doctor’s orders.

Before our governor, JB Pritzker, issued a stay-at-home order Jeff and I decided, because of my asthma, the only place I’d travel to was work. No grocery stores, no pharmacies, nothing other than one visit to my orthopedic surgeon’s office for a post-op carpal tunnel surgery check-up. This still meant putting myself at risk since working in a bakery means dealing with the public. To be absolutely clear, I do not blame anyone (other than the woman that sprayed her spittle at me while trying to decide what pie to order as well as the attitudinal teen that coughed in my direction at the doctor’s office) for my being sick. I was happy to work for the sake of my mental health and pocket book. Did it increase my chances of contracting COVID-19 or any other upper respiratory virus? Yes. But I can’t rule out the people at the orthopedic surgeon’s office or Jeff and his co-workers. Any of the people I’ve come into contact with, even indirectly, could have unknowingly — because they were asymptomatic or thought they just had allergies — transmitted it to me. There’s simply no way to know, particularly given the tight restrictions on testing — even ruling out influenza was like moving mountains. But I digress.

What does this feel like? Rather, what does this — getting sick with what may or may not be COVID-19 during a COVID-19 pandemic — feel like, in a non-clinical sense, to me?

1. A 33 year old female…
2. With a history of asthma, indoor and outdoor allergies, depression, anxiety, and fibromyalgia as well as multiple orthopedic surgeries…
3. That tries to run at least three days a week with at least two of those runs at 3 plus miles…
4. And although she was working on a PhD, about 7 months ago she took a job at a local bakery and spends most of her work hours on her feet (and it’s all a bit more physically demanding than you might expect).

Friday March, 20, 2020, Day 1:

I woke up to get ready for work. I didn’t feel great, but I thought it was my allergies and coffee failing to give me the kick in the ass I needed. I had a nagging feeling, though, because I felt more “not great” than my usual “I hate mornings” inner monologue and indoor/outdoor allergy non-sense; I had a pounding headache, sore throat, and a bit of cough. So I took my temperature (thanks for teaching me to keep one on hand, mom!). It was 99.4. I knew no one would think it was bad, but I typically run between 97.6 and 97.9. Stress can kick it in the 98s. Anything above 99 is concerning to me given all that as well as the fact that I almost never run a fever when I’m sick.

After I spoke with my boss — no fevers allowed at work — I called our local COVID-19 hotline because I’d been in contact with the public because of my job, knew we had at least one confirmed in case in our county, had a cough and a low-grade fever, have asthma, and urgent care centers were either closed or heavily restricting patient intake. If we hadn’t been in the midst of a pandemic, I likely wouldn’t have thought to take my temperature because I tend to go to work unless I feel like I’m dying or one of my surgeons tells me I can’t go to work. But I’d seen the news.

By calling the hotline I procured an antibiotic, a steroid pack, orders to rest, hydrate, and self-isolate as well as a boatload of confusion. My diagnosis amounted to a shoulder shrug, but without other guidance I followed orders and hunkered down in the bedroom.

Saturday March 21-Sunday March 22, 2020, Days 2 and 3:

I don’t remember much about the weekend other than a few details I made sure to squirrel away in my memory or write down.

At some point I felt worse because I called the local hotline again on Sunday. I went through the song and dance about symptoms and whether I’d been to certain locations. The doctor told me she’d prescribe Tessalon Perles to suppress the cough. “Do you feel this is a fair and sufficient treatment plan?” she asked.

“I don’t really have a choice, do I?” I snipped, voice hoarse. She reiterated everything she’d told me, all of it the same as the first time I’d called: medicine, rest, hydrate, and we think this is what’s wrong with you but also we don’t really know so continue to self-isolate.

I felt as if I was speaking into an empty void, no one actually listening.

How could they not understand that I’ve never felt like this before? I’ve never had a cold or sinus infection or flu that’s made me cough so much, that’s made my body feel so heavy it’s as if gravity is glueing me to the floor when I try to walk to the bathroom. I struggled to understand why none of this mattered all while wondering why I wasn’t eligible for unemployment benefits.

At some point on Sunday evening I pulled a pillow into the master bathroom so I didn’t have to sit on the cold tile floor while I coughed. I could have stayed on the bed, but I prefer to go the bathroom because it keeps all of my respiratory droplets even further from Jeff. Jeff, currently avoiding our bedroom as much as humanly possible since the doctors told me to self-isolate, ventured in, sat on the carpet, the approved 6 feet away from me. It was the only comfort he could offer me.

Monday March 23-Tuesday March 24, 2020, Days 4 and 5:

Because I don’t have an asthma action plan, I didn’t know that anything like what I was feeling could happen. I didn’t know I was supposed to be using my rescue inhaler anytime I felt out of breath. I knew when I was supposed to use it on a “normal” basis and that I shouldn’t be using it more than a certain amount of times within certain time periods. No one told me those rules don’t apply when I’m sick. No one knew I didn’t know this. No one spoke with me long enough to learn I didn’t know this, let alone long enough to know why I didn’t know this. Nonetheless I started using my rescue inhaler more because the doctors on the phone told me to use it whenever I felt out of breath. It seemed excessive, but it’s the only thing that offered me relief.

I thought I was getting better, that maybe it was working — until Tuesday night.

You know when you’re underwater for a bit, you come up, break the water’s surface, and take in a giant gulp of air? Breathing felt like that except instead of feeling like an exhilarating inhalation of fresh air, it felt like drowning on mouthfuls of sand. At its best, breathing felt like inhaling air laced with bits of gravel. My rib cage felt hollow and painful. I could barely remain upright. I yearned to sob, to untangle and let go of the weight of emotions bound up with my physicality. But I couldn’t because my body couldn’t handle the convulsions, couldn’t afford to give away the lung capacity. I eventually fell asleep, my face stained with the few tears I allowed to gently stream out.

Wednesday March 25, 2020, Day 6:

Other than what I’ve already recounted regarding my trip to the top secret testing tent as well as the above, Wednesday continued on much the same. I was in a fog, mentally and physically. During video chats and the comprising of text messages I would search the recesses of my brain for a certain word, often failing to come up with what I was looking for. I’m no longer in academia, but my intelligence, my capacity for knowledge is still important to me; writing has long been a form of catharsis; I’m still proud of what a professor described as my “big, beautiful brain.” Losing that scared me.

Thursday March 26-Friday March 27, 2020, Days 7 and 8:

I’m feeling better. Exhaustion lingers but time no longer feels utterly meaningless; I feel more grounded, less like I’m living in another reality. I haven’t had a fever since Wednesday, and the doctor said if I go three days in a row without one, I can exit self-isolation without fear of hurting Jeff. The last doctor I spoke with, the one that ordered all the labs on Wednesday and called back with the final results today, was perhaps the most helpful. He readily admitted that he cannot tell me I did not contract COVID-19. All he can tell me is that I have some kind of infection that set off an asthma flare up. He was patient with me when I expressed confusion, explaining that I never had a real understanding of my asthma because of the pulmonologist shortage.

And then he said, “Normally I’d prescribe a round of steroids because it’s standard for asthma flare ups, but we’re learning if we give COVID-19 patients with asthma oral steroids, it’s like pouring gasoline on a fire. So I’m hesitant to do that.”

He didn’t realize my first round through the hotline ended with my getting a steroid pack. He didn’t realize by the time I got to him it was all too possible the fire had been fueled. Perhaps it’s an organizational issue. It’s certainly one of needing more research. Regardless, I’m focused on resting so I can recover; I’m looking ahead… with the gusto of this gif I ran across on Twitter after following the challenge, “Type in the year you turned 10 years old in a gif search.”