I lived a happy life before COVID-19 struck. I was no different from anyone else. I got married and I became pregnant. COVID-19 became a reality when I was about to give birth. At the early onset of COVID-19 restrictions, I had to attend hospital appointments alone. When I was induced early, I had to check in to the hospital alone. No visitors were allowed. My husband was allowed only in the delivery suite. After the baby was delivered, I was alone with the baby and was taken to the maternity ward. After a caesarean section, I struggled getting up from the bed to attend to baby every single time. The pain was excruciating. My husband could not visit, so there was no one by my side except the other mothers in the ward and the midwives. I was alone but I was too preoccupied to think of the danger of COVID-19. It felt safe enough at those moments.
We brought baby home and carried on with our lives at home. We kept to ourselves. We minimised contact with friends. Our families could not visit. Nothing happened in that one year of maternity leave. We were safe and we did not get sick at all the whole year, not even a cold. Surely COVID-19 would go away. I extended my maternity leave to the maximum number of days I could take, hoping that COVID-19 numbers would reduce by the time baby goes to creche. In the end, I had to let her go to creche, despite the high number of cases reported. She did not like the baby room in the creche and she vomited regularly, most likely due to separation anxiety. She kept it up for a while but we persisted with the routine so that I could return to work.
After six weeks, baby started coughing very badly; a very rough and deep cough. I knew I had to take her to the doctor. That was the first time we had to take a COVID-19 PCR test. The test delayed her visit to the doctor as a negative test was required before they would see her. The three of us tested negative. I took her to the doctor 3 days after her cough started. I was so frustrated that I could not get her to the GP any sooner. She was diagnosed with tonsillitis and was given antibiotics. She recovered very quickly, after only a few days of medication.
After that visit to the doctor, I began coughing and then I became feverish. I paid another visit to the doctor and was given antibiotics as my throat was inflamed. I was told to get another PCR test. To my astonishment, the medication had no effect on me. As the fever did not subside after 2 days, I knew that something was very wrong with my body. All my life, it was never like this. As advised by the doctor, I kept taking paracetamol and ibuprofen in rotation throughout the 24 hours of the day. My husband thought it absurd to get another PCR test since we tested negative, but I did. We tried isolating in case I was down with COVID-19. That night, my body felt so terrible that I called the out-of-office doctor in the night. He was willing to see me as I had a negative PCR test. He said it was likely I had COVID-19 and wrote me a referral letter to the hospital emergency unit. My husband and I did not believe the diagnosis. But the next morning, I checked myself into Connolly Hospital A&E unit with the referral letter because I was not improving. They told me to proceed to Zone 3. My details were taken at the reception. Nurses attended to me straight away, they took my blood pressure and temperature. They did an ECG and took my bloods. I waited to take an X-ray. By then, the text message came - I was COVID-19 positive. I was not in shock because I half expected it. I had to face my worst nightmare. After all checks were done, they sent me home with steroids and stronger medicines.
My husband and little girl did the PCR test on that same day. The results came back positive the next day. My husband started having a fever. We took turns to look after our little girl. I thought I would get better, so I let my husband rest as much as I could. About 4 days after the first hospital visit, I recorded low oxygen levels on the oximeter though I was not too breathless yet. My husband suggested that I wait and see if I would improve. I did not wait. Instead I drove myself to Connolly Hospital, taking with me only a few personal belongings. I looked back but I knew I had to leave my husband and baby girl.
I parked my car and walked furiously to the Connolly Hospital A&E unit. They repeated all the previous procedures in Zone 3. This time, I was given oxygen on the tubes. Unfortunately, they were not successful in taking my blood after many attempts. Both my arms and hands were horribly bruised. The young doctor said they did not have a phlebotomist; they were all I had to do my bloods. He brought in an ultrasound machine after a long wait and he finally managed to find a good vein on my right arm. It was a Thursday. He told me that I was doing well and I should be home by the weekend. That evening, they sat me on a wheelchair and brought me into a 4-bed ward. Little did I know that the hospital would be my home for a whole week. I did not have dinner that day, only a sandwich. By the time I was warded, I had missed the dinner for inpatients.
The next day, they discharged two patients in that ward and they moved me to a single room. The new routine began with nurses attending to me all the time with either medication, taking my readings or taking blood. The doctor visited only once a day. Mealtime was the only thing I looked forward to, especially a hard boiled egg for breakfast. In the hospital, I remember waking up at about 6 am most of the mornings when the nurses started taking my readings. Breakfast was at 9 am, lunch at 12:30 pm and the last meal was served at 4:30 pm, with light snacks offered after that. To keep my stomach happy, I asked for milk and biscuits in the night. I was coughing very badly, feverish and feeling weak. I was on oxygen support all the time. I was given the drip filled with either steroids or antibiotics or paracetamol. I had to drag it with me to the toilet. I learned how to use a nebulizer, which I disliked. I could not breathe properly with it and I had to suppress my cough in order to inhale the medication.
On the second night, the oxygen tube sound was too loud for my ears and I could not sleep. I was not sure if they could tune it down. I kept coughing and was awake the whole night, tossing and turning. I asked for milk, then I asked for juice. There was a nurse who brought in a whole carton of orange juice for me, which was very nice. I slept for 3 hours at most. I asked for sleeping pills the next night. There was one night, I remember I was crying until a nurse had to console me by rubbing my back. Most nurses were empathetic but some were not. One told me that everyone suffering from COVID-19 had to go through the same thing. That did not help me feel better. I was alone and I was very sick.
While I was in hospital, my husband had to battle COVID-19 on his own and at the same time care for our one-year old girl. I was worried sick that he would get worse and that he would need to go to the hospital like me. If that happened, who would look after our little girl? At that time, not many people were fully vaccinated yet. A church friend who had the first dose of the vaccination offered to help. In the end, my husband fought the fevers and made it through somehow. He had a very rough time, caring for a spunky little girl, with little rest to help himself recover. Our girl was lucky that she was not brought to the children's hospital or to foster care, as we have no family members in Ireland. I explored those possibilities and even called the ambulance to inquire. I am most grateful to our friends who cooked meals for my husband and little girl while I was in hospital, bought our provisions and provided practical help during that time; and for our families who kept in touch constantly and prayed for us.
In the hospital, I was lying down most of the time. I was too weak to walk about. And yet I had to practise the most basic thing, walking without becoming breathless. I paced myself by walking round and round in that single room for 10 to 15 minutes at one go and then I had to rest. I managed to take hot showers by myself. But somehow I had the feeling that I might faint when coming out from the shower. So I pushed myself to get out of the bathroom before that feeling set in. The hospital staff gave me a 'dignity bag' with some new clothes and toiletries. I appreciated that a lot but even those clothes ran out before I was discharged. I was frustrated that I could not get a second 'dignity bag'. I did not want to further bother my husband to pack my clothes or to ask a friend to bring them for me. So I settled for hospital gowns.
At the hospital I longed to be home with my husband and little girl. The doctor told me that I could be discharged once the physiotherapist was happy with my progress and an ultrasound of my liver was taken. On the sixth day, the physiotherapist approved for me to be discharged and I was taken off the oxygen support. However, there were a lot of delays with the ultrasound of my liver that made me furious and disappointed. I was made to fast. I fasted for many hours from breakfast to lunch but the ultrasound did not take place. The next day, I was to fast again. I was the last patient for the ultrasound because I had COVID and they were short of radiology staff that week. After the ultrasound, I was hoping to be discharged that night but the consultants had all left and only the junior medical officer was on the night shift. Another night.
Late next morning, the doctor went through my profile and results. He discharged me with medication and gave me medical leave. Finally. It was a Thursday, eight days from the day I was admitted. I packed my belongings and finally said goodbye to the room I stayed in for the whole week. I walked out but I felt so strange and so lost, and my bags felt really heavy. The head nurse saw me and asked another nurse to show me the way out and help me with my bags. I knew I had recovered. Yet I felt slightly faint and dizzy while walking out of the hospital. But I was determined to get out, so I walked as fast as I could and met my husband and my little girl at the car park. I have my freedom once again! Just as I drove myself to the hospital, I once again drove myself home.
After I recovered, I was asked twice whether I trusted God when I was fighting COVID. Honestly, I do not know if I trusted God or if I prayed during that time. I was angry that God allowed me to get COVID but I did not doubt God. I was furiously fighting for my life, following everything the doctors and nurses told me to do. I knew my family and friends were praying for me. God allowed me to live and everyday I am thankful for that. I am grateful for the hospital staff and I am still amazed at how the hospital staff could carry on working in the hospital knowing the risk of getting infected and for some, who had already suffered from the infection. I could not remember the countless medical staff who attended to me, a single person, so that I could get well. I still fear COVID-19; I do not know how to move on to live life as before. Healing from COVID is a slower process than I had imagined. I will always remember that there was a point in time when I could not breathe on my own.
