Covid Days
On November 21, 2000, I woke with a fever and a bad cough. Neither was gone by the next day, so I went for a COVID test. I got the results the next night: positive.
By then, my wife Kathleen and my three adult sons, who all are living with us, began to show varying degrees of illness.
We like to eat dinner as a family and had done so in the nights leading up to our family getting sick. We were taking every precaution: masks, distancing and washing hands. So we’re not sure how the virus came into our home, but it was there, at our table.
After getting the positive result, the next few days were a blur. I had moved to the couch downstairs to separate myself from the rest of the household but it was already too late.
I don’t remember much about Thanksgiving, other than I was too sick to eat. I had read online that I should be monitoring my blood-oxygen level, so I ordered an oximeter from Amazon.
It came the next day and I remember trying it. My reading was 74. Normal readings are in the 90’s, with mid-to-low 80’s considered a danger zone. I figured the oximeter was defective. A reading of 74 meant that I was in serious trouble, but I didn’t feel THAT bad.
The next day I couldn’t stand up anymore. Kathleen, who also was pretty sick by now, called 911 and I was in an ambulance 10 minutes later.
X-Rays in Emergency confirmed that my lungs were toast. I was admitted and the next time I came to, I read a text from Kathleen letting me know that she had called 911 for herself and all three boys were down with COVID.
Kathleen went from Emergency almost immediately to the ICU, her lungs in even worse shape than mine.
I was soon in the ICU as well, in the room across the hall from my wife. It was explained to me that they were doing everything they could to keep me off of a ventilator, but that if I didn’t improve, that was the next recourse.
Ventilators do the breathing for you when your lungs cannot. When you are on a ventilator you are intubated (tube down your throat) and sedated. Currently, you have about a 30 percent survival rate on a ventilator, an ordeal that can last for weeks, one way or the other.
When I got to the ICU, I was told that I may want to reach out to my family and friends because once intubated and sedated, they would not be hearing from me.
I sent texts and emails to the boys and to family and friends, telling them that I loved them. I went back later to read when I had written and was shocked to see how incoherent and scared I sounded.
That was probably the low point: my wife and I were in critical condition and my three sons were all pretty sick, trying to ride it out and support each other at home.
The treatment for COVID pneumonia is more advanced than it was back in April, but fairly straightforward. They give you steroids, antibiotics and Remdesivir, an anti-viral drug.
Then it comes down to seeing if your lungs respond. Serious cases like mine are treated with high flow oxygen therapy, which inflates your lungs to make breathing easier. The maximum flow is 60 liters of oxygen per minute. If at that level you are still not breathing enough to get your blood-oxygen levels above 85%, it’s ventilator time.
Fortunately for me, I responded. It took about a week to wean me down to 10 liters per minute (which is when standard oxygen therapy takes over) and I could be moved out of the ICU.
Kathleen was slower to respond. We spent some scary days physically close but not able to see each other, where she was at the maximum oxygen treatment and on the border of needing a ventilator. She ended up spending almost two weeks in the ICU.
Throughout this whole process, it was all about the blood-oxygen level. Above 92 is good; below 88 is not so good. I had them position the monitor where I could see mine. It was my scoreboard. I would concentrate on taking full breaths and changing positions to free up space in my lungs, especially trying to lay on my stomach (they call this “proning”, which is not exactly easy with a catheter. Enough said about that).
Each time they would lower my oxygen intake, my numbers would take a hit. I then had to focus on breathing, rest and therapy to get the levels back up. Then they would again reduce my O2. Rinse and repeat. For over two weeks.
I played the trumpet for many years and realized that an effective method of breathing to clear my lungs (use the diaphragm, in through the nose, out through the mouth) was the same way I was taught to breathe while playing. I would lay there and do the fingerings and breathing to songs that I had memorized over the years. It was a little crazy, but I think it helped.
Kathleen was on the same path, but her progress was frustratingly slow. I would beg the nurses and techs for news on her. They were straight with me, telling me about good days and bad ones.
There were strict rules around COVID patient transport and access, so I was only allowed to see her twice in the 23 days I was in the hospital: when they moved me to the ICU and when she eventually moved out of intensive care and to the same floor as me.
The first time was really rough. We were both in critical condition and thought this might be goodbye. We promised each other that we would fight like hell to make it to our 30th wedding anniversary in late December.
The second time was a celebration of both of us being on the road to recovery. They dressed me up in PPE and wheeled me down the corridor to her room, with the nurses and techs cheering. One handed me a flower to give to her. Everyone was crying. Kathleen looked so much better than she had since I had last seen her almost two weeks before. We knew then it was not if, but when we would be going home.
I eventually got down to two liters of oxygen per minute, the threshold for being discharged.
Physical therapy was hell. I had lost 24 pounds, one-eighth of my body weight, and a lot of it was muscle. Taking even a few steps was impossible. I was using a walker at first but eventually managed to get around on my own.
To be discharged, I had to demonstrate that I could walk about 30 feet, which was how far at home I would have to go to get to the bathroom. Ascending a flight of stairs would have been like climbing Mount Everest at that point, but I could crash on a couch on the first floor of my house. My sons had recovered and provided excellent care.
I was released after 23 days. Kathleen came home after 30 days, the day before our anniversary. We had made it.
Recovery is proceeding. I managed to get up the stairs a couple of days ago, around two weeks after my release. I get physical therapy at home twice a week, and recently returned to work (remotely) part time.
The support we received during this ordeal from family and friends was astounding. Their love helped pull us through and I am eternally grateful.
Also, I can’t say enough about the care we received from dedicated doctors, nurses and techs who literally risked their lives every time they came into our rooms to treat us. One of my doctors informed me the day before I went home that he had received the COVID vaccine that morning. I was so happy for him.
Whether Kathleen and I have permanent lung damage remains to be seen. She is still on oxygen, and I only recently stopped needing it when engaged in strenuous physical activity . The psychological scars will take some time to heal. But, as clichéd as it sounds, I am grateful for every morning that Kathleen and I wake up breathing. I’ve seen the alternative up close, and I want us both to spend some more time here.
