"Oh no, this can't be
happening" was my first thought when I awoke Friday morning of Easter
weekend. My muscles ached and felt heavy, my throat burned, and I was covered
in a gentle sweat—the morning dew of illness. I took my temperature—37.8. I need
to get tested. I had worked on a floor with many COVID-19 patients and I knew my risk of having COVID was high.
I heaved myself out of bed and got
dressed. I forced down a few bites of oatmeal but I had no appetite. I lay for
another hour or two hoping it would pass but it didn't, and I knew I would need
to walk over to the hospital having no access to my car and not being allowed
to use public transit. It's only 20 minutes, I can do it. Before leaving the
house I paused—should I bring anything with me? Nah, this is a simple in/out
scenario. Balaclava and winter coat on, I slowly made the walk with only my
wallet, keys, phone, and hospital ID. I'm definitely sick, I thought to myself,
as I felt more out of breath and dizzy than usual walking up a steep hill. I
thought about taking breaks a few times in my walk but instead just slowed
down.
In the holding area, I sat with my
eyes closed waiting for my turn to be swabbed. All I wanted was to sleep. As
they took my vitals, my mind raced with all the things I'd need to take care of—messaging
the faculty, finding someone to cover my call, etc. "Woah are you feeling
okay?" I snapped back to reality. I could see the fear in my nurse's eyes—it's
amazing how much you learn to read people's eyes when you spend so much time
working in masks. I looked at the monitor to see I had a fever of 39.5 and my
heart rate was running at 140 (normal is 60–100 and my usual normal is about
58). Apart from a bit of dizziness and palpitations I felt alright. They kept
me in another holding area where the ER physician peeked in and informed me
that they would be doing some blood tests and a chest X-ray. I asked for water
and Tylenol which the nurses kindly gave me.
I dozed in my chair waiting for
the results. After about an hour, the ER physician returned.
"Are my lymphocytes
low?" "Yes"
(Lymphocytes are a type of white
blood cell involved in fighting viral infections. Low lymphocyte count seems to
be a hallmark finding in COVID-19.)
"Anything on my chest X-ray?
I definitely feel a little pain on the left side."
"Yes, we do see a little
something. I've seen a lot of patients with COVID-19 lately and I'm a bit
worried. I would like to keep you in the ER for some observation, start you on
some antibiotics and IV fluids. Please follow me."
It was in that moment I knew in my
heart it happened. I had COVID-19. I didn’t care what the swabs said—I had it.
No longer able to maintain composure, I broke down crying. My tears pooled
inside of my mask. I was brought to a negative pressure room (created with what
looked like cellophane and a small generator on the floor). IV fluids were
started, and I was hooked up to telemetry (which is like a continuous EKG). In
the blink of an eye I went from working in this hospital to being a patient.
Various healthcare workers did a double take by my room, recognizing me and
sending me good wishes through my plastic wrap window.
To any physician who has been a
patient, you know how challenging it is to accept that sick role. The doctor's
hat doesn't come off just because the hospital gown comes on. Colleagues had
now become my caregivers. The usual mental challenge of diagnosing patients and
developing comprehensive management plans was replaced with trying to figure
out how to use the commode whilst connected to a spider web of medical tubing.
I tried to curb my thoughts but I couldn't help but wonder what if I was one of
the young people who would die from this. These fearful thoughts floated in and
out of my head, the only sound to drown them out being the gentle hum of the
negative pressure generator and the rhythmic dripping of my IV fluids.
As the fever came down over the
course of the next 6–7 hours, my appetite came back. My faster heart rate,
however, persisted. Even simply sitting up would send my heart rate
skyrocketing and my machines beeping. I called the nurses stating that I was
ravenously hungry despite the small cheese sandwiches I was given earlier. Much
to my surprise they came back with several slices of pizza. "We've seen
you work here. This could have been any one of us. We need to take care of each
other." They also lent me a phone charger so I could continue to give my
family updates.
Later that evening I was
transferred to a COVID floor for continued monitoring. It was so surreal being
wheeled down the very hallway I had walked hundreds of times before. At around
1 am, a code white (aggressive patient) erupted next door. I heard yelling
and objects being thrown. Unwilling to accept the patient role in that moment,
I peeked my head out the door asking the nursing staff if they needed help—they
told me they had everything under control.
As the days passed my heart rate
slowly came down. I spent most of my time lost in thought and chatting with
friends/family. My best friend dropped off some much-needed supplies, which
helped make my time in hospital more bearable. I never realized the degree to
which patients are stripped of their control while in hospital. Being woken up
every few hours to have your vitals checked, receiving meals whenever they
come, etc. You could sometimes wait two hours to be seen after calling the
nurse for something non-urgent because they are dealing with more urgent
situations with other patients. Despite receiving stellar care, there were
still moments I felt dehumanized.
Three days later I was finally
stable enough to go home. I was brought home via a special taxi. The first
night back in my bed was glorious. The next seven days were spent mostly
asleep, fuelled by Gatorade and Kinder Surprise chocolate. Every morning this
virus felt like a new illness: some days the predominant symptom would be joint
pain, other days it would mainly be coughing. Around days 6–7 of illness I
completely lost my sense of smell—quickly realized when I felt the need to add
salt to my Campbell's soup. By day ten, I started to feel like me again. My
sense of humour, my appetite, and my drive to get back on the front lines to
practise medicine all flooded back in. After two repeat negative tests, I was
allowed to go back to work. I did it. I survived COVID-19.
Pandemics can bring out two kinds
of people: the person who hoards or the person who helps. I have to say after
the initial frenzy of toilet paper buying, I'm seeing more and more of the
latter. Neighbours and friends dropping off food in my mailbox to make sure I
had something to eat while sick. Donations from various companies to healthcare
workers and those in need. Patients more than ever asking me if I'm doing okay
during their phone consultations. Although our experience of the pandemic is
vastly affected by our level of privilege, we are going through a collective
trauma. And even though many of our rights are taken away, we still have
tremendous power to help others.
So please, I implore you—reach out
to those who are vulnerable and see if they need help. Groceries, a phone
conversation to combat the isolation, you name it. I can tell you firsthand
that these gestures go a long way in making these difficult times more
manageable. Social distancing will keep us safe, but kindness will keep us
human.
