I feel like I’ve told this story about a million times, and
in reality, it’s probably pretty close to that. But I’ve never actually told
the entire saga start to finish, and as boring as it is, for some reason I want
to just get it all down before I forget it. So here we go.
It was still the height of Covid the fall of 2021. We took
our regular vacation, the last week of September and first week of
October. On Monday, the 27th
of September, I went with friends to a county fair in a small conservative
college town. Everyone was having a wonderful time, hundreds of people getting
out for the first time in months for many. Some masked, most not. It was a
beautiful day, a little on the warm side. We had a great day! Our anniversary,
September 30th I wasn’t feeling well and thought I was getting a
cold and dinner was just not appealing. But something told me it as more than that.
Between the fair and our anniversary, I noticed one morning that my toothpaste
didn’t taste right. I didn’t want to admit it, but yeah, I probably had it.
From the end of September, I only got worse. I started sleeping in the middle
bedroom because I was so uncomfortable, tossing and turning, with a high fever
that I just couldn’t break. Then I couldn’t breathe, but I wasn’t congested. I dragged
a chair into the bedroom so that I could sit upright and sleep, but it didn’t
really help. I had a pulse-ox that I was using to monitoring my oxygen (I
ordered it when “they” said it was a thing everyone should have in the house
during the pandemic). On Thursday, October 7th, I forced myself to
shower and wash my hair and get dressed. I could barely function. I finally
told the husb – please call 911 – I can’t breathe. My oxygen levels were in the
50s. I laid on top of the bed waiting for them to come. At exactly 11:30 on
that day they came to pick me up, put me on oxygen, and without even a hesitation,
took me straight to the closest hospital with sirens blaring. Never for the
rest of my life will I ever forget seeing him on the porch (also so sick
himself with Covid) crying as I left him. I know it was 11:30 because my phone
alarm went off in my bag in the ambulance to remind me to pray for my father’s
soul – he had died the previous April.
When I arrived at the hospital it was like something out of
a movie. Everyone was gowned, masked, hooded, encapsulated. I was put into a
triage room and left there for hours, absolutely starving. But at least I was
on oxygen. Finally, someone brought me something to eat, and I think I fell
asleep for a bit. Friends were texting me – “do this!” “don’t do that”! “don’t
let them give you this that or the other thing!!” It was so overwhelming!! I was then admitted early evening and taken to
a room on a dedicated Covid floor. No shared rooms, a dedicated nursing staff
that did not rotate to other floors. I was in a large room by myself, next to a
massive window that I could not close the blinds. It was impossible to sleep.
The Infectious Disease doctor came in the first morning and looked me right in
the eye and told me that he could not guarantee that I was going to go home. I was
very very sick. I was placed on a regimen of Remdesivir, heavy steroids, and
other drugs, to combat the damage to my lungs and the virus. I was also placed
on high flow oxygen through a canula in my nose – it was cold, wet, loud, and
blasting, 24/7, at very high levels of concentration. For days. I barely
remember this period. I wasn’t unconscious in any way, but I was so dazed and
out of it, and my body was so incredibly weak that all I could do was lie there
and let them do whatever needed to be done to get me better. My mind was so
occupied with making my body well that I couldn’t even pray. I could not
remember the most basic prayers, the Our Father or the Hail Mary. I couldn’t
even THINK “God have mercy”. All I could do was ---- be. I will forever be so grateful for all the
prayers and Masses being said for me back home because I could not say them
myself to save my own soul.
Finally moved to the next bed in the room away from that
damn window. After about a week I was
downgraded to low flow oxygen. I was able to sit up a little, though they
wanted me on my stomach as much as possible to keep my lungs clear. My bed didn’t
go perfectly flat, so my spine was arched in the most horrible position when on
my stomach (my preferred way of sleeping actually), but it was extremely uncomfortable.
I tried as much as I could, but breathing was still so difficult, the oxygen
uncomfortable, and the steroids made me jittery, so I pretty much didn’t sleep
at night at all. More like a nighttime doze, and then I would sleep during the
day. Hospitals are no place to rest. The room was constant glowing with the
nursing terminal and emergency floor level lighting, noises outside, oxygen
blowing, monitor beeping. The worst was when someone would code, and the
announcement went out over the speakers. I would hear the scrambling of staff from
all corners, rushing to save the life of someone on my floor, all of us victims
of a horrible virus hell bent on killing us. Then I would also hear when they didn’t
make it. At least five times there was someone lost while I was there. The
psychological impact of that was intense.
I think that through the entire experience the worst part
had to be without a doubt the panic disorder brought on by the massive steroids
I was on to reduce the very serious inflammation in my lungs. I watched my
father live with this for many years. I saw him in the throes of a full-blown
panic attack, clawing at himself and his hair, his eyes bulging out. I thought
he was having a stroke. Never did I realize how truly horrific it is until I
lived it myself. The anxiety was SO BAD I could hardly function. I felt like I
was paralyzed and jumping out of my skin at the same time. And the biggest
trigger for me, get this, was standing up. That’s right, just standing up
caused a MASSIVE meltdown panic attack. Consider how many times you stand up in
a day. Every single time an attack came again. I could not breathe, I could not
walk or move, my body shook so hard I could not balance on my own. In the hospital,
I was tied to the IV and oxygen, so as a result I could not use the bathroom,
only the bedside commode. This sounds so pathetic, but that was so traumatic
for me because it required me to --- stand up. Going to the toilet became a massive
panic trigger that followed me home.
I had the best staff caring for me. The nurses were
wonderful, patient, helpful. The aides were truly angels, cleaning up after me,
helping me with bedside bathing (I still could not use the regular bathroom),
getting me ice water, tracking down food when the cafeteria screwed up. I was
told by my nurses that had I been admitted only a couple of months earlier that
I would have been intubated. In that case I probably would have died like most
did as a result of that treatment method (may they all rest in peace). I was
fortunate enough to have missed that era of Covid treatment, and as a result I
got to go home when so many never had that luxury. Once I was no longer
considered contagious, they were so glad they didn’t have to completely gown up
every time they came in the room. What a relief for everyone involved! And best of all, this meant I could have a
visitor. My dearest best friend – my true Godsend. She came to me with food and
shampoo! Me on oxygen, straddling a hospital bed, oxygen up my nose, my head
bent over a basin IN THE BED. She poured pitchers of water over my head while I
scrubbed three weeks of grunge out and we both had a pretty good laugh. The
water was disgusting. How could your hair possibly get SO dirty when all you do
is lie in a bed and not go anywhere? I washed it the day I came in, remember? Anyway,
it was the most glorious hair washing I’ve ever had in my life. I will be
forever grateful for her. And for the beautiful cheese she brought with her
that day.
Hospital food always gets a bad rap. But I must put in a
word here. The food was actually pretty good once you found out what to order
and what to stay away from. Every morning, I had a fantastic egg burrito, with
sausage, and scrambled eggs on the side. Yep, eggs and eggs. It was gloriously
and delicious. It was the one highlight of every day. Lunch was always a scoop
of the best chicken salad I’ve ever had, with raw veggies. Dinner was something
off the dinner menu – this is where they fell over a bit. But my doctor said he
wanted me to eat, and so I did. And then I needed insulin – thank you,
steroids, you turned me into a temporary diabetic. No more English muffins for
me in the morning!
I had two rotating doctors who would come to see me every
day. One of them came very early in the morning, before there was light in the
sky in that world outside. We would talk for about 45min every time. Both of us
likeminded regarding the virus, vaccines, and all the political crap surrounding
the moment we were all living through. He truly was an inspiration for me, encouraging
me to get better, be strong, have a good attitude. I missed him on his off
weeks. My other doctor was good looking, friendly, helpful, compassionate, but
he was as liberal as they come, even appearing on local television to push the narrative
of the day. Our visits were very friendly and cordial, but all business. I
will, however, be very thankful to him for prescribing Xanax to manage my anxiety
and panic attacks. I was finally able to sleep a little bit, as we weaned me
off the steroids, which wouldn’t actually happen until after I was home.
I hated being there. I hated using the bedside commode. I
hated not being able to shower. I hated not being able to sleep and being woken
up constantly in the middle of the night because my oxygen was dipping into the
danger zone. I hated not knowing when I would ever go home. As a result – I just
didn’t want to see or talk to anyone. I know this is incredibly selfish and a
lot of people didn’t understand. I know it was especially difficult on my
mother, and probably my husband as well. I just felt so gross, sick, pathetic,
ugly. And I couldn’t really talk anyway, so why come to just look at me being
in the worst condition of my life? It just didn’t make sense. I am sorry that
it was so hard on others. I just couldn’t do it.
I kept getting closer and closer to getting out, but my
oxygen requirements needed to be at a certain level for me to go home. It took what
felt like forever. Then, finally, 32 days after I was admitted, I went home.
Home! Glorious, beautiful, peaceful, comfortable, loving, happy, where my
husband and kitty live – HOME!!!
It took me getting medicated up for the trip, my anxiety was OFF THE
CHARTS!! I cried as they wheeled me off
the floor, leaving like a graduating senior at the end of the last day of
school. All the nurses and aides cheering me on as I gave my Miss America wave
goodbye! By that point I had been on the Covid floor longer than anyone. It was
so so so good to go. But what was ahead of me was honestly just as hard, if not
harder, than being in the hospital for a month.
I was incredibly weak. I didn’t use my body at all for 32
days. My muscles atrophied, I started to get bed sores. When I had to finally
walk, I needed help. I used a walker around the house for the first few days as
I gained my strength. Still on oxygen and hooked up to a huge concentrator
machine in the back bedroom, I was tethered 24/7. And the panic attacks were so
intense, so debilitating, so terrifying, humiliating, immobilizing. I know now
why people with intense mental issues end their lives. I get it now. Now I
understand why my father tried. Yep – it makes sense – that act that is so
senseless, makes sense. Every single day, multiple times a day, I would deal
with a “meltdown”. Or rather, I would live it, my husband would have to deal
with it. How I would have ever gotten through all this without him I have no
idea. He was (and is) the most patient, supportive, helpful man. He never
pushed, but he never allowed me to be lazy. He helped me when I needed help,
and he understood when I needed to struggle to do things on my own. He reminded
me when I wasn’t doing what I was supposed to be doing but was never a nag. He
loved me through it, he fed me, he even washed me and held me. Every woman
should be so incredibly blessed as I am to have such a husband.
I was on oxygen for a total of five and a half months,
eventually ending up with a portable oxygen machine thing I carried around with
me like a noisy handbag. I spent weeks going to pulmonary rehab, having in home
PT and nurse visits. Then – just when I was starting to see over the hump a
tiny bit, my hair started falling out. It wasn’t sudden, it was subtle at first.
Starting in December I noticed a bit in the shower, when I brushed my hair, or
tried to pull it back in a ponytail. It just didn’t feel right. Then in January
it was coming out in handfuls. My beautiful deep brunette hair was falling out.
The hospital stay, the medications, the anxiety, the virus, it was all too much
on my system. That level of stress has resulted in hair loss for many women,
even a stressful pregnancy can cause it to happen. I thought I was through with
trauma with the illness and the panic attacks – nothing prepared me for having
to shave my head after losing 80% of my hair. What a blow. Again, my incredible
husband stepped up and was ready to do anything to help me. When I think of the
money we spent on treatments, a ridiculously expensive wig, shampoos, it makes
me sick to my stomach still. One night at dinner I was trying to make light of
the situation, and he said, “well, I have my clippers, we can shave it all off”
--- I said, “let’s do it.”. No joke, we got
up from our plates and went into the bathroom. He got his clippers – I got the
shower bench. I put a towel down on the bathtub floor, hung my head over, cried
and prayed and cried and prayed, while he buzzed my head with the longest guard
he had on the clippers. I can’t even write this without crying again. It was so
hard. In a matter of minutes my entire appearance – my own self - as I knew it
was wiped away. I would never be a brunette again. I had a lot of shining
silver under there, and I wasn’t prepared to go back to coloring my hair,
something I had done since I was 18 years old. We shaved away what was left of
looking young and pretty. I became “granny” as my mother called me (always the
flatterer, that one). For about two years I wore it in a very short cut and
ironically had more compliments on my hair than I have ever had in my life. Go
figure. I hated it though. My last haircut now was right before Christmas 2024.
It’s growing out finally, and there is a lot of gray and silver, and still a
lot of my mousey brown. And wouldn’t you know it, after all this, I’m starting
to lose it again in the past week. What a punch in the gut. Again. Oh well – at
least I know the routine now. I won’t cut it all off unless it is truly dire
again, hopefully it won’t get that bad. At this point I just throw up my hands
and wait for the next drama.
So here I am coming up on the four-year anniversary of being
rushed to the hospital on that drizzly gray early October day. The entire
experience has truly aged me. I’m 60 now, but four years ago I didn’t feel 56.
I still felt like I was in my late 30s, and I looked like it. That summer,
around this time (August) I was in the backyard one evening absolutely enjoying
the outside, looking up at our beautiful trees, taking photos of our pretty gardens.
Finally starting to feel whole again, 16 months after losing my father. I took
a couple of selfies of me looking up at the trees. My dark hair shining in the early
evening sunlight, my clear pale skin, and bright eyes. I had no idea what kind
of Mac truck was about to body slam me in a few short weeks. I look at those
photos now and I see another person. Someone who was ripped out of me by the
virus and the illness and trauma that followed. I’m old now. I have diminished lung
capacity, extremely sore joints, lingering anxiety, wrinkles….and granny hair.
But I’m alive. Make absolutely no mistake about how grateful I am for that. I
am far more functional and healthier than many who have extremely serious Long
Covid issues. We all have our own stories. For better or worse, this is mine.
Not saying it’s extraordinary in any way. It’s just mine. And so I go on from
here, so very happy to be alive, surrounded by those who love me, who prayed
for me, those who emailed me nearly every day to get me through the hospital
stay, those who sent flowers and offered Masses. And through it all, my
incredible husband who cried when I left, and was so happy to see me when I
came home. I could never love another human so much.
So here’s to the next chapter – whatever that might be. God
willing it will be better reading than this.
A final note: I have
always been, and will always be, staunchly anti-vax when it comes to this
virus. I didn’t take it then, I will never take it now, and I never have and never
will regret that decision. I would do it all over again and still not take it.
