Don’t Fuck About With Covid-19
It’s been an age since I was last posting on here. I was falling out of love with the platform anyway, but my absence has been more than that.
Over the past 8+ months, I have been very unwell with Covid-19.
March 9th. It was textbook: a dry throat, a bit of a cough, a fever, and then my chest got tight and my breathing became painful. It was rough. There were moments I thought I should call an ambulance, but we were being instructed to stay away from the doctors and hospitals unless absolutely necessary, and I thought I could manage it alone. I finally accepted that I couldn’t look after myself - a challenge for someone so fiercely independent - and I moved to stay with family, when I was sure I wasn’t contagious.
It took three more months before I finally felt that I’d recovered.
I rejoiced. I moved back into my flat. I delighted in walking. I wanted to walk everywhere, just for the sake of it. I started cycling again. I could sing again, and I did. I sang and danced (terribly) around my flat every day, just because I could. My country was opening up to summer and, even though I knew the pandemic was far from over, I was ecstatic about having my health and body back.
And then came the first relapse, one month later: painful breathing, splitting headaches, muscle pain, nausea, vomiting after walking/going up stairs, recurrent pins and needles. The doctors were baffled and thought it must be related to the inhalers I’d been prescribed back in April. They upped the dose of my steroid inhaler and reassured me I’d be back to normal health within a couple of weeks.
I rested, though still working from home, and slowly slowly it seemed to pass. I imagined the doctors were right - Covid-19 had left me with a reliance on a steroid inhaler, and that was all.
A month later, I woke up because I couldn’t breathe properly. The chest pain was back. I was finally admitted to hospital for tests. They all came back normal, minus my oxygen levels that plummeted to 88% when walking. I was booked in for more scans and x-rays, but no-one could figure it out. There were lots of people in my position, I was told. Doctors couldn’t work out what was going on. But it had a name: Long Covid. I was put onto the waiting list to see a respiratory specialist. They couldn’t offer me anything more than that.
Then came my worst relapse yet, at the beginning of October. I had such chronic fatigue that I couldn’t lift my arm to brush my teeth, my legs shook with the effort of standing up, I was sleeping all day. Eating was exhausting, my body would shake from the effort of chewing. I had to force myself to eat one meal a day, and then would sleep for hours after the exhaustion of it. I couldn’t taste anything and had no appetite. I had shattering headaches that worsened with light and screens, so I lived in sunglasses and the dark. My muscles ached everywhere as if I’d been slammed into a brick wall several times over. I would vomit if I did anything remotely active - washing or standing up. Recurrent pins and needles, dizziness, nausea, tinnitus.
It felt like my body was shutting down.
Thankfully, I’ve finally started to see some tiny improvements over the past fortnight. I can eat more now, and I can taste it! I can sit upright. I can shower without sitting down. I’ve started to find things that work: Epsom bath salts for the muscle pain, cannabis for the head pain/fatigue, vitamin D/zinc/iron supplements, anti-histamines. I still can’t leave my flat, or work. I’ve been signed off work for 6 weeks now, but I’m lucky that my manager is supportive and understanding. I’m lucky that I can afford to rest - a privilege that many do not have.
But despite these improvements, a new symptom appeared the other day - my hair is now falling out. There are clumps of it on my pillow every morning, a gift that I do not want, emphasising that my recovery is far from over.
What symptom does this fucking virus not have?
The extremity of it is bewildering to me. I know this must seem like an exaggeration of symptoms, but it’s not. I’m struggling to describe the mindfuck of feeling recovered, only to relapse, again and again and again. When I finally climb out of this particular relapse, how do I trust that another isn’t around the corner. My confidence in my own body has been shattered. I’m 28 years old, was healthy and active, had no underlying health conditions, and honestly - I don’t know if I’ll fully recover from this. It’s staggering to comprehend. That’s probably why it feels safest to share where I have relative anonymity.
So the point of this post: Don’t fuck about with Covid-19.
As the holiday season approaches for many of us, with Thanksgiving and Christmas, I understand how much we all want to see our family and friends. But please be careful. So so many people are suffering with Long Covid after having Covid-19. Anyone can get it. Doesn’t matter how young, healthy or invincible you feel. This isn’t just about how many survive and how many die.
I wish this post had a more uplifting ending. Look after yourselves and each other in this year of loss ❤️
