Page 11. The Virus
✯ Old photo: Past days in the wild.
“I’ve lost all sight.
The only perceptible sound I can hear is a womb-like whooshing of blood that seems to drown my eardrums. My body collapses into a strange, twisted foetal position and I lose all awareness of the outside world.”
The Virus
June 2020
I’m alone, asleep, inside a wooden shed: This is where I live. Moonlit shadows crawl across dusty spiders webs in the corner of a narrow, scratched plastic window by my bed. A dead branch scrapes across the walls and awakens me from an uneasy sleep. It feels like a pair of heavy hands are pressing upon my ribcage, forcing the air from my chest. The pressure on my lungs and the hot squeeze of my windpipe increases my anxiety. The weighty feeling on my body, this is neither man nor woman. The tightness in my throat has nothing to do with the disease I’ve endured for the last decade. No, this is a new adversary. It feels like I’ve an expanding balloon within my chest. It’s becoming increasingly difficult to breathe.
‘I have coronavirus.’ It’s a thought I’ve been fighting for weeks, but the clues continue to creep toward an uncomfortable conclusion. I’m an unlikely victim. Except for medical care, I’ve not left this place since last year. Soon, it will be June. Whatever it is, at this stage, I’ve no option but to weather the storm. The majority must be in unity to protect the vulnerable. The healthcare system’s overwhelmed by the suffering of so many. Even those who are facing life-threatening conditions have been reprioritised. The waitlist grows, distress intensifies, death increases. It hurts my heart to think of how many are in pain. How many millions have lost lives and livelihoods to this pandemic already? The world’s changed, irreversibly so. My suffering intensifies, and I wonder, will I be another statistic?
Days later…
“Call the emergency services immediately.”
That’s the government’s online advice. I fill the questionnaire out again and report a softer state of suffering, hoping I’ll get a different result. “Call the emergency services immediately,” I repeat the process three times. Each time I downplay my symptoms. The answer remains the same. I switch my line of sight to my phone. A long stare weaves a string of thoughts.’ I’ll have to go to the hospital, won’t I? What if I give it more time?’ A counter-question cracks a quick response. ‘More time to what? More time to allow the virus to seep into my cells?’
An unnerving thought scratches my mind. At what stage does hesitation for hospitalisation shift from sensible to suicidal? I force myself to move to better assess my situation. I decide to go outside, but it’s an incredible effort to shift my weakened body. I fight through exhaustion while the familiar, painful throb within my bones intensifies with each movement. This is nothing new, but now I have symptoms of coronavirus too. Many minutes pass before I’m able to walk a few steps beyond the shed door. The cold evening breeze agitates my throat and makes me cough. The movement makes me feel faint. My thoughts curdle, but I force myself to craft a plan.
Moments later, my mother appears. She’s walked up from the house to check how I’m doing. I try to summon the energy to act normally, but I’m too weak to conceal my struggle. It’s a matter of seconds before the lines upon her brow carve her concern. She’s habituated to my distress, but she knows, this is different. I’m virtually too breathless to communicate. The few words I manage are broken by gasps of air. Each sentence is punctuated by pauses.
“You need to get help, now,” she says. The deep concern in her voice unsettles me, but I’ve made my decision.
“I’ll see…how I am…in the…morning,” I say, trying to feign something that resembles strength. The reality is that my words barely broke the crisp evening air.
“Come on, Davey, this is serious.” Her frown deepens. She’s desperate to soften my suffering.
I hold a reluctant pause. I want to ease her concern, but disagreeing would be a blatant lie. I give the little energy I have left to form two short words. “I know.”
She senses my stubbornness. Her expression hardens into a disapproving motherly look, an attempt to make me act upon her advice. Her silence thickens the atmosphere.
Intuition tells me to hold my ground.
“It’s getting late. If…if the emergency services…tell me to…go to hospital…I won’t sleep all night.” I say, between gasps. “It’s better…to get the best…night’s sleep possible…then see how I am in the morning.”
Her jaw drops and her features wilt. It hurts her to see suffering and feel so powerless.
Guilt grows inside my chest. “I’m sorry, “ I say. And I truly am. I hate to add to her anxiety.
Frustrated, resigned, concerned. She reluctantly leaves.
It’s not long until I can barely function. As I heave my body up onto the mezzanine mattress, it feels like my brain is being squeezed. I crawl across the duvet, then attempt to regain my breath. The moment I push myself up to my knees, pain pulses inside my skull and my vision disintegrates.
I’ve lost all sight.
The only perceptible sound I can hear is a womb-like whooshing of blood that seems to drown my eardrums. My body collapses into a strange, twisted foetal position and I lose all awareness of the outside world.
I’ve no idea how many moments move before the faintness evaporates. I lay there for hours, unmoving, fully clothed, too exhausted to get underneath the blanket and too breathless to snatch more than a few moments sleep. Night punishes, morning comes, and improvement slowly sneaks back into my days. I’m able to avoid the hospital. Weeks pass, the virus disappears, but the breathlessness remains, and my disease is becoming increasingly dominant.
The doctor concluded that the combination of her assessment and the symptoms I endured indicated it was highly likely that I had coronavirus, but unfortunately, tests were unavailable at that time. I experienced two months of symptoms. I had chest pains and constant pressure upon my lungs. I struggled to walk up stairs or slopes due to lack of oxygen caused by breathing problems, had fleeting fevers, increased insomnia, loss of voice, a cough and a constant burning throat. Although untested, I wanted to share my experience as I felt that it may give hope to other myalgic encephalomyelitis sufferers and those within the at-risk categories. Sometimes, I wonder, would the outcome have been different if I weren’t within the midst of a hundred-day ketogenic diet?
Wishing you the best health possible.
Warmest wishes,
Davey