50 days with Covid-19
Ward six, bed 46. I’m alone in a four-byseven-metre room. A small narrow window in the door provides a glimpse into the inner workings of the hospital. The window to the outside world is filthy, covered by the bleach now used to wash it down between patients, the cleaner told me. It means you can hardly see out.
One overhears the nurses and doctors talking about each patient through the door. ‘‘Her obs are OK. Oxygen levels drop when she sleeps. Another chest X-ray ordered. Needs a daily blood test. Check number of breaths per minute.’’
And the dreaded swab test. I’ve had six: five positives and one negative (probably a mistake). A long stick up the nostril and another into the back of the throat. I am deeply grateful for the medical staff and systems we have in Australia, but why are hospital swab tests done at 5am?
One day I heard a senior nurse talking to a junior nurse outside my room before he administered my swab test, his first. ‘‘They have to gag and cry out, then you know that you’ve done it right,’’ she told him. I gagged appropriately and could tell he smiled under his mask, pleased he had completed the task well.
This is my second stay in hospital. My husband and I came down with Covid-19 after a business trip to France. We cut our trip short and flew back to Sydney just as the prime minister declared travellers had to selfisolate on arrival. We did so diligently. That probably saved our elderly parents’ lives.
On day eight of self-isolation, my husband developed a fever and tested positive. A few days later, I had came down with an extreme headache and breathing difficulties. I lost my sense of taste.
Before this hospital admission,
I was waking in the night every hour, catapulted into consciousness by my lungs gasping for air. My memories of that time are blurry; coronaconfusion is real, in part due to the lack of sleep.
Ward six is a holding bay. Patients are expected to leave quickly: either to intensive care or home. I am an exception. On Wednesday night, there was whispered discussion in the hallway about ICU for me. But I rallied and now I find myself still here, dreaming of home.
The hospital staff are brave. I know that. You can see the fear and determination in their eyes when they enter my room. I need to put on a mask before they come in, but they also really want me to look away, to reduce the chance of my expired air reaching them.
And they are very quick with their procedures. No time to talk. Get in and get out as fast as possible. Only the nurse who specialises in blood tests has chatted. Her comment this morning, ‘‘You’re looking better than before,’’ touched me.
It turns out that Covid-19 doesn’t play by the old rules. Your temperature, blood pressure and pulse can all be normal, although you have a headache, a brick pressing down on your chest and serious shortness of breath. And just when you think you are getting better, it comes back.
The impotence and lack of control become a challenge, especially when you’re starting to feel better. As a patient, you need to practise patience. It’s a waiting game – for results to come back, for the doctor to come, for a meal to be delivered, for the disease to run its course.
As a nation, we need to practise patience too. We need to adhere to restrictions, even as we begin to lift some of them. – Nine
Gabriela Domicelj is a management consultant. She had three stays in hospital and was declared virus-free after 50 days and her seventh swab test.