‘I started writing goodbyes to my children’
Dominic Minghella, the creator of ITV’S ‘Doc Martin’, reveals his brush with death after being hospitalised for coronavirus
My symptoms were almost nonexistent at first. One night I had a bout of chills. I assumed I must have turned the heating down too low and went to bed without thinking too much about it.
I checked my temperature regularly for the next 48 hours but had nothing too high. No cough either. Paracetamol and carry on.
Three days on, I dropped my daughter at a children’s party and got both the time and venue wrong. Two days later, still no real fever or cough, but I was beginning to feel seriously tired – my eyes were closing at the dinner table.
We decided to pull the kids from school as we were worried about catching the virus – not because we thought I already had it.
A week in, and it became clear. My temperature hit 102F. I was gulping down paracetamol. I had a horrible metallic taste in my mouth and didn’t want to eat. I was so weak I could barely hold a cup. Still no cough.
I began to realise that I was breathless. Climbing the stairs had become too hard so I wasn’t going down in the first place. I still didn’t have a cough but I felt like I was subconsciously suppressing it: no cough meant no Covid-19. I didn’t want Covid-19. I moved little so as to require little breath. Same went for talking. Less talking, less breathlessness.
On Day 10, I spoke on the phone with a GP who recommended visiting A&E. I hated that idea and limped on for another day, trying the 111 online symptom-checker instead. It quickly said: “Call 999.”
The ambulance crew couldn’t hear anything in my chest but, even with oxygen support, my “sats” (oxygen saturation in blood) were low. They took me to nearby King’s College Hospital, which seems to be wholly given over to Covid-19.
There was a long wait. All the other “blue call” patients were like me. And the ambulances just seemed to keep coming.
I was taken to A&E “resus” where they put in lines, administered antibiotics, X-rayed my chest, wired me up to monitors, took blood and left pretty much no part of me unpoked. The deep back-of-throat cotton bud swipe for Covid-19 made me gag, and the nasal swipe made me cry out – the thing is thrust right up your nose and seemingly (as a doctor later put it) into your mind.
I was to be taken to a way-station ward to await the test results, before then heading on to a Covid-19 ward. They had ventilators, I was reassured. At least, I think it was intended as reassurance.
The noise in A&E was spectacular, like being in an episode of ER with full surround sound, relentless bleeping and digital alarms. Announcements on the PA. Staff shouting. Patients shouting.
The discomfort was spectacular, too – I was still on a trolley after many hours and my lower back was screaming with pain. Eventually, a wonderful Lancastrian nurse sensed my distress and ordered a bed – soft and electrically adjustable – to be brought in. It was like landing in The Ritz.
I needed rest, but there were constant arrivals. A nurse came in for more swabs – this time nasal, throat, groin and (charming) anus. MRSA, she said. There were more tests, injections. I lost track and stopped caring.
A doctor and junior wearing masks arrived. Their body language spoke of tragedy. They said I would be moved to a Covid ward for confirmed patients once my results came back.
I reached for some sort of comfort or hope: “The funny thing is, I feel like I could eat for the first time; in some ways I’m better.” “Yes, but you can have good days,” replied the doctor.
Before he went, he asked if I was related to Anthony Minghella. “Yes, my brother,” I said. “Oh. And now you’ve become the title of his film.”
So I was the eponymous The English Patient. I’m sure it was generously intended, but the English Patient is dying. The English Patient has no hope. The English Patient eventually has to ask Hana to give him several capsules of morphine to send him on his way.
As the door closed, I realised what had just happened. I was determined to fight; to try to live for my kids, my partner and my family. But the doctors had just told me, in silences, in corrected optimism, that I may not live. Right there, right then, I may not live.
I assumed the worst. I had to write my farewells to my children. I disconnected myself from the oxygen and found my laptop.
I started with my youngest, Rosa, 11, and began the lamest of loving celebrations. Her talents, her kindness, the way she reminds me in some of her faraway looks of my much-adored mum.
I was so tired and so despondent. I knew I wouldn’t have the strength to manage letters to all four kids, let alone to my amazing partner, Sarah, and my large and wonderful family. It seemed so pathetic. Was this the best I could do?
None of it was fair. To die without family close by. A hand to hold. Without comfort even from a person who can smile at you without a mask. Had death ever been so lonely and bleak?
I asked my niece, a lawyer, to investigate emergency marriage – why not make it as financially smooth as possible for Sarah? I should have done it long ago but I wasn’t calculating an untimely demise. Her investigation was not very promising.
A couple of days later, the doctor and his juniors told me a second Covid test had failed – apparently it’s not unusual – but the CT scan of my lungs showed all the signs associated with the disease, with an extra layer of “scrunched-upness”.
“It’s as if you’ve been suppressing the cough.” I confessed I had. “If I don’t cough, I don’t have Covid. If I don’t have Covid, I can’t die.”
Behind their masks, I’m pretty sure they thought I was nuts.
“Anyway, I’m feeling great,” I said. It was kind of true. “I’ve had a full day without temperature spikes. I’m eating. I’ve been having a bit of a sing.” That was a bit of a lie.
“You’re singing? Really? How about we consider sending you home?”
“Sure,” I said, stunned. “That could work.” I tried not to say any more; say more and I might say the wrong thing, and he might change his mind.
Several hours later, I was released without fanfare. I wanted to thank the staff. I wanted to hug them.
But they barely looked up from their stations. I was going; they most definitely are there for the long term.
A nurse took the time to walk me down to the main entrance – she’s not wearing a mask and neither was I. I could see her face.
I couldn’t quite believe it. It was the first face in forever.
As we pulled up outside our house, I realised I had thought I might never see it again.
I curled up on the sofa and I started to shudder and sob. It probably was not the homecoming my loved ones were imagining.
There was no dancing. Not even a smile. My lungs were on fire and – worse – my mind, it appeared, was shot. But I was back. Dear God in heaven, I am back.
The doctors had just told me, in silences, in corrected optimism, that I may not live