NHS 111 told me it wasn’t corona. They were wrong
The MoS’s Ben Lazarus was one of the first Britons infected. And the response from the health service was a shambles
THE doctor looked at me solemnly, having listened to my chest and peered at the back of my throat. ‘You really shouldn’t have come here today,’ he said. ‘Sorry, what?’ I replied. ‘With everything that’s going on, it wasn’t sensible to come here. Haven’t you thought that you might have this new virus?’
The doctor ushered me out, making sure he opened the door so I didn’t touch the handle.
I was taken aback. It was March 9, and although it was well known that the new coronavirus was rampaging through northern Italy, I had been made to believe I couldn’t possibly have the virus.
Only a few hundred cases had been reported in the UK by then. The messages coming from the Government were that only those who had been to high-risk areas, such as Lombardy, China or parts of South Korea, need worry.
I’d been ill for a week, with what we now know to be all the classic symptoms of Covid-19: a shocking fever, almost suffocating breathlessness and cough, and a complete loss of my senses of taste and smell. I was shattered, the sickest I’ve ever been in my 28 years. But I’d called NHS 111 three times and had been told that I couldn’t possibly have the virus. In fact, I was made to feel quite stupid for asking.
Today, thankfully, I am almost completely recovered. But for weeks, once I was back on my feet, I still wheezed like a 20-a-day smoker running a marathon every time I attempted a flight of stairs.
And I now know the truth. I did have Covid19. On March 19, I took a test, paid for prisince vately by my employer. Ten days later, the results came back. It was positive.
At this point, having read and heard enough accounts of others who had been through similar ordeals, I had accepted I probably had suffered from Covid-19 – but I was shocked that I still tested positive more than two weeks after my symptoms first appeared. More than anything, I was angry.
I think back to the worried look on the face of that doctor who examined me without a mask. Did
I infect him? And what about the doctor I’d seen previously?
DID I infect people on my ten-minute walk to and from the surgery in North-West London? It’s quite possible that I did. But no one told me to self-isolate, which we now know is vital for stopping the spread of the virus.
And, I wonder, how many others are there like me, who were told they weren’t infected, when in fact they were. I believe my story illustrates starkly just how confused and chaotic the response was during the early days.
On Saturday, February 29, I left the office late after a hectic day. Afterwards, I headed to a bar where an old school friend was throwing a leaving party before he moved abroad. I drank too much, but it was hard not to be merry, catching up with old friends, including one who works at the London HQ of a major Chinese company.
On Tuesday, March 3, I developed a bad fever. I took some paracetamol and tried to sleep it off but by the early hours, my body was in agony. I’m almost never unwell, yet I spent the Wednesday in bed. The fever had subsided a little, but I felt wiped out. But that evening, the fever came back with a vengeance and my lungs began to tighten.
By Thursday I was breathless and had developed a cough. My girlfriend made some chicken soup to help. ‘Delicious,’ I remember saying, while wondering why Sophie – normally a great cook – was serving this flavourless liquid.
That night, I woke up feeling as if I was choking, and the following day, Friday, March 6, I decided to call 111.
The man on the phone told me I couldn’t have the new virus because I hadn’t been abroad to a hotspot February 19 and had had no contact with anyone now in quarantine. He advised me instead to go to my GP to get checked out. I mustered all the energy I could to walk to the surgery, where a doctor – who wasn’t wearing a mask – listened to my chest and said I ‘had some stuff going on’. She prescribed antibiotics but warned that my condition could be viral, and she asked me not to get the prescription unless my condition worsened.
That night I took a turn for the worse and was really struggling to breathe. By 2am I was gasping loudly. Sophie insisted on calling 111 for a second time, yet they once again dismissed any suggestion that it might be Covid-19 and said a doctor would call back in an hour. When the doctor eventually phoned three hours later, I asked whether I needed to get tested. ‘The symptoms seem similar, from what I’ve read,’ I said between wheezes.
‘No, it sounds like you should get yourself to A&E and I can let them know you’re coming,’ came the response. But it was now 5am on Saturday, I was slightly less breathless, and so I thanked him and said there was no need.
Despite Sophie’s protests, I insisted it was just a bad night and I was OK. I hate causing any fuss, and I was conscious that hospitals are, after all, for really sick people, not young men like me.
Later on the Saturday afternoon, the scratch that had been irritating my throat for a few days had developed into an excruciating pain, and by Monday morning, the entire back of my throat had erupted in ulcers. It felt as if I was swallowing razor blades. This pain was compounded by my inability to breathe properly and, on top of that, I had a dry cough.
I called 111 again and asked to be tested. The person on the other
end of the line listened to my symptoms and – unbelievably in retrospect – told me it couldn’t be coronavirus as I hadn’t been abroad to a hotspot or knowingly had contact with someone who’d been infected. They advised me to go back to my GP.
I did as I was told and returned to the GP surgery – this time seeing a different doctor. He prescribed some steroids to help the ulcers before he began telling me off for coming in at all. It was jarring. All along, I’d done exactly as instructed. About 11 days from the onset of the fever, I was back on my feet. But for weeks after, I had a real sense that my lungs had been damaged.
I wasn’t surprised to learn that seven friends at that same small gathering back in February had also become ill, including the one who works for the Chinese firm in London. None of them were able to get tested either. And none of them followed self-isolating guidelines, which were announced on March 12 for everyone with a persistent cough or fever. And, of course, none of the people any of us live with would have known to self-quarantine, in case they too were carrying the virus. The advice to do so was given by the Government only on March 16.
The company offering private testing sent me a kit. It contained a swab, which I used to take samples from my nose and throat, which wasn’t the most comfortable experience. This was then sealed in a package and sent off to their lab. We have been led to believe that the virus leaves your system in seven to 14 days. But I am told by the doctor who delivered my results that in more severe cases like mine, you can be infectious for longer.
In my case, I got a positive test result more than two weeks after first developing symptoms. Which raises the question: what was Health Secretary Matt Hancock doing opening the Nightingale Hospital when he had barely passed the seven-day quarantine period?
The whole time I was ill, officials considered the risk to Britons as low. Three days before I was infected, Public Health England said it did not believe the virus was spreading undetected. I am proof that it was wrong.
I dread to think how many people I may have inadvertently infected. Indeed, in quiet moments, I feel quite a sharp sense of shame.
My girlfriend was unaffected, besides the mildest of coughs, so I believe the theory that the virus is more serious in men. But I am left with questions.
Why was I dismissed six weeks ago, when, in hindsight, it was so obvious I had Covid-19?
Why were the 111 operators so under-prepared?
Why were we so nonchalant, even though tens of thousands of Chinese people, including those from Wuhan, had been flying here since the New Year without any checks?
Why, despite my symptoms, was I never offered an NHS test?
And, worst of all, I wonder how many people died – and will die – unnecessarily because of this terrible planning.
We might never know. But we should do everything we can to make sure the same mistakes are never made again.