A blazing sore throat, then a cough. I have a heart issue. I needed a test for the virus...

IWANT to share an experience with you. About two weeks ago, I developed what I imagined was a bad cold. It was a humdinger – a blazing sore throat that felt like it was being attacked by tiny shards of glass, a throbbing headache and a relentless streaming nose.

I felt exhausted, my body ached and my appetite was nonexistent. And I coughed. It began dry and ticklish, as if my airways were irritated somewhat, progressing to a more dense, productive version.

But these were not symptoms I was unfamiliar with. As a mother of two small children, bugs, viruses and other bacillus have become part of the family, with runny noses, slight temperatures and all sorts of tussications as expected as a packed lunch.

So I had these symptoms, as the first reported cases of Covid19 were beginning to trickle through in this country. We began to learn how to avoid getting the virus, mainly through handwashing and coughing and sneezing into our elbows. We understood we needed to protect vulnerable groups, those with underlying health conditions, those over 70.

I’m the first to admit I’ve been terrified of this virus from the start. As someone who is three years recovered from heart failure, even though I am in very good health today, the idea of being one of the vulnerable takes my mind to a very dark place.

The horror of Italy was gathering speed, as images of overwhelmed hospitals and distraught healthcare workers took over news feeds. I watched, alongside the rest of this country, still somewhat detached from the visceral reality of what was to come.

Rattling

By St Patrick’s Day, my sore throat was better, but my sinuses ached and that cough was still there, rattling away. I was bonetired and my children, snottynosed as usual, were taking naps during the day – something they had ceased doing months ago. My husband had started to develop a dry cough, and he skipped dinner that night, choosing to rest instead.

Then it hit me. The possibility that Covid-19 may have invaded our home. That this deadly virus was causing the cough I had been harbouring. I had not entertained the idea previously as I had been taking temperatures regularly and nobody was over 36.5 degrees. Now though, I questioned not only the accuracy of the digital thermometer we had been using – it has been hurled at force by a sick child on many a fitful night – but also my own instinct.

It’s something that has not let me down in my life. Like when, three weeks after the birth of my second daughter, I knew the breathlessness and fatigue I was experiencing was more than hormonal fluctuations. I was, in fact, in deep cardiac distress, trying to live with a heart that was failing, a bizarre condition brought on by pregnancy. These things happen.

But I have form on the old hypochondria front, with all sorts of malaise expedited to worst-case scenarios under the care of Dr Google. Ironically, this condition has been in submission since my actual health crisis, but there’s nothing like a global pandemic to rouse old demons – and I know I’m not alone here. It’s difficult not to semi-panic when news alerts flash up highlighting the demise of fit and young people – even, reportedly, the first child – falling victim to Covid-19’s sometimes fatal clutches.

I was breathless when I called my doctor to explain my concerns on Wednesday of last week, feeling like even by just talking, I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs.

‘Can you breathe okay when you’re lying down, walking around?’ she gently asked.

‘I don’t know,’ I said truthfully, as right then, I didn’t.

My chest felt tight, I was still coughing. There was still no evidence of fever. But I was so tired. Psychosomatic? Exhaustion from parenting, working, homeschooling, simply being in a global pandemic? The final stage of a nasty, niggling – but ultimately harmless – viral infection that simply refused to shift? Or just a plain old dose of crazy?

I didn’t know, and neither did my doctor who, like all of her colleagues at my local practice, is to be commended for the endless compassion, patience and dedication shown to patients. I owe my life to these people, who made the call to send me into ER three years ago. I let her decide.

Given my history, she put me forward for a coveted test, told me to continue to self-isolate and, if symptoms worsened, to call an ambulance. She warned that there was a backlog on tests and results, and I could be waiting for up to five days for a confirmation of an appointment.

Imagination

Typically, over the next few days, I started to feel a lot better. My cough vanished and fatigue lifted. I received a text from my GP’s office apologising for delays in tests and results, two days before I got confirmation that my test was scheduled for 9.30am on Tuesday, March 24.

I wondered should I attend it. Looking back and listening to other people’s symptoms, I really don’t feel like what I had was Covid-19. I didn’t want to waste a test, or the health system’s time. And wasn’t I putting myself in the eye of the storm, so to speak? Going to a place where, at some point, no doubt, the virus will be present?

I made the call. Test centre it was. But I’ll admit, I was more than a little anxious, fearing the unknown. Would it be taken in my car? Would it be painful? Would I see sick people stretchered out or ushered into isolation rooms?

Of course not – none of those things, even though it’s amazing how your imagination can convince you otherwise.

Here’s how it really went... I pulled up to where the test was to take place, in a HSE centre about a half hour’s drive from my house. I was early. I was greeted by two healthcare workers in the fairly empty car park.

Yes, they were wearing full hazmat suits, visors and face masks, but that’s where the similarities to an Ebola assessment centre stops.

They were warm and friendly, as one of them handed me a mask to wear while the other ticked my name off a list. I was told to stay in my car and that the wait wouldn’t be long.

In a nearby car space, a woman who looked to be in her 50s had just gotten out and was following the healthcare worker inside for her test.

At this point, another car pulled up with a young couple inside; they rolled down their windows to receive their face masks. The man was struggling to put his on properly, and I could see the pair laughing as his partner helped him.

Then, the lady who I had seen previously returned to her car, holding a plastic bag, and drove off. So far, so normal, and I started to relax. Nothing to be overly concerned about.

Then I saw something which almost made me cry. A mother protectively cradling her small baby – both wearing masks. Two little eyes peeping out from this clinical protective layer was almost too much to bear. Such innocence in such a crazy time. His mother’s hand on his little soft head, guiding him, protecting him. A bubble of love.

Intense

Mother and baby exited, mum smiling, baby gazing around inquisitively. Then it was my turn. I went through the doors, applied gel to my hands, and sat down in a designated spot close to the door. I remember thinking the virus could be there, waiting to catch me.

Two healthcare workers, both female, were involved in my test – one asked my name and address and the other explained what was coming. I was handed a tissue and asked to clear my nose before proceeding.

I was told I could cough before the test or at any time throughout. A swab was going to be taken from the nasal cavity and the back of the throat. Yikes, I thought, and as if reading my mind, the lady taking the test said softly: ‘Don’t worry. We’ll mind you.’

Now, I’m not going to dance around the next part. The Covid19 test involves having a nasopharyngeal swab with what is essentially a long, skinny cotton bud tip. It is intense and uncomfortable, in both instances. But it’s over in a matter of seconds.

I was handed my goodie bag – a plastic hold-all containing information on Covid-19 and self-isolation, a face mask, and three large black sacks. I applied antibacterial gel on my hands on the way out. The lady who met me in the car park escorted me to my car, and I was told that the quickest I could expect the results was five days.

I took my face mask off and put it in a provided plastic bag to be disposed of as soon as I found a bin. When I returned home, I took off my shoes at the door, and I would later clean them and the soles with anti-bacterial gel and wipes. I undressed in the porch, and put my clothes into the provided black sacks before putting them in a boil wash.

All the way, I wiped my keys, phone and door handles down with anti-bacterial spray, and then I took a hot shower.

My positive experience is testament to the herculean efforts of those working in the healthcare system.

I also realise I am one of the lucky ones. I was put forward for a test before the surge, and my heart is with those who have symptoms and are desperately waiting for that text to come.

Whatever my results show, I feel fortunate – that I’m here and I’m okay and so are my loved ones. I just pray that as Covid-19 continues its ascent, this will remain the case.