‘My husband should have the strength to fight this’
Anna Schuchman fretted about her parents getting the virus, but never thought her fit, 40-year-old partner would be hospitalised
For seven days, my husband has been lying in a hospital bed trying desperately to breathe.
This was never meant to happen to us. Dani is only 40, mega fit and slim with no underlying health conditions. I’m a personal trainer and a nutritionist, so we are both healthy and active. We have four children, full time jobs and a busy family life.
A month ago, the prospect of a devastating virus was as concerning for us as it was for everyone, but it still felt so intangible. It only ever crossed our minds to worry for our parents. We kept an eye on government advice, told the children to wash their hands and went about life as normal. Even when, two weeks ago, Dani began exhibiting mild symptoms, it never occurred to me things could get this bad. I didn’t know then that, four days later, my once energetic husband would be slumped in an armchair, confused and unable to speak, while I pleaded with paramedics to take him to hospital.
In hindsight, there had been small signs. On Friday 13, Dani was meant to take the kids to school but felt strange, as if he might faint or vomit. The following day, he was feeling fine and we had friends round for dinner. They asked for my recipe, which I thought was odd as we’d both found the food bland. Looking back, neither of us had been able to taste much for a week and hadn’t thought anything of it. I wonder now if I also had a mild strain of the virus.
The following night, the coughing started. People are saying: “I do have a bit of a cough so maybe I’ve got it?” Well, there is no mistaking this cough. You can’t imagine it. It’s constant.
We isolated Dani in the living room and he rode out 24 hours with a fever. Paracetamol helped a bit, and I kept taking him drinks and trying to encourage him to eat. I was washing my hands like mad and trying to keep the children at a distance. But I wasn’t too worried – it just seemed like the nasty flu-like thing everyone suggested healthy younger people would get. He would bounce back.
By Tuesday, things had started going downhill. Dani’s breathing was laboured and his body language had changed. He couldn’t lift his chin off his chest or string a sentence together. I called our local ambulance service in north London as I didn’t want to clog up 999. They were brilliant, arriving quickly, but they were at a loss. They had been told not to admit people unless they really needed to, and at that point Dani’s oxygen levels weren’t dangerously low, which didn’t justify taking him in. All the hospitals can do for Covid patients is support them with oxygen, so they’ll only admit you if you desperately need it.
That night, I checked on him constantly. He couldn’t breathe if he lay down, so he was propped up in an armchair. His fever was running at 39.8C (103.6F) a good 45 minutes after he’d taken paracetamol, so it was having little effect. On Wednesday morning, I was beside myself. Dani’s breathing was worse and he didn’t seem to know where he was. I called the ambulance service again. While they were with us, he had a moment of utter confusion, which I’ve now read is a symptom. A GP friend was on the phone saying “he needs to be taken in” but they still couldn’t justify admitting him. I understood that they were trying to limit the burden on the hospital, but they couldn’t see what I could – that Dani was deteriorating rapidly.
When, two hours later, they called me for an update, I was already wrestling him into the car. I pulled up outside Northwick Park A&E and ran inside. “My husband can’t breathe, he’s got coronavirus, where do I take him? Is there a separate entrance?”
“No no,” they said, calmly. “Bring him in, we’re seeing all the patients in here.” We put a mask on Dani (though no one asked me to), got him into a wheelchair and that was that. He was whisked away from me. It’s one of the cruellest things about this infectious virus, that your loved ones can’t be with you while you fight it.
For the first couple of days, I was just ringing the hospital trying to work out where Dani had been taken. I was trying any number I could find and
At least he can speak to me on Facetime when he has the strength
asking frantically: “Where are the coronavirus patients? Which ward is my husband on?”
I now know that he was put straight on oxygen and kept in isolation until a Covid-19 test had come back positive. Until they get a firm diagnosis, they are just putting patients on antibiotics, in case the body is trying to fight something else.
On Friday, he was still in isolation, but when I called on Saturday morning to find out what was going on the nurse said “we’re moving him” and couldn’t really talk. There was a sense of panic in the air. I’d read in the paper that Northwick Park was at capacity – there were 118 Covid patients when Dani was admitted, but within a day or two the hospital was full. He has been on the Covid ward for three days now and has received wonderful care.
The doctors and nurses are trying their best to keep us terrified family members in the loop. When they make their rounds they Facetime me, so I can ask questions. The hard thing about Covid patients is they can’t advocate for themselves and don’t have a loved one by their side. It’s heartbreaking. At least when Dani has moments of feeling stronger he can prop his phone up and say the odd word to me. Elderly patients can’t do that.
There are still peaks and troughs. On Monday night, he was struggling to breathe and in an utter panic. He was on 40 per cent oxygen, which is the borderline before they ventilate. But yesterday morning, he was in a better place and has been able to text: “The nurses are telling me to eat because the 84-year-old next to me has just been sent home because she’s managed to eat.” At least he’s still got a sense of humour.
But make no mistake, this illness is frightening and unpredictable. It seems to pivot just when you think you’re getting better. My husband should have the strength to fight this, but now he’s no different to the people lying next to him who are twice his age.
At home, I’ve been trying to hold it together for our children who are 16, 13, 10 and six. The home schooling packs arrived yesterday and that pushed us all over the edge. Being cooped up in isolation, while Dani is in hospital, is tough. Amazing friends and neighbours have been coming to the end of the drive for a chat or dropping off supplies.
But I just want Dani home and well. I’m adamant that he’ll pull through, and most of the time I’m able to stay focused on that. But this isn’t easy. I think he’s made progress, he is less convinced and is tired. “Breathe deep into your lungs,” the nurses keep telling him. I’m willing him to do the same.
As told to Eleanor Steafel