It started as a regular day. After my regular morning chores, I rode to the office on my two-wheeler. Minutes after entering the office, I felt a debilitating pain in my joints.
As a journalist, I probably believed I was immune to diseases like COVID-19. Since day 1 of lockdown, I was working on coronavirus related stuff – following every update about the illness, and decoding the media bulletin released by the State Health Department on a daily basis. Even when I found the deaths of young people saddening, I thought I – a journalist covering the pandemic daily – would be immune to it.
But the experience of covering the illness, doing panels on it or studying the reports were no patch on my lived experience as a patient struck by the virus.
It started as a regular day. After my regular morning chores, I rode to the office on my two-wheeler. Minutes after entering the office, I felt a debilitating pain in my joints. It was difficult to type a letter on my system. The temperature, I could feel, was rising.
Worried, I went back home and quarantined myself. My physician prescribed some medicines even while asking me to get tested for COVID. But I decided to give the test a miss and try the tablets. But as hours passed, the symptoms aggravated – I developed unbearable body pain, severe headache, heaviness in my eyes, sore throat and dysentery. Added to this, I couldn’t sleep.
I realised I had no other option but to get myself tested but the stigma held me back. But on day two, when the temperature rose to 103, I lost no time. I went to the Omandur GH and got myself tested.
By evening, I knew I had tested positive. I had asked the friend who had taken me to the hospital to quarantine himself. In exchange, he gave me words of encouragement and support. I was worried about disclosing it to my parents, and so, much later, my sister did the job. To a friend who had called from abroad, I cried my heart out.
I was now free from work the next day, the bulletins could wait. The question that now reigned in my mind was, what next for myself.
I decided against home quarantine, since mine was a fairly large family. It was decided that I would screen at Omandur GH and get admitted to Jawahar Engineering College. The next morning, even as I was waiting for an ambulance to arrive to pick me up, I was living all the stories of stigma I had helped cover for my channel. The arrival of the ambulance itself involved a huge process – it took about three hours. When it finally came, the entire street was staring at me, in the new-found knowledge of my disease.
As the siren sound went off, I could hear my family cry. Much later I heard from them that their phones kept ringing non-stop from inquisitive neighbours. In the ambulance, I was blissfully unaware of the embarrassment that my family had to face but I had a zillion thoughts swarming in my mind. With an N95 mask on my face and fears in my mind, I could feel my heartbeat racing fast.
I was guided by a nodal officer to the CT scan room where I had to wait for a while before being called. But even as I was waiting, I felt out of breath and restless. Everything before me was turning dark. I was fainting. My last memory before falling unconscious was a cry for help to the housekeeping staff. Again, there were zillion other thoughts. Even as I was slipping into unconsciousness, I was worried about not seeing my parents for one last time. I remembered the endless media bulletins I had decoded – where young people with no comorbidities had succumbed to the disease. I would be part of the list next day, I thought. All this happened within a minute. I was later wheeled to a ward opposite the CT Scan room.
With oxygen support, I regained my consciousness but I was still not out of fear. My hands had turned cold and my BP was at 60. Doctors who had examined me said I have had an anxiety attack.
With this development, the decision to get me admitted at Jawahar Engineering College was reversed. I was now admitted to the Omandur GH. At the time of my admission, the ward had only two patients. One of them had potentially recovered from COVID, but had an attack of pneumonia. His breathing difficulty filled me with fear.
Two days later, a 70-year-old doctor with comorbidities was admitted to the ward. The very next day, the medical superintendent of the hospital and her family were admitted.
Even as the cases were increasing, I suffered another shock on the personal front. My mother tested positive. She was soon admitted in the same ward as me. She had an existing lung inflammation condition and was immediately put on treatment. Since my father was a cardiac patient, my mother and I shifted to the KP Park quarantine centre after a week at Omandur GH. The new place turned out to be a nightmare for my mother. She had sleepless nights and after a week on medications, we returned home and quarantined ourselves.
The journalist in me sometimes pushed the patient behind. It is rarely that a journalist gets an opportunity to be a first hand witness of the way the system was dealing with the pandemic. From doctors to nurses and sanitary staff, the health workers were toiling round the clock, taking care of patients and attending to their needs. I will forever be grateful to the two doctors who took care of me – Dr Sivanesan and Dr Imthiyaz. I only remember their glistening eyes that exuberated a certain warmth through the heavy PPE suits.
COVID-19 is not like any other disease in that you cannot have an attender with you. We would often be left depending on the frontline health workers for every little need. Of course, there were calls from friends and family. We are always told to believe in ourselves. COVID-19 taught me the invaluable lesson. It was in this period I started doodling, and it has now become my favourite hobby. Doodling teaches you the virtues of patience and focus.
I would be doing a disservice if I failed to mention the food provided to us at Omandur GH. It was the best of what could be provided by the restaurants around. I even overheard phone conversations to frontline workers, apparently from the restaurateurs demanding their dues.
From my experience, I know that the country owes our frontline workers much more.
Lavanya Natarajan currently working as a journalist with News7 Tamil television, has 7 years of experience in the field. She has extensively covered politics, health and child related issues in Tamil Nadu. Views expressed are the author’s own.
Source: The News Minute