Sick Boy: Part 2

As this story is quite long, I have decided to break it up into three easy-to-digest parts. If you missed Part 1, you can read it here.

As they rolled my bed down the corridor, I felt disorientated - or like some sort of trapped animal. I wanted to go home, and in my panicked state, I was certain that I would recover if I could just go home. I decided that I would remove the oxygen mask, and inform the nurses that "I desire to go home, and to do so without delay," (of course, those weren't my actual words; the more colourful language that went through my mind at that point needed to be cleaned up a little). But, my arms don't move. My hands barely move. I am too tired. That was the first time my body disobeyed me.

I don't remember going into the ICU. I remember waking up, I would assume not long after I got there, as there were still many nurses around me - getting the room ready. I see the doctor, which makes me feel relieved - a familiar face. My next memory is of being in the room with only the doctor, and a very large (not fat, just big) male nurse. The doctor is busy starting a central line in my neck, and the nurse is busy inserting a catheter. I look towards the doctor and I joke (as I often do when I'm nervous) that "In my defence, the room is very cold, and his hands are massive." That seemed to brighten his face for a second or two, but it turned back to exhaustion rather quickly.

I don't remember much detail of the next day and a half, but I remember the theme. I asked the nurses when I was admitted, to turn the screens of the monitors toward me, so I could see my blood oxygen levels. I needed to feel in control of something if only my mind. As the day went on, I could see the blood oxygen levels decline - slowly. My thoughts would constantly be interrupted by machines whining about my latest blood oxygen drop. I'm thankful for medication because I was too sedated to freak out about what was an increasingly serious problem. That night, I struggled to fall asleep. My body was very tired of having to work exceptionally hard for every breath of oxygen, but I was terrified that if I closed my eyes, I would not open them again. The next morning, I asked the nurses to turn the monitors away from me. I didn't want to hear any sounds or see any numbers. I wanted to believe I was getting better, and the machines telling me the opposite (in no uncertain terms) just seemed to make fun of me.

Later that afternoon, I was woken up by a nurse. The doctor, with his usual calm or perhaps exhausted demeanour, was coming to see me and stood next to me. He told me that they had just successfully extubated a fellow patient and that there was now a ventilator available. "What does this have to do with me?" I wondered, while the point of his story flew right past me. He made himself more clear when he suggested that I be put on a ventilator. I will forever be so grateful to him for how he handled this conversation with me. He told me that he was concerned about how hard my body was working to breathe. My infection markers were coming down a little, but not quickly enough for my body to sustain. Then, he looked at me with a softer expression (perhaps I only saw it because I needed to see it) and said that he believed we should put me on a ventilator immediately. He explained that it might be slightly sooner than what they have done to other patients previously, but given that there was a ventilator available now and (based on how quickly I was getting worse) we would need one soon, it would be wise to take it now. I think he saw the fear in my eyes when I looked over because he broke the silence by saying "It's completely your decision. You get to choose." A couple of things went through my mind at this point: I knew how many people, including family members, never made it off the ventilator. I knew how many people never got the chance to try. And I was acutely aware that I was only 28 years old and otherwise healthy. I distinctly remembered a conversation I had with a colleague when Covid had just become a worldwide concern (before the first lockdown) and I said to her "I have a bad feeling about this virus. I don't think I'll do very well if I catch it." My brain's reminder about that conversation at that time made me wonder if I had an eerie suspicion, or whether I was pessimistic. Either way, I remember thinking that I would need to work on that if I got better.

Moments after I tell the doctor that I trust his advice on this, I see the anaesthesiologist enter my room. She was a warm, friendly person who brought a lot of calm into the room (which, I suppose, is her job). She asked me if I wanted to phone someone. To tell them that I was going to be intubated. "Yes," I said. And then I wondered "How do you even tell this to someone?" I didn't know much about anything at that moment, but I knew that both sides of this telephone call would be difficult to be on. I phoned my partner - we briefly spoke about it, and I asked him to explain my decision to my parents. And to tell them that I love them. I handed the nurse my phone and looked over at the anaesthesiologist. As she placed the mask over my face, she said "We'll see you when you wake up." I remember thinking "If. If I wake up."

About 6 days later, I opened my eyes for the first time. Even while still intubated, I remember my body feeling better. Lighter somehow. The room was dark. All the curtains were closed, and the lights were off. A nurse (I would guess in her early 50's) sees that my eyes are open, and she starts talking. "Hello, Mr Coetzee. Welcome back! You are at Groenkloof Hospital. You have been intubated, so please don't try to speak." My eyes won't fully open. "Who is this woman? Why is she yelling?" I think. "You don't want to be outside at the moment, it is freezing! It's been raining all week." She fakes a shiver. "What day is it? How long was I out?" I wonder. "You missed quite a lot while you were sleeping. There are riots in KZN! People are stealing everything! The shops are burned! Don't try to speak, you are doing very well. The doctor will come and see you when he does his rounds." I nod. "How are you feeling? Don't try to speak! Are you in pain? Don't try to speak!" In that moment I felt more traumatised by that one-way conversation than I did by any of the preceding events. I am very grateful to her as I now understand she was undoubtedly just happy that I had woken up, but in that moment, I would have appreciated a more gentle birth back into reality. In fact, the only question I would have wanted to ask was "Who won Wimbledon?".

I improved seemingly by the hour those first couple of days. I was starting to figure out how to have conversations using my hands while they weened me off the ventilator. I began texting with my friends and family, and my mood lifted considerably. A couple of days later, I was finally extubated. I was still on oxygen, but I could talk. And eat! It was a soft food diet at that point, which basically means mashed potatoes, but still. They told me I was being moved to the High Care Ward, and that I could probably go home in a week or so. And again, whether you would call it an eerie suspicion or just plainly pessimistic - I felt uncomfortable. I couldn't help thinking "Surely not? How did I survive that so easily (calling that "easily" really gives you a snapshot of my mental state at that point)?" Later that day my partner told me that he had tested positive for Covid, but that he was doing fine overall.

I spent a couple of days in the High Care Ward. On my last day there, I woke up feeling tired - more tired than I have felt since I left the ICU, so I drifted in and out of sleep. At one point, I woke up and checked my phone. My partner let me know that he needed to be admitted to the hospital but that all the hospitals in our area advised that they had no beds available. I was not entirely sound of mind yet, so I was of little help, but somehow my partner (or his sister or someone) had managed to get him admitted to the same hospital I was in. I was told that the concern in his case was mostly blood clots and that the doctors were quite comfortable that he would be fine. While he was being admitted, I was being moved to the standard Covid ward, which had about eight beds in it. Knowing about our relationship and how long it's been since we saw each other, the nurses allowed him to say hello to me before they took him to his room. I'm still teary now as I write about it, but it was such an incredible moment. It was only a couple of seconds, but still my favourite moment of my entire life.

After he left, I fell asleep. When I woke up later that afternoon, I still felt tired. Even more than I had felt before I went to sleep. I remember thinking that it was probably just my body relaxing for the first time (knowing that my partner would also be okay now). In the early evening, I asked the nurses whether I would be allowed to take a shower and wash my hair (since no one had washed my hair since I was admitted, obviously they had more serious things to worry about). They agreed. I went into the bathroom and opened the shower taps, but then I saw everything around me fade to black.

My next memory is hearing a woman saying "Mr Coetzee. Mr Coetzee. You need to wake up, Mr Coetzee." I struggled to open my eyes, but I managed to say that I would feel better if they just took me back to my bed. Naturally, I was very confused when the nurse said that I had already been back in bed for almost an hour. When I finally had my wits about me, the nurse said "We found you on the bathroom floor in a pool of blood." It's like cold water to the face. My immediate thoughts were"Please don't take me back to the ICU! I just know I won't make it out the second time!" but I remained quiet because I was too exhausted to speak. As I fell asleep again, I willed my body to feel better. To not be sick again. To not drag me back to the ICU. And for a second time, my body disobeyed me.