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I got COVID.

Yes, you read that right.

I got the Rona. The VARUS. THE BEERUS. The thing that’s been trendy as of late--yes, I’m being facetious.

Symptoms started for me around July 24th, Saturday. I woke up with a raging headache. It felt like the flu. I was groggy, out of it, and it felt like the world swayed with each throb of my head. It was painful. At the time, I didn’t think much of it. I just got sick. My mom had it too, as well as my dad. My mom and I opted to handle the best way we could: take flu medication and just sleep it off.

That’s what my mom always taught me. The best cure for any ailment (within reason, obviously) is just to sleep it off. Sleep always helps, and it helps your body lockdown and recover. So that’s what we did. I just slept on and off, and stayed mostly in my room. Fever came and went, and I had a cold to go along with it. Thankfully, the headache passed, and I was left with a cough the next day and a fever that came and went.

However, that was when things got serious.

In case you’re wondering, the point of infection was from my dad.

For the sake of not making you all worry: we’re all safe. I’m safe. My mom is safe. My dad is safe. We have successfully recovered, and we’re just recovering at home.

At the time however, I was angry at my dad. When the pandemic struck, I always treated it with the respect that it demanded, not the one it deserved. I always wore a mask when going to public places. I always sanitized. I always socially distanced whenever I could. The idea of how dangerous this thing is never left my mind, and I never let it. And for a while it worked. I was vibing over here, and covid was vibing over there. We were both minding our own businesses.

Unfortunately, there are some things I can't control.

My dad being one of them. Suffice to say he got himself infected. I’m not going to elaborate on the matter, just that he did. People who do know the story, the ones I have told at the time of it happening, you guys keep it to yourselves. In hindsight, I suppose it’s best not to air dirty family laundry like that out in the open.

So yeah. My dad got himself infected. And through him, me, and my mom. It was around July 24th when I started showing symptoms. It was on July 25th when he had to be admitted to the hospital, despite his stubbornness on the matter. He actually insisted to stay home (which we were later informed could have been a fatal action. So yeah~) but it was thanks to my mom and I that we were able to convince him to go admit himself. My mom opted to go with my dad and thus both of them had to stay at the hospital, the former watching over the latter.

I had to self-quarantine at home. Throughout this, we were swabbed and we tested positive.

It was on the morning of the 26th that I lost my sense of taste and smell.

It’s a surreal feeling. One moment you can taste and smell everything. The next thing you know, you’re shoving hotdog in your face and you don’t smell anything at all. I could close my eyes and I could put anything in my mouth and I would not be able to tell you what it is. Whenever I ate, it was like I was eating air. I knew what I was eating. But nothing was registered. It was just...a thing in my mouth. I was ordered to take antibiotics throughout this period and I could flip flop the medication in my mouth and it wouldn’t taste like anything at all. I lost the desire to eat food. You only realize how taste is important when you lose it.

Throughout this entire time, my mom kept in touch with us while they were at the hospital. At the time, my dad was effectively fighting for his life. He had severe pneumonia and his lungs were battered and bruised from coughing too much. His oxygen levels were tanking.

It was a really bad look.

I cried. A lot. My mom cried. My younger sister cried, at least I think so. The point is, the gravity of the situation was not lost on us. I went through stages of grief at that point, and I’m not ashamed to admit it. I don’t think I’ve prayed so much and so hard in those early days. My relationship with my dad is strained at best. The best way to put it is that he’s old, and I’m young. And the generational gap leaves a lot of problems with him being stuck in the past and me being in the present, to say the least.

But despite all this, he was still my dad, and thus, I didn’t want him to die.

When you have Covid, you’re literally given a health bar in the form of the Pulse Oximeter. You can Google it, but basically, it’s just a small device that clips onto your finger and measures your oxygen level, as well as your pulse. It’s very cheap, very small, but it’s very important. If you’re a healthy individual, your oxygen levels should normally be around 97 to 99.

When you have Covid, this number begins to tank. I’m talking: when you cough (and you will want to cough a lot when you have Covid) that number dips. From 97, to 96, 95...eventually to 90, and then 88. Now you may think “88 is fine, right?”. No. It isn’t. When you go down 90 below, it’s critical. That’s the time you need to get yourself admitted and start breathing oxygen directly into your lungs.

My dad had to get strong volumes of pure oxygen pumped into his nose (he wasn’t intubated, thankfully enough) so that his oxygen levels would stabilize.

It was on July 29th that I had a bad coughing fit and my oxygen levels went down to 88. It was at this point that my mom opted to get me admitted as well. She wasn’t taking any chances, and I can’t blame her. Thankfully, a room had opened up as well and I was reserved a slot.

While I was in that Emergency Room waiting for my room to be sterilized, it really showed me just how...depressing this all is. I’ve seen it in the news. Emergency Rooms filled to the brim of patients diagnosed with Covid, some unable to be admitted to a ward because all the wards are filled. You see nurses in PPE outfits walking around, trying to monitor patients. There’s this certain atmosphere you don’t feel when you’re just watching it on the news.

Being there personally, it felt crushing. I could feel death walking those halls.

The nurses and doctors themselves have been fighting this pandemic for a year now and with no signs of stopping too. It’s insane. I felt bad for them. The patients were from all walks of life; male, female, old, young, Covid wasn’t picky. It was going to take everyone with it if you allowed it to.

Eventually though, I got sent to my room.

I saw my mom for the first time and I felt relieved. My dad was in his room, still on medication.

It was July 29th 10pm and it was only just the beginning.

The first night was interesting. I got chills. They had to give me paracetamol every four hours to ward off my fever that came and went. I tried to sleep, but I couldn’t. I ended up sleeping in chunks. I’ve always struggled sleeping when I’m not in my room, so the new environment wasn’t doing me any favors.

It was on July 30th that I got visited by the doctor assigned to me. He told me that he wanted to give me a CT Scan since my X-Ray came out inconclusive. They wanted to see my lungs and a CT Scan would give more direct results. I was more than happy to oblige. At this point, I was also informed on what treatment they would give me.

In case you’re wondering, AFAIK and as of typing this journal, THERE IS NO CURE for Covid.

There are TREATMENTS for COVID, but there is no medication that you can take that will cure you of it. Semantics, I know, but they’re important differences. The doctor told me that they were going to give me Remdesivir, an antiviral medication as a “Compassionate Use”, as well as anti inflammatory medication and steroids.

That is, if the CT Scan came out with me needing it.

And...it did come out with me needing it. I was scanned and was later informed that I had Covid induced pneumonia.

It was later that evening when things got really interesting.

At this point, my symptoms were primarily an annoying cough and a fever that came and went. Whenever I took a deep breath, I wanted to cough. It was caused by my pneumonia. It was annoying, but It was manageable. I felt “fine”. My oxygen levels were relatively fair. I wasn’t dipping. I believed the worst of the symptoms had come and went.

But I was proven wrong.

It was around 7pm when it happened. I was trying to sleep. Then...my breaths started feeling shallower. At first I thought it was just me. But then it dawned on me that it was actually happening. I was beginning to have shortness of breath. I never had shortness of breath before, so the experience was scary to me. Imagine lying on your stomach and then trying to take a deep breath. Because you’re on your stomach, you end up taking this “half” breath--because of how strained you are.

That was happening to me except I was just lying there, relaxed and lethargic as can be. Suffice to say, I panicked. I genuinely thought I was going to suffocate. I called the nurse and was dutifully informed to try and do deep breaths to help with the situation. Unfortunately, it didn’t help. In hindsight, most likely from me panicking. Eventually, I was given a low volume of oxygen to help stabilize myself.

I couldn’t talk. Whenever I tried, it would take my breath away. My sentences would trail to silence as there was not enough air in my lungs for me to speak. I was that short of breath. I struggled to sleep. I had to focus on deep breathing and if you’re focusing, you can’t relax enough to sleep. It was...an experience, to say the least.

That was by far the scariest thing Covid has thrown at me.

The next day, I eventually got my breath back.

The days that followed were just us there. My dad started getting better, and I eventually got my taste back. Toothpaste tasted VERY WEIRD during the day I could taste it. It felt so alien.

We eventually got discharged on August 4th. We survived.

Right now, we’re just at home. My younger sister contracted Covid (yes, my mom was rightfully stressed out about it too) but thankfully it’s just a mild case of it. The worst she has of it is a cough. We’re all isolating at home, riding out the remnants of Covid. I still have some light headedness and an annoying cough. Everything tastes the same for me, but I believe my taste buds will orient themselves in the coming weeks. Other than that, I’m fine. We’d be cleared by the doctor to be “free” again in a week or so.

So that’s my experience with Covid. It’s not fun.

Get yourselves vaccinated people. And yes, I wanted to be vaccinated. Unfortunately, I got Covid literally four days before I was scheduled to be vaccinated. Sometimes life just comes at you like that.

Is this meant to scare people about Covid? I don’t think you need me to scare you of that.

If anything, I hope this can be informative to people. Covid affects everyone differently. I’m fortunate, and forever thankful, that nothing “serious” ever happened to our family. I want to be hopeful and say that by the end of the year, this thing will be gone. But realistically, that’s not going to happen.

This is going to be a long dark spot in human history.

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Stay safe out there and remember: Go Beyond! PLUS ULTRA!

Till next time!