LJ Idol - Week 19 - "I can't get calm"
1994 had seemed off to a good start.
I had just moved in with new boyfriend F., the small firm I had co-founded to work on international projects in sustainable tourism was going well and I was brimming with energy and plans.
Towards the end of January however, I suddenly fell ill. I never knew where the bug came from, nobody around me even had a cold in that period. I just remember feeling terribly tired and achy with an annoying, tickling cough one evening and the next day, I was unable to get out of my bed.
F., a well travelled hotel manager, was quite adept at recognizing maladies that could not be cured just by sleeping and keeping hydrated. He he immediately called the physician who usually visited the guests that needed medical assistance during their stay in his hotel.
After examining me, that doctor called an ambulance, worried among other things by my temperature showing over 41 °C (106 °F) at 10 am.
I remember very little of that day, but F. later told me that I had to be tied down during the transport to the nearest hospital, as I was protesting violently about being taken away, thrashing around and trying to get off the stretcher, stopping only when I fainted after a while.
The x-rays and lab tests they did soon after our arrival showed raging pneumonia in both lungs. The visiting physician offered to admit me as an inpatient, but apparently I got so agitated hearing this that F. called a taxi and brought me back home, with a prescription for heavy duty meds against the fever and cough.
He was not happy, but had also been told that they couldn’t really do much for me at the clinic other than observe me and lower my temperature. Also, the wards were rather full at the moment, at the top of influenza season. As long as a nurse or a GP regularly monitored my lungs, I’d probably better off at home.
And so a very difficult month began. The fever lasted for several weeks, I was constantly hurting all over and a dry, racking cough did not allow me to rest.
The doctor came every day and gave me injections that did not seem to help with anything. He also listened to my lungs, to see if things got so problematic that a hospital stay could not be avoided.
Fearing such a development and feeling utterly miserable, I could not get calm for even a minute. I fretted in my bed, on the sofa, on the reclining chair. I tried to sleep and was not able to. I tried to eat, but my stomach was all clenched up with anxiety.
Poor F. did not know what to do. He put on soothing music, which made me cry out in agony. He tried massaging my neck and shoulders with aromatic oil, but I could not bear to be touched even with the tip of a finger. He prepared me hibiscus tea and brought me cool lemon sherbets from the hotel’s kitchen, but I could barely take one sip before the next coughing fit made me spit everything back up again.
During the nights, I sat up in front of the window, as I was unable to lie down, afraid to drown.
Remembering what had helped during previous afflictions of my poor lungs, I forced myself to walk slowly up and down the room, whenever the fewer lowered enough that my legs did not give out on me.
I remained always just on this side of being so sick that a hospital stay would have been unavoidable.
Only now, hearing about what happens to some of the people who become critically ill with COVID-19, I realise how fast things could have gone south and what a risk I was running with my adamant refusal to be medicated outside my home.
I did somewhat astonish myself with my intense rejection at the time, as I had been treated in clinics before, occasionally also for longer periods, without ever mounting such an opposition.
But I felt such a terrible fear rise inside me, instantly worsening my condition, whenever this possibility was even mentioned, that both my doctor and F. thought it better to avoid forcing the issue.
I still had to get x-rays every week, fortunately there was a private medical cabinet not far away and F. drove me there and stayed at my side all the time, so I could avoid having to enter a hospital again.
Since I continued to have difficulty breathing, at a certain point the physician recommended an oxygen tank with a mask. After that, things improved significantly, and I realised that some of my restlessness might have been the lack of oxygen in my blood. I got fitted with a nasal tube, which made it possible to keep the invigorating gas flowing during the night, and that made all the difference in the world.
Finally, after nearly a month, I was able to sleep for more than a few minutes at a time. I felt less weak and managed to drink more, which in turn improved the cough.
It took several more weeks for me to get back on my feet though.
One thing I’ll never forget was the last visit with the doctor who had been so helpful during that ordeal. After listening again to my lungs and controlling temperature, blood pressure and a few other details, he declared me finally cured.
What he said after that, made the hair on my neck stand up.
“You know, those first days, when you threw one tantrum after the other about not wanting to go to the hospital and all the whining and fretting afterwards, I took you for a very spoiled and immature young woman.
But since then, I have been wondering, if you might not have had something of a sixth sense.”
At my astonished look, he continued:
“During that period, when you were sickest, I now know that in that hospital where we had wanted to admit you, more than fifty people have died from a violent bacterial infection.
A bug, resistant to most antibiotics, has just raced through this clinic, probably due to insufficient hygiene, and mercilessly killed all those who were already weakened by severe cases of the flu or other diseases.
Had you remained there, I doubt you'd have survived.”