Reporter’s Notebook: Ten days with COVID-19 … a cautionary tale

It was a sunny, mild Saturday afternoon, and I was playing banjo at a jam session in a bar in Somerville. The streets were crowded, and the open door and live music brought a constant stream of unmasked people into the bar. I knew COVID-19 cases had been on the rise in Massachusetts for the past few weeks, so I briefly considered putting a mask on. Other musicians weren’t wearing masks, though, and I didn’t want to appear neurotic. I was fully vaccinated, with a booster shot, so I thought even if I did get the virus, I’d probably be only mildly ill. And, like most other people, I was anxious to get back to life as it was. I was tired of worrying about COVID.

Monday I woke up with what felt like a fire in my airway. I thought it was probably the start of bronchitis, an old nemesis of mine. I drove my son back to his dorm, both of us unmasked in the car. On the way home I stopped at a drugstore for cough drops. My first COVID thought came when I walked past a bin of rapid tests. I picked one up “just to be sure.” I was shocked when the result came up positive. I later learned at least three other musicians who were playing that day also tested positive; I didn’t know all of the musicians there so the number might have been higher.

I checked the isolation requirement on the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention website: five days and fever-free for 24 hours. I had heard so many anecdotes of vaccinated people with COVID-19 having no symptoms or a mild cold, so I figured I had five days of feeling fine to catch up on things and go for some walks. But that night I woke up shivering and choking on mucus. By morning I could barely get out of bed, and I was coughing up unusual amounts of disgusting green gunk.

I called my doctor. A recorded voice told me there were more than 10 calls ahead of me and that wait times were high due to COVID. After hours on hold and multiple waits for callbacks from various medical staff, a nurse suggested I get monoclonal antibodies, and she referred me to a clinic in Lowell. I got a Wednesday morning appointment for the infusion, but I worried about how much sicker I might be by then.

Brain fog

By morning it was clear I wouldn’t be driving myself anywhere. I was weak, and my brain was a shadow of its former self. Twice I walked into my utility closet instead of the bathroom, bewildered when there was no toilet in sight. I poured coffee into my water glass. I had trouble following the plot of Perry Mason reruns. I would never find my way to Lowell or possibly even to my car.

Finding someone willing to spend a half-hour in their car with you when you’re COVID-positive is not easy, especially when you sound like you’re about to cough up a lung. I called a friend who drove for Harvard Help, the volunteer group that takes people to doctor’s appointments, and she told me they don’t give rides to COVID-positive people. Council on Aging Director Debbie Thompson said the same thing about the COA van—no rides for anyone who has COVID-19. I finally found someone willing to take the risk and got to the clinic.

The infusion took only a few minutes, followed by an hour’s wait being monitored for side effects, mainly nausea, according to the nurse, although allergic reactions are possible. The woman next to me turned white as a sheet and was nauseated right after her infusion, but I was spared. When I was leaving, the nurse told me my symptoms would definitely improve within 48 hours, but most people improve the same day as their treatment. I was relieved.

But as the day wore on, there was no improvement. That night I woke up with the worst sore throat I’ve ever experienced in my life. Every swallow was agony. I watched the clock waiting for my next dose of ibuprofen. The searing pain continued the whole next day, making eating, drinking, and even sleeping nearly impossible. While my foggy brain did its best to time the ibuprofen doses, I have no idea how much I actually ended up taking that day. It felt like it was never enough.

Friday morning my doctor’s office called to see how I was doing. With what little voice I had left I told them not well. They asked me to come in to make sure I had no underlying infections. Luckily my brave driver came through again. When I asked the nurse practitioner why the monoclonal antibodies hadn’t relieved my symptoms, he told me their purpose is to keep you out of the hospital, not to relieve symptoms. According to the U.S. Department of Health and Human Services website, monoclonal antibodies block the virus from entering cells so the viral load—the amount of virus in your body—doesn’t continue to increase. That keeps you from getting sicker, but it doesn’t make you less sick than you already are.

‘No such thing as usual’

The next step was to do some tests to make sure I wasn’t “decompensating,” which sounds like an insult, but in medical terms means that your underlying systems are struggling. My test results were normal. “You’ll still feel miserable,” the nurse practitioner said, “but at least you know you’ll get better.” I asked him what the usual time to feel better was. “There’s no such thing as usual; it’s COVID,” he said. But he added that I should be over the worst of it by day 10, and by week 6 I probably wouldn’t be thinking about it as much. He explained that having COVID doesn’t just make you physically ill, it’s a psychological burden as well. “If you find yourself worrying, don’t hesitate to call,” he said. I hadn’t even considered that prospect.

As I write this on day 10, I’m recovering, but at a much slower pace than any other recovery I’ve ever been through. An hour of work requires two hours on the couch; my cough continues and makes my ribs ache. And I’m starting to feel the psychological burden. My distance vision is blurry and my brain is still foggy, and I worry how permanent those conditions might be. I worry what havoc the virus might have wreaked that I don’t even know about yet. About a month ago I went to the funeral of a friend’s son who died unexpectedly from a rare post-COVID complication involving his immune system. All the scary stories I’ve heard about the virus’s aftereffects weigh on me and make me feel vulnerable.

Takeaways

During my time with COVID-19, I learned that results of rapid at-home tests are not reported to the state, and many doctors’ offices (like Acton Medical) will not do PCR tests on someone who has tested positive with a rapid test. That means that people like me who tested positive at home are not included in the state’s case numbers. As more people move to at-home tests, the case numbers in the state’s COVID-19 database become less of an indicator of how quickly the disease is spreading.

But to protect those who will get more than a little sick, or who will end up with long COVID, or who will die of a post-COVID complication like my friend’s son, accurate case numbers are essential so people can make informed decisions about masking. Right now we’re left guessing how dangerous it is out there, and people are erring on the side of optimism, judging by how few masks are being worn these days.

I also learned that it’s important to call your doctor quickly if you’re more than a little sick, and to persevere through what might be a very long wait for your call to be answered, no matter how bad the music loop is. Treatments are available, but they have to be taken within a window of time. Some are only effective in the first five days; others, like monoclonal antibodies, within seven days.

The last thing I learned is that being cautious with your health is not neurotic. It makes me furious with myself that this experience likely could have been avoided had I worn a mask that day. I was healthy and fully vaccinated, but for some reason I got sicker than the others I knew who contracted the disease in that bar. There’s no way to be certain who will or won’t get more than a little ill, and the consequences can be painful and scary.

Joan Eliyesil has covered the Covid-19 pandemic and its impact on the Harvard community for the Press since the outbreak began in early 2020.