My beloved Jonathan, our two boys, our household staff, and I battled the COVID-19 V2 variant. Of all of us, it hit me the hardest. I knew it would, and I was grateful, because my youngest is asthmatic, so rather me than him.
Jon went down first with a few days of exhaustion and aches. His breathing and oxygen stayed strong. The boys were so mild, it barely registered. Thank goodness!
It hit me the following Friday night, exactly seven days from a positive confirmation. All of a sudden, I had a chest cough, tough breathing, and my oxygen levels dropped from 98 to 94, to 93. I started “proning [moving onto my stomach to assist breathing]” more often than not, slept the entire weekend away, and didn’t leave the bedroom.
On Monday, Jon woke me up to take my readings, and my temperature was so bad, I didn’t know where/who/how I was. My oxygen was at 83, and nothing would bring it up. My GP insisted that I be hospitalised.
In the basement of the hospital parking lot, I waited alone for hours on oxygen after Jon and the boys had to leave. All around me there were gasping patients, screaming patients, crying patients. I gritted my teeth and squeezed my eyes closed, had a private conversation with G-d about the world, life, growth, and gratitude.
Once I got a trauma bed, I waited many hours between disposable COVID-19 hospital curtains hearing healthcare workers running up and down – having idle chit chat in between wasn’t a possibility. Three patients came in while I was there. Two of them died on either side of me.
The healthcare workers barely took a minute to breathe before moving to the next emergency. They didn’t attempt to resuscitate. They couldn’t. The patients were too far gone.
As much as I wanted the medical attention, I could see others were more desperate, and so I waited longer, patiently, grateful to have any medical support at all.
The second lot of tests came back, saying my clotting factor was higher, as were the infectious markers. It was deemed that I was at risk for a pulmonary embolus. But there weren’t enough beds for me, and the other patients were in worse condition.
So, I was injected with something to thin out my blood, my oxygen was stabilised, and I was sent packing at 02:00 with a nod and a very sincere “Good luck, come back if you can’t breathe again. Until then, we can’t help you”.
There were no Ubers available – or at least none accepting my request from a hospital in the middle of the night – so Jon had to leave our boys home alone in bed and race to fetch me. We had no other choice. Luckily the hospital was only three kilometres away.
At home, through the night, my family and friends got together to help. My mom (with the help of all the extended family arranging solutions) dropped off oxygen. Other precious people fed us for days, or sent care packs and flowers. Still other people we love shipped at least a quarter of a Woolies over to us, which we will probably still be eating for weeks to come. We had so many people checking in on us all the time, wanting to know if we were okay.
I’ve been on bedrest, taking lots of strong steroids, cortisone, and blood thinners. I’m exhausted all the time, but I’ve stopped writing out childcare instructions for after my death. I genuinely thought I was going to die. But, G-d-willing, I’m not going anywhere yet.
The third set of blood results, received this morning, show that the infection markers are down, and clotting isn’t as risky as it was. I was on and off oxygen, but mostly breathing alone after that. I’m nowhere near what I was pre-COVID-19, but I know this will take some time. I’m far better than I was last week.
Poor Jon, who had barely recovered, was once again (the third time in our six-year marriage thus far) forced into looking after me while I had to be on bed rest and was totally useless. He looked after the children, arranged meals, meds, teas, steams, and communication with our worried loved ones. He did it all with no complaints, just very early bedtimes and lots of love. He is truly an amazing husband and father.
I can see why anxiety plays a hand in these COVID-19 deaths. I would have been broken without the reassurance, support, love, and daily check-ins from our shul friends, Hatzolah Medical Rescue Johannesburg’s extended Umhlanga team, our wonderful doctor who WhatsApped me through to 01:00 some nights, our family, and friends.
Without them, this would have broken me mentally, like it has so many others lost to COVID-19. It’s been so scary.
Please be careful, even on shared property home ground or at the office with the people you see daily. Treat everyone as a risk. Don’t let your guard down. Wear your mask!
- Sheena Kretzmer is a mom of two boys and managing director of a social media agency. She and her family relocated from Johannesburg to Umhlanga a few weeks before lockdown and COVID-19 hit South Africa.
Anne Hart
Jan 28, 2021 at 11:27 am
Thanks for sharing your story, I think so many of people are suffering from pandemic burnout and are tending to take chances, but I will carry your story in my memory of how scary it must have been for you to have been left on your own in the basement of a hospital parking lot listening to the tragic sounds surrounding you and not knowing if you would come out of the situation alive. This is the reality of Covid!