Covid-19: For now, there is no such thing as ‘mild asthma.’

This post is a particularly difficult post for me to write. I haven’t done a blog here for a bit; it’s usually some gargantuan thing that I want to bitch about that brings the hairy nostril into use, and, I suppose, the apolcalypse counts.

I will follow this post with my usual dark humour of strangling children and home-school fails, but for now, I feel there is a PSA I need to do. So, if you or someone you love has asthma, please make sure you read this.

A life-long issue of mine has been the inability to put feeling into whatever I am saying. I will laugh and sarcasm my way out of ever having to show what I’m really feeling. When I do say the words, they’re flat and emotionless. For example, I could cut my thumb off and I wouldn’t scream; I would calmly walk to a neighbour and tell them “I’m awfully sorry to inconvenience you, but would you mind helping me out whilst I source my digit and corral my children.” I have a telephone voice, a telephone demeanour and everything involved with not showing the world how I fucking feel. I’ve been known to phone into work severely ill, laugh and tell people I’m fine…. it’s a problem.

So, talking about my experience with Covid-19 isn’t an easy one, especially when I want to portray how just NOT LIKE THE FUCKING FLU THIS IS. 

I have what I call pathetic asthma – I stop breathing if I eat mustard or horseradish and I turn purple if I run. Apart from that, I’m fine. I have my blue pump, which is used so rarely that it’s usually a couple of years out of date. I now have a preventor (brown pump), purely because that allows me to have the flu jab. My asthma is nothing to write home about, ever.

So, imagine my surprise when little ol’ me got symptoms of Covid-19. I self-isolated for two weeks, doing the right thing. I had mild flu-like symptoms after a while and a little cough. Nothing bad, but I was good and stayed inside with my two feral children. Around day 8, my flu symptoms started to subside; my cough, not so much. My breathing became laboured and by day 10, I was struggling to breath. Each breath was an effort, a strain. I was self-isolating with two-children and my husband was deployed. When I started to get light-headed I was mildly worried, but also aware of the pressure on the NHS right now, so didn’t want to cause a ‘fuss.’ I called the GP and got a telephone appointment. I tried calling 111, but it wouldn’t connect. I waited for the Dr to call back. Whilst, I was struggling to breathe, I was pumping away (and not in the good way…) and surviving.

Then, all puffed out and tired, I opened a packet of crisps and before I could eat one, the crisp ‘dust’ hit my lungs and they stopped working.

When I say stopped, I don’t mean the wheeze you expect from an asthmatic. I don’t mean a cough. I don’t mean that I looked mildly shocked. I mean, I launched myself out the lounge like I was under attack. I felt like someone had reached in, pulled my lungs out and calmly walked away while I gaped like a fish out of water. I’d say ‘gasped’, but there was no breath moving at all.

For about a minute, I gaped over the sink (god knows what I thought the sink would do, but my reliable ol’ brain decided this was the place to die). It took about a minute (aka an eternity) for breath to start moving again. I keyed in 999, just before it started moving, barely. I coughed for about 3 minutes, honestly not sure if I was going to survive. Then the coughing stopped and I was just violently gasping for whatever breath I could get. I called 111. When I say that 9 out of the 10 calls I made didn’t go through, I’m not lying – I have my call log (the NHS was already under strain a week ago, guys!). I was trying not to worry, really trying not to freak out and overreact. Luckily, my children were completely oblivious.

I eventually got connected to 111 and was on hold for over 20 minutes. However, my Dr called me back and I cut the call to 111, so I have no idea if they would have ever answered. The doctor was lovely, but surprisingly unconcerned. She had me count to 20 in one breath and prescribed steroids. Apparently, I have a bronchial spasm and, whilst terrifying, meant she was confidant that I could breathe with the help of an inhaler and said steroids.

The following week, the steroids helped immensely. It was a 6 day dose. During that time, I could feel I had a chest infection and my asthma wasn’t comfortable, but was certainly manageable. However, 24 hours after my steroids finished, I was man down again. Every breath hurt; I had to physically push myself every time I tried to breathe to get enough oxygen to stop the light-headedness. My chest was incredibly sore and was getting worse. This wasn’t a ‘tight’ lung pain, this felt heart-related. My heart was beating insanely, my chest was tightening in a way that had little to do with my lungs. I started to see black dots in front of my eyes.

Throughout all this, my concern was the NHS. I didn’t want to put the NHS under unncessary pressure, so I called the GP and I held out for my telephone appointment as long as possible. My doctor called back blissfully early, thank goodness. When she called, I was puffed, struggling, and my telephone voice was failing miserably, but neither of us believed I needed in-person help. We wanted to get more steroids in. However, my breathlessness worried her a little and she asked to video call. She sent the link and I went into the lounge to sit down (the talk had tired me).

I took one step into the lounge and my legs gave way. The ‘mum’ in me pretended to pick up something my kids had dropped (so they wouldn’t worry) and I threw myself into my chair, frantically trying to get the link on my phone.

The link worked, but my phone would not play ball. I could see my doctor, but she couldn’t see me. She couldn’t see me now sobbing because I was in panic-ville. She couldn’t see me, who now couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t get help and nothing I did was working. I couldn’t access the camera or mic on my phone, although it said it was working. By the 5th time of trying, I had moved myself to the stairs, so the kids couldn’t see my distress. I gave up. I lay on the stairs, praying she would phone back before I passed out. I was trying to call the surgery when she did call back. She hadn’t finished her first sentence when she said I needed an ambulance. She asked the necessary questions (how long since your last blue pump – less than five minutes – how many times in the last hour – 30+) and told me that although my mother was high risk, I needed to get her here NOW and to cut the call to her and call an ambulance.

I could not stop sobbing. I felt so incredibly guilty that I was taking the NHS away from what they needed to do, that I was putting the paramedics at risk (despite being isolated for 14 days, so was no longer contagious), that I was risking my mum’s health. But, I knew, should I not get help, my kids would be left by themselves, because it was only a matter of time before I passed out. Meanwhile, my brain is telling me to get my shit together, because the sobbing is blocking my nose. It was insane.

I’m ashamed to admit that yes, I was panicking. I was so scared for my kids, not for me. I am proud of our NHS service because 999 answered immediately and sent an ambulance round straight away. I’m proud to have the friends I do, because they were on messenger the whole time making sure I was getting help. And, it’s very rare you’ll ever hear me say this, but I am fucking proud of myself. It was only when the paramedics rocked up that my children became aware something was going on. And then, their reaction was pure excitement that they got to wave at an ambulance. They weren’t traumatised, they weren’t worried and they weren’t scared. Go me!

The paramedics were incredible. They were kind and sweet, although it was very clear that their lives were at risk purely by being there. I wanted to kick them out to help them, to make it better for them. They assessed me and deteremined that I had pneumonia and that they could hear ‘crackles all over’ my lungs. In a strange turn of events, the paramedic turned the question to me: “In any other situation, I would have rushed you to hospital for an assessment, x-ray and at least overnight stay, however, with the current situation, I don’t believe hospital is safe for you. Your oxygen levels are alright, although it is clear you really do need help. You need to decide whether you want to take the risk at hospital or stay home and try and manage this with medication.”

With the two children at home (3 and 5, in case you were wondering), I obviously decided to stay home. The paramedics told me that what I was describing and the timeline of what I had experienced was exactly how Covid-19 was acting. While they couldn’t test me, they told me there was no doubt in their mind that I was yet another statistic. According to what they had seen, they told me to expect to see this happen again. They told me to prepare to have to go into hospital at a later date, as it often gets better, only to get worse. While, I had stopped sobbing, I was still continually apologising to the paramedic for taking them away from people who need help* and making pretty unfunny jokes, because… I have a problem.

Between my lovely GP and the wonderful paramedics, they prescribed antibiotics (to fend off a secondary infection, because it wouldn’t affect the viral pneumonia I have) and steroids, but I was warned to try avoid the steroids as long as possible, as they can make Covid-19 worse.

I am now four days later (having attempted this blog post 3 times) and I am still struggling with my breathing, although holding off on the steroids. I sound borderline fine for 25% of the day, then, for the rest, I am only just coping. I feel as though someone has tied a bowling ball to each of my lungs and for each breath, I need to lift them to get what I need. I can manage one or two tasks before the exhaustion hits me and that’s the pneumonia. When the asthma hits, I’m worse, a little scared and the chest pain sucks. My resting heartrate hit 183 last night and since the first episode (the dreaded ‘crisp dust’) I’ve felt like I have wounds my lungs that open every time I breathe. My mum has moved in, because my husband is deployed and I, sadly, need someone to take care of me. She has been the lifeline I needed to manage my stress, anxiety and, above all, my feral children!

For now, I will keep going and hope that I’ll beat the statistics and not get hospitalised, but I needed to write this down. I needed people to realise that, for now, there is NO SUCH THING AS A MILD ASTHMATIC. If you have asthma, please, please isolate as much as possible, no matter how pathetic your asthma may be. 

Do not take this lightly, do not think this is like flu, and, for the love of god, stop spreading ridiculous conspiracy theories. This virus is really serious. 

I’ve struggled to find in-person accounts of Covid-19, so please feel free to ask any questions. Use the comments section and I’ll get back to you, but remember, I am no medical professional. I’ll tell you what I felt; anything beyond that and you’ll need to chat to the experts.

And that, folks, is the end of my pity post/PSA. You can expect things to return to normal in my next post. I promise to make you laugh.

 

NB: Please note all medical advice I’ve written is as I understand it. I am no medical professional and could have understood this as well as 4 year old, so please listen to your doctors/medical professionals. 

 

*The paramedic went on to tell me that the day before he had been called out by a woman because her mum, who is a nurse, insisted she call an ambulance. She had a slight cough.