I never get sick … until COVID-19

I’m hardy, I’m a traveller. I climb mountains and hike for weeks in remote forests. I never get sick.

But I did.

2020 what have you done? My dog, my partner John, and I bunkered down for eight months for you. We had a UCOOK farmers box delivered every week. We, the “egg on toast is okay” kind of couple, cooked with strange new ingredients. We laughed and ate and cuddled, blissful in our isolation, in love with the new pace … the silent nights, the slow mornings.

Re-calibrated, re-evaluated, revised priorities. We saw no one, insular and safe. And the curve flattened. I hankered for the wild, we headed out in November for a road trip, just a small one mind, paragliding, hiking my beautiful mountains, surfing the wild waves. Ecstatic to be free to roam in the sunshine.

Home, excited and exhilarated. Feeling tired and with a stomach bug. No worries, it will pass in 24 hours.

My friend Kath has COVID-19. We chat on WhatsApp, swop stories, giggle at the photo of her husband in a boiler suit and shield handing her a toastie with the extra length braai tongs. The next day, she’s in intensive care.

My body aching (from the hiking no doubt). Nauseated and endless diarrhoea. John is fine, off to the doctor for a routine visit, jokingly says, “I have a slight cough, maybe I have COVID-19.” Hazmat suit on, red alert, doctor furious, takes the swab. He’s positive. Two days later, I test positive. Not possible! We were so careful. Not us, no! We did everything we could, we didn’t see our children, we never went out, we practically bathed in sanitiser, sterilised our masks, washed our hands.

Now my head is caving in, this isn’t happening. I can’t stand up, I can’t get out of bed, I want to vomit. I want to run away, I want to die. I feel like I’m in a Thai jail, the rats are crawling over me, people are stepping over me. I’m lying in a passage, no one sees me. I’m crying, I’m dying. I’ve been poisoned, no one knows I’m there. I am in a foul mess, my breath stinks, I can’t breathe. My head is being kicked in. I’m crying, and no one sees me. I can’t lift my arms. The meds are toxic, I stop taking them, I can’t have any more poison. My body is liquifying, can’t move. My body is dissolving. I’m terrified.

My friend Kath is now in a coma on a ventilator. John wants to take me to hospital. I won’t go – I’ll never come back. I promise if the oxygen level falls below 90, I’ll go.

The angels from the Community Security Organisation supplied us with information, oximeters, and thermometers. The sweetest, kindest voice calls me every day, forces me to do the readings. My temperature never went over 40, and my oxygen never fell below 90.

I stayed home, crawled from my bedroom to the bathroom, slept and slept and slept, every day slightly better. Curtains closed, light too bright. Seeing flashes of neon purple, coral shapes. Best to keep still, eyes shut tight. Apartment looks strange, nothing is in focus, a zombie like voodoo land. Very scared. Everything is very slow.

Kath died. My friend Kath is dead. I’m alive. I’m shattered and heartbroken.

The miasma is lifting, I can drink a cup of tea. Suggest we order some soup. John orders from Woolies and presents me with my favourite kale and broccoli soup. It’s green. I can’t swallow green, it’s bile, more poison. I cry, he has tried so hard, and I just go back to bed, sobbing. Fearful, fragile, and sad.

Every day now pretty much the same, sleep, wander around the apartment, feeling stronger. Vault forward to day 16, and I’m skinny. Never been skinny! Head isn’t clear and I’m forgetting things. Mid-sentence, I clam up, cannot fathom where the conversation is going.

I find myself in the kitchen with a knife in hand not knowing why. Load the tumble drier and never switch it on, smelly mouldy wet washing in there for days. I lock my phone and have no idea of the password, no idea at all, it’s my son’s birthday; same password for decades.

First day out, and I’m brave. Leave the building with some trepidation, but I’m good, I’m strong. Walk around the block and the neon purple shapes appear on the pavement, I try and sidestep them, but they are always there, bouncing along in front of me. It’s unnerving. People coming towards me and I panic, I’m going to infect them, I’m going to kill them – what am I doing out here? I must get home as fast as possible, I’m a killer.

In a state, I can’t breathe, anxious. Hands are shaking, and I don’t know what to do. They are coming, I’m paralysed, trembling, and crying. A lovely lady stops and empties her shopping bag and I breathe into the packet, in and out. She leaves me there.

Out of isolation now for three weeks, and I’m back on the mountain with my dog. I’m happy and safe there. The streets scare me, I still have irrational fears, forgetfulness, and anxiety.

It will pass.

• Hedda Baxter is the mother of two grown-up children and lives in Cape Town.