10 days of solitude

When asked, I am unable to pinpoint exactly when the feeling of melancholy started. I remember feeling an itch at the back of my throat in the mornings; persistent and irritating. A few days later, while eating lunch the pain resurfaced again; this time during swallowing. I drank some fluid to confirm the pain, and […]

When asked, I am unable to pinpoint exactly when the feeling of melancholy started.

I remember feeling an itch at the back of my throat in the mornings; persistent and irritating. A few days later, while eating lunch the pain resurfaced again; this time during swallowing. I drank some fluid to confirm the pain, and sure enough, it was there. As a full-blooded Nigerian and the true daughter of my parents, I blamed it on President Buhari. With the current state of the nation, how will one not develop a sore and itchy throat? Or was it that my respiratory tract was being held to ransom by microbial kidnappers? The Fulani in me suppressed the pain and for the next few days, I continued to pop my Loratadine and soldier on with work.

By the time my nose started running and my voice took the characteristic nasal intonation of one with blocked sinuses, I decided to do better by myself; I rushed to the pharmacy and stocked up on decongestants, antibiotics and fruit juice. It was just a cold, nothing to worry about.

The next day, I went to see a friend of mine who had delivered a baby a while back. After exchanging pleasantries, drinks were offered. I tried to resist the cold can of Maltina but my ‘longer-throat’ failed me, woefully. Despite my cold, I gulped down the drink greedily and was met with a rude shock. It was tasteless! That night, while sleeping, I was suddenly awoken by thirst. As I reached for the bottle of water by my bedside, a cough escaped my lips. I sat up and drank the water in sips, and just as sudden was overtaken by a fit of coughing. When it subsided, I lay my head on the pillow and said to myself: ‘Fatima, tomorrow you are going for that test.’

Because the next day was a Wednesday morning and I had a clinic to run, I went to the hospital earlier than usual and presented myself to the COVID testing lab. The Lab scientist looked at me like I was mad, ‘Madam, why are you here? Are you travelling?’ I recounted my symptoms and told him I wanted to get screened. He looked at me strangely and proceeded to fill the forms. Any history of contact? A vague image of an old man with cough and difficulty in breathing crossed my mind. I pinched my face mask tighter and muttered reluctantly ‘yes’. Any difficulty in breathing? ‘No’. Chest pain? No. Loss of taste? I remembered the Maltina episode and whispered a quiet ‘Yes’.

As he checked the boxes, my pulse started racing. Up until then, I had maintained a façade of bravery. I tried to reason with myself as he unwrapped the swab stick and poked my nose with it.

So what if I have COVID? 

How many of my friends have had COVID? 

Didn’t they all get better? 

What about those that died? The pessimist part of me asked. 

They were all above the age of fifty! Calm down, you will be fine.

The results promised to be out in twenty-four hours and so I tried to keep busy with work and family. Confusion reigned supreme in my mind as I wandered whether to start packing for my stay at the isolation centre or to opt for home care. In my foolish mind, I imagined the isolation centre as I had seen it when it was newly built, a large, clean, open ward where we would be fed three times a day and I would catch up on my much-needed rest. Would they allow us to bring food, I wondered? Should I pack only my long dresses? What about drinking water? How many cartons would I need? Blankets? Pillows?

As it turned it out, I would need none of those. The call came around 10am the next day, from a man who simply informed me to report back to the lab. I jokingly asked ‘Should I start moving to Kwanar Dawaki (the Kano Isolation centre)?’ His reply was a curt ‘No’ indicating he did not see the humour in the situation.

You know that feeling when the tables are turned and you find yourself at the receiving end of what is usually your position? Well, that is what happened to me. For the first time in my life, as I sat across the scientist listening to him deliver his ‘breaking bad news’ routine, I realised how patients must view us health workers; cold, detached, soulless beings bearing bad news. Strangely though, I did not feel as scared as I imagined I would. The result was positive, he said, and would require immediate self-isolation. However, as the symptoms were mild, I was to isolate myself at home away from everyone. The rest of the household were to come in for testing immediately.

And just like that, ladies and gentlemen, my days of solitude began.

Firstly, we thank God the Almighty, for mobile phones. I don’t know how we survived without them. I got in touch with the physician in charge of case management of COVID for AKTH and he immediately sent me a WhatsApp message of the COVID-19 treatment protocol. I was already familiar with the treatment plan, but as a patient I needed to be reminded.

I immediately returned home and called a quick household meeting. Yes, I had COVID-19. Yes, there was no need to panic. No, the children would not be told and Yes, they all needed to be tested. I told my kids that mummy had ‘malaria’ and so could not come out of her room to play or do homework. I did not want to scare them or have them announce it to their friends at school. Apparently, my son, the oldest was not fooled as he told me after they were tested ‘Mummy, they did the COVID test for us and not malaria. Are you sure it’s malaria you have?’

Thankfully, they all tested negative.

The hardest part of staying alone in the room was hearing my kids’ voices outside the door. The youngest would bang the door and beg to sleep with me as we normally do whenever their dad travels. Try explaining to a six-year-old the concept of social distancing. Crazy, right?

At this juncture, I must confess. By the time, I tested positive and was in isolation, my symptoms had already started subsiding. Still I did the steam inhalation, Zinc, Vitamins B, C and D combination. My mother would call every day and bombard me with WhatsApp messages of various herbal remedies she had read over the internet. In addition to the drugs, my body received a cocktail of ZamZam and black seed capsules every day. Upon reading about the success of Ivermectin in a clinical trial at LUTH, I promptly ingested four tablets. There was no room for ambivalence. I was determined to beat COVID-19!

Most of the days and nights were spent sleeping or working on my laptop. The Actifed made me drowsy and so I slept and woke up at will. My sore throat subsided and before long I was able to taste food again. Ya Allah! We thank you for the sense of taste.

Healing came slowly and steadily and by day seven, yours truly had become restless. The state epidemiological team called regularly to find out how I was coping and if there were any new symptoms. Thankfully, they were none.

On day nine, I called the lab and begged to come in for another test. I was feeling a lot better, I argued. They finally gave in and took another swab. This time around, I prayed vehemently for it to be negative; I could not survive another lock down in my room.

Twenty-four hours later, the test came out negative. A second serological test carried out a week later confirmed that I had indeed healed.

Alhamdulillah for good health.

NB: This will be my last Thursday Column. Coming March, ‘A Physician’s Diary’ will be on the Backpage of the Saturday paper. Thank you for your patronage.