AAP Voices

I am a pediatrician in the emergency room at Children’s Hospital of Philadelphia. When I first heard reports of the coronavirus, it felt like SARS or MERS, something to be aware of, but that would not really affect us in the United States. 

Each week it moved closer and closer and became more and more concerning. 

I thought I was ready for COVID-19. I wore my PPE and read all the updates before each shift. I was ready and unafraid. Every morning I would wake up and assess myself. Every sniffle, every cough. But I was always fine by the time I got the day started. It was allergy season after all.

It was the end of March and I spent my day off cooking, walking and doing a Zoom yoga session. I felt good. The next day I had a little head cold and a sore throat. “This is nothing,” I thought and went to bed early, as I had an 8 a.m. shift the next day.

I really started getting sick on my shift that next day: deep cough, fatigue, muscle aches, nausea, diarrhea. I kept thinking, “I should go home,” but I didn’t want to let the team down. That’s the problem with medical culture, we work when we are sick.

I made it through the shift, and I went home and collapsed. The next morning, I felt so awful; I just knew it was COVID-19. I’ve had the flu before, and this felt far worse. It was the first day of a canceled two-week vacation. I figured I would rest, I had plenty of food in the freezer, I’ll be ready to go back to work in a couple of weeks.

I texted with some friends who work at my hospital, and they encouraged me to get tested. I called occupational health and persuaded them to test me at my hospital’s drive-through testing site. They were somewhat unimpressed, as I was not short of breath, but they tested me anyway. The positive came back not five hours later.

I had no idea what I was in for, but I have the most amazing group of friends and family backing me up. Led by the two most formidable women I know, my sister who lives in Costa Rica, and one of my best friends from medical school, who is now a pediatric oncologist at my hospital. They looked at coronavirus in the face and said, not today Satan.

Together they organized my friends and neighbors and communicated with everyone. My medical school friend laid out a plan for me, taking into account all of the worst-case scenarios: How will I get to the hospital, what are my feelings about intubation, do I have a DNR? It scared me, but she assured me, this is what we need to do, we need to be ready. We are single women, if we don’t take care of each other, then who will?

We arranged for one of my friends, an adult infectious disease specialist, to call me twice a day, including on FaceTime to make sure I looked all right. Another friend set up a Google document where my friends and neighbors signed up to bring me food every day. 

Other local friends picked up medications at the pharmacy, and friends and family texted me every day. My niece and nephew sent me video messages from Costa Rica on Whatsapp, so I could see their beautiful surroundings. People also checked on my 84-year-old mother, who lives 10 miles away and whom I had not seen in three weeks. I know she was worried out of her mind and wished she could help me.

As I laid in bed I worried, “Is it my fault that I got this? Did I slip up with my PPE? Was I not careful enough? Did I give it to someone?”

As an asthmatic, I took my steroids, my Advair, my albuterol. I felt better after a few days and felt hope. But COVID-19 doesn’t work like that. Some people barely notice their symptoms. I get so jealous when I talk to the young nurses at work who had mild symptoms for a few days.

For me, COVID-19 was the unwanted guest that doesn’t leave. Several days in, I started breaking out in fevers and couldn’t eat. It was miserable. My doctor friends advised that I stop the steroids. Everyone was on high alert. This is when problems start.

It took all my energy to sit up to take a sip of water. I would lay in bed for an hour trying to gather up the strength to go downstairs to get something to eat. 

Then I would lay downstairs for another two hours to get myself ready to go up the stairs. I would be winded and short of breath for 15 minutes when I got upstairs.

I almost went to the emergency room, but the shortness of breath always subsided. I learned to walk up the stairs slower.

During this time I found out that Adam Schlesinger, from the band Fountains of Wayne, who like me was in his early 50s, died from COVID-19. “How is that possible?” I thought, “Did he smoke?” People my age are not supposed to die. 

Then I found out that Nick, my friend from college, died. Not sweet Nick; it was unreal. Nick ran marathons, 83 in total. He was the picture of health. How could this be? I cried, I wasn’t getting better, I lost hope.

I kept reminding myself, “I have mild illness, I’m not in the hospital.” But it didn’t feel mild; it felt terrible. I was febrile, achy, nauseous, coughing. I cried randomly. 

But I had so many people rooting for me: friends, neighbors, family. I live alone, but I could feel the strength of love that was behind me. I had to get my head together for them. It was slow. I had to learn to be patient. I’ve never been sick for so long. I had to take each small improvement and hope that the next day would be better.

Then one day I stopped having fevers. I still didn’t feel great, I still was coughing, but I wasn’t waking up in a sweat. 

COVID-19 wasn’t done with me yet, though. It decided to do a number on my stomach. I was so nauseous. I kept telling myself, “You can’t die of nausea. Nausea doesn’t make you hypoxic. Better to be nauseous than short of breath.”

It took me a good 2-1/2 weeks to feel better. I was still tired, or feeling perpetually post-call, as I like to put it. But my cough, fevers, nausea were all gone. 

A wave of emotion came over me the first day I went outside. One of my neighbors greeted me from her window, and I could barely speak to her through the tears. I walked a little more every day, trying to get my strength up.

My supervisors were nothing but supportive, checking in on me and not pushing me to come back until I felt ready. But I really wanted to get back to work.

I still kind of felt like a shell of myself, but once I was 10 days without symptoms, I had my first shift. And immediately crashed, like a toddler who starts running around the second they start to feel better. Even though the volume in the emergency room was way down, I still couldn’t keep up. I needed another week.

Suddenly one day, during that week off, I started to feel like myself. I had a pep in my step that I hadn’t felt in a long time. I finally felt back to myself. I was able to do three night shifts in a row and felt just the usual level of tiredness.

People keep telling me, “You are immune, you should feel like a superhero!” But even though I am very happy and grateful to be better, I’m still apprehensive. Just like all the other things we don’t know about coronavirus, we don’t know what the long-term immunity is for those who have recovered.

I am just so relieved to be recovered. This pandemic is far from over, and the aftermath will affect my patients, and all of us, for years to come. Despite it all, I am truly grateful for the privilege to take care of patients, and I am ready for what is to come.

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