I was the vigilant one.
I was among the first to wear a mask, keep hand sanitizer everywhere and hoard disinfecting wipes. My family made a regular exercise of wiping down surfaces in our house.
When my gallery reopened after being closed for two months, I had it professionally cleaned multiple times, and in between, voraciously wiped down all surfaces. We took customers’ temperatures, had hand sanitizer everywhere plus maintained proper social distancing.
I was doing all the right things.
My husband Curt went on a one-night business trip, driving to Indiana. Ten days later my husband got sick. He rarely gets sick, but he had a fever, aches, no appetite and lost his sense of taste.
All he wanted to do was to sleep.
Days later I developed a scratchy throat and cough. I was in bed next to him, barely able to move, with severe back pain and a hacking cough. Curt started to get better and went back to his home office. I remained in bed, sleeping most of the day and taking my rising temperature, while fighting an awful cough.
On July 24, I asked my doctor if I should be tested for COVID-19. After I was given the order, I went to the nearest hospital, knowing in my heart the result. I read enough to know I had the classic symptoms. The following Tuesday it was confirmed. I resigned myself to quarantine for 14 days. A rising temperature and persistent cough made me call my doctor again, who recommended I head to the emergency room.
I will spare you the awful details of my five-and-a-half-hour exhaustive and wholly unnecessary lonely wait in the ER. I left without being diagnosed, despite having my vitals taken, and being given a chest X-ray. I was home in bed at 8 p.m. shivering with a 103 degree fever and an unabated cough.
At 2 a.m., Curt said he was woken up by my screaming. I was disoriented and had fallen multiple times. He called 911, and within minutes the amazing New Albany paramedics arrived and took me back to the ER that failed to treat me hours earlier. I was assessed, and after another chest X-ray, was informed I had COVID-related bilateral pulmonary pneumonia.
I was admitted to the COVID floor at 6 a.m. on Aug. 1, my son’s birthday. A team of fantastic nurses wearing multiple layers of precautionary gear took great care of me, giving me intravenous fluids, antibiotics, oxygen and monitoring my vitals. My family couldn’t visit me, but I was able to call and FaceTime.
I saw a pulmonologist, infectious disease specialist and a host of other doctors whose job was to stay healthy themselves while helping me fight the effects of COVID-19. But the next day, I took a drastic turn for the worse.
My nurse came in at 7 p.m., looked at me and immediately called the escalation team. My blood oxygen level had dropped to 70 percent. The normal level is 95 percent or more.
My fever was 103 degrees, my skin was grey in color and I was immediately rushed to intensive care.
I later learned I had a 50-50 chance of making it through the night. Literally, a coin flip.
In the ICU, all my bodily functions were taken over by machines. I was delirious at times. I hallucinated and saw my late father and brother, and myself reading my own obituary. When I was lucid, the nurses arranged for me to FaceTime with Curt and my children. I was asked if I wanted to pray with a clergy member. I told Curt I couldn’t fight anymore because, at that moment, it seemed easier to give up.
The doctors put me on aggressive drug protocols including donor plasma, Remdesivir, steroids, zinc, antibiotics, breathing therapies and heparin injections. I was so dehydrated that a PICC line was inserted from the inside of my elbow to my heart to save me from being a human pin cushion. The multiple blood draws and the constant push of drugs necessary to save my life overwhelmed a standard IV.
My daughter Amanda and her boyfriend Eric drove in from Chicago and she tearfully waved to me through the door, a photo that people said made them cry. I was never put on a respirator and I remained in the ICU for five days, aware that patients around me were dying from exactly what I had. I’m grateful that hundreds of people, many I did not know, shared my Facebook story and prayed for me.
It took a village.
When my vitals improved, I returned to the COVID floor for another week. My coughing was much better, my breathing improved, my blood pressure went up and my fever went down. I was released from the hospital on Aug. 11. Curt cried when the nurse wheeled me to him; we hadn’t seen each other in 11 days.
I could barely walk the first few days home. My body had atrophied from being bedridden. I was weak and very tired. I steadily regained my appetite and was able to leave the bedroom. The intense summer heat made breathing exceedingly difficult, so being outside for more than a few minutes was challenging.
Less than one month since my release, I’ve already met my 7,500-steps-per-day goal, gone back to work and had dinner outside with friends. No one knows the long-term effects of COVID, and that is scary. They do think my type A positive blood may be a culprit in having the opposite result of the lucky ones who’ve been asymptomatic or had mild symptoms.
I was reluctant at first to share that I had COVID, fearing it may cause people to avoid me and especially those who would not want to visit my gallery for fear of catching it.
I believe, however, the greater good I can do is by sharing my story. It’s worth it if one person gains a better understanding of the repercussions of this awful disease.
Hayley Deeter is the owner of Hayley Gallery in New Albany.
