| Column: My personal battle against COVID Spending my vacation and New Year's Eve on a ventilator in intensive care definitely was not my idea of a fun holiday By Diane BellColumnist Jan. 18, 2021 When "Here Comes The Sun" quietly plays on Scripps Memorial La Jolla's music PA system, it often conveys a subtle, triumphant message — another COVID-19 patient is coming out of the hospital — being released back into the world to resume his or her life. I know. I was there. I was one of the lucky ones on life support who beat the odds. I owe my life to so many and so much. There were the teams of doctors, medical assistants, respiratory therapists, nurses, COVID sanitation crews who selflessly worked their magic every moment. There was a 1.5-inch long, $25 oximeter that I bought last February when COVID-19 was about to hit our national radar. I was writing about this novel coronavirus through the eyes of Jim Healy, a former UT staffer working in China where the pandemic originally broke out. I faithfully stuck my index finger into the oximeter clamp to monitor my blood oxygen level — a reading of 92 and up is good, but if it drops into the 80s, watch out. You may not feel different, but your falling oxygen level is a danger signal. Even though I had a slight cough on Dec. 28, my husband never would have rushed me to the hospital ER without the plummeting oximeter read-out. There also were the prayer circles of friends and strangers who poured their hearts and souls into fervent pleas for my recovery. And there was my resolve that I simply was not yet ready to leave this world and my family. Countless physician friends, privy to the latest COVID-19 information from the front lines, offered guidance. My husband and two of our three children also tested positive for COVID-19, but only my husband was significantly affected, and he successfully underwent treatment with monoclonal antibodies in the early stage of the virus. My 12 days in the hospital are pretty much a blur of simply struggling to force air into my lungs and quelling the panic when I had trouble doing that simple task. I vaguely recall being wheeled from the ER to the ICU. I do not remember being attached to a ventilator which took over my breathing to give my body a chance to rest and build strength. I can recall repeating over and over my new mantra: "I will survive." Silly as it seems, in my fits of consciousness and unconsciousness I remember glimpsing a flash of white light that I quickly shooed away. Not me. Not today. I was allowed to keep my cellphone in my bed with its charger tethered to the wall along with my life-saving equipment. The phone was my quarantine link to family and friends. In the heart of my crisis, photos were emailed from a childhood friend on the East Coast who had no idea I was hospitalized. They were happy snaps of my deceased parents taken when I was a child. The photos hit me like a greeting party of ghosts welcoming me home. I told their smiling faces that I loved them, but I wasn't ready to join them. But mostly I remember waking to a huge cheer in the ICU when I survived coming off the ventilator. These private celebrations are one of the few luxuries, I'm told, that our medical heroes allow themselves these days. With all the death around them, they take heart in celebrating a life saved — a COVID-19 victory. A team triumph. The secret medicine in surviving this novel coronavirus was the community of people who supported our family. The secret medicine in surviving this novel coronavirus was the community of people who surrounded and supported our family. (Courtesy photo) Finally, on Jan. 4, eight days after my admission, I remember opening my eyes to a moment of clarity. It was then I knew that I was going to live. My battle was far from over. Still gasping for every breath, I found myself in a living hell. This time, though, it was because I was a silent witness to the many dying around me. There were constant announcements of code blue — the battle cry summoning hospital personnel to a room, or the lobby, or a hallway to scramble to save a patient in cardiac or respiratory arrest. An ER doctor was consulting with me when he had to dash to a code blue in the hospital clinic. Some of the same room numbers recurred on code blue calls, so I prayed especially diligently for the patients in those rooms. As I continued my own breathing tug-of-war I could hear the labored gasps and coughing of patients in nearby rooms. I silently rooted for them all, especially one whose cough was particularly concerning. That patient, I later learned, did not make it home. I long have witnessed the public tributes to our medical heroes, but you can't truly appreciate what these people do until you are dependent on their care. Upon each entry, caregivers slipped on a yellow disposable gown that was stripped off and dropped in a bin as they left. Many of the supplies, even the stethoscopes and blood pressure cuffs, were for my room only. The enormous demand for supplies led me to wonder how hospitals could possibly keep necessary items in stock. Sometimes they could not, I soon learned. My homework assignment was to blow into a simple plastic device that was helping me build my lung capacity. I did this religiously, although not very successfully. As I recovered, I monitored on my room TV the devastating situation in Washington, D.C. as Congress was invaded. I didn't know which was worse — being in an overcrowded hospital with COVID-19 or in our nation's Capitol. Finally, on Jan. 7, my doctor informed me I possibly could be released that evening or the next day and be hooked up to supplemental oxygen at home — or so I thought. My lungs didn't quite feel ready to be pulled out from under medical supervision, but I knew there was a shortage of rooms. I decided I could use oxygen at home as well as I could in the hospital. I excitedly prepared to be wheeled out the doors I had entered 12.5 days earlier: "Here Comes The Sun." I swore I also heard the battle theme from "Rocky." I was about to enter Phase 2 of a war I hadn't anticipated. I was discharged with a portable oxygen tank. Little did I know it only held a two-hour supply of air. Shortly after I arrived home, where a second tank awaited, the first one ran out of oxygen. The next morning I called the county-contracted respiratory services company to order back-up oxygen cylinders for the weekend, when they don't make deliveries. The dispatcher informed me it was Friday morning and I was too late. They would deliver the emergency oxygen supply sometime Monday. They never did. That was OK because my doctor also had ordered me an oxygen concentrator, a wondrous machine that draws oxygen out of room air, then pipes it through plastic tubing into the recipient's nose. Numerous return calls to the contracted agency led to frustrating periods on hold — but no oxygen. I prayed there would be no disruption of the power supply keeping my oxygenator alive. Then a neighbor informed me that SDG&E had scheduled a planned outage in my neighborhood. I could find no reference to this on SDG&E's outage website, so we scrambled to borrow a portable generator should the electricity be cut off. Unfortunately, I soon spied a news article warning that the county's oxygen supplies are running low, especially the oxygen concentrator machines, impacted by the growing demand from COVID-19 patients. I couldn't help but wonder how sad it would be for someone to survive their hospital battle against the coronavirus only to die at home because they couldn't get needed oxygen. A sweet headline: This cake was made for us by Ellie Devoe, a surfing buddy of my 13-year-old son, Chase. A sweet headline: This celebratory cake was made for us by Ellie Devoe, a surfing buddy of my 13-year-old son, Chase. (Courtesy photo) My story has a happy ending. After all, I am writing this column, returning to work and doing a rehab regimen to regain my strength and lung capacity. But I have heard of whole families who have been wiped out by this cruel disease. We are living in a brave new world. All I can do is salute the committed medical people who are willing to fight against COVID-19 to save the lives of others. Their dedication is beyond heroic. I also urge everyone to splurge on an oximeter, which could prove a life saver, as it was in my case. Mostly, I thank the parade of friends and neighbors who delivered breakfast, dinners, soups, homemade treats, flowers, blankets, supplies, a Union-Tribune-shaped cake headlined: "Bells Beat COVID," then drove by our house honking in a welcome home caravan. It truly takes a village to beat this novel coronavirus. | 
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