Let me get my excuses in now, quickly: I really don't know if I'm up to writing anything sensible this week. Sensible is always an issue for me, anyway, and then you go and get Covid, proper.

The last post on this blog told you I was isolating at home, and the last message I sent out on WhatsApp was very non-specific, innit?!

So I had a CT scan on Monday, July, 12. The results were not great. And my oxygen saturation level dropped. We went to hospital. You are marginal, I was told. If we let you go home do you promise to monitor the oxygen level? Yes, we said. At around 9 pm we were summoned back to the hospital because my oxygen saturation level had dropped alarmingly. I must admit I was in a bit of a daze. Hospital? Admission? What's that?? By midnight I was in bed in the Intensive Care Unit of the Infectious Disease Centre of the Ga East Municipal Hospital. The length of the name is enough to....and then the following day the doctor says: "You are not well at all, and you are not going anywhere." Comforting.

The first thing you notice is the noise in the ICU. Noise? Yes! The cacophony of beeps and sounds, and all sorts of machine stuff, is simply overwhelming. In fact, it's enough to make you sick. You see everyone in there is hooked up to monitors, and when you have patients with problematic oxygen levels, the warning sounds are not going to stop. Jeez! Six days after leaving the ICU I can still hear the place.

Medications, injections, infusions, monitoring, nebulising, I had it all, baby. And I continued to cough my insides out. But the staff really looked after me, even though there were times I couldn't tell if they were men or women because of the PPE. When I entered the ICU I was the third person in a ward of six beds. The old geezer to my right was arguing with the nurses over something extremely minor. I'm a gentleman so I can't tell you what it was. The old geezer to my left misbehaved from the night I arrived until I left six days later. He made me understand that I can never be a nurse, because if I was looking after him I would have been happily violent on him. One night I saw him perform an unspeakable act in his bed. Please, God, I said, take me away quickly from here, I beg of You.

The other three empty beds filled quickly, and do you know what? I was the only one of the six who entered the ICU on his own two feet. I could get up and use the washroom. Or have a wipe-down in the bathroom. Eish. The things I have taken for granted in my life. When Covid attacks it takes away your energy, badly. The morning I was able to walk to the washroom, use it without collapsing, and barely make it back to my bed, I celebrated mentally. Like, with a carnival and party, in my head. I think it was the best day in the ICU. The worst day? Do you know what a Spirometer is? You wait, I'll tell you. But the Spirometer was NOT to be the worst day in the ICU.

On Monday 19th July, my last day in the ICU as it turned out, I complained bitterly to no one in particular about breakfast. I had expected oats or porridge for breakfast, and instead I got tea and a bun. Really? That's it? Especially on a morning when I had persuaded the wife not to bother coming over? I was hungry! Tea and bread paaaaa! My day is spoiled! Then, around noon, there was a sudden burst of activity. Doctors and nurses erupted into the ward and surrounded a bed across and adjacent to me. There was prolonged CPR, infusions, injections, muttered conversations, oxygen, more running back and forth, everything under the sun. At one point the curtain was partially drawn around the bed. I tried hard not to look, you know, because the ICU strips you of all humanity and privacy. And I was complaining about tea and bread.

And then, just as suddenly, everything stopped. I mean everything. All activity. And like that, the patient in the bed across and adjacent to me was gone. His beeping stopped. His oxygen stopped. Do you know I never even saw his face properly? He entered the ICU wearing an oxygen mask. I never knew his name. Oh wait, I heard them reassuring him the day before, that he would get better, just look at your numbers. And Rami Baitie was complaining about tea and bread.

He looked so tiny on the bed afterwards, covered with a thin white sheet. Again I tried very hard not to look. One of the doctors who tried to save him walked over to my bed to ask how I was doing afterwards. You could see she was really struggling to keep her composure, and her tears away. And the old geezer to my left continued to misbehave. And I will have tea and bread tomorrow....if I want.

The monitor for my oxygen saturation level became my best friend after I learnt how to read it. It was attached to my thumb and did not beep often. By the by, they can also attach it to your big toe. And losing various hook-ups during the night when you are trying to sleep is normal. And then you start to beep. Sometimes you can't even tell if the beeps mean you are alive or dead.

About that Spirometer....it is basically a toy designed to torture you. Covid messes up your lungs you see, big time. And you need to help them recover with breathing exercises, assisted by a Spirometer. You inhale through a clear plastic tube and try to lift three little balls, each in its own silo. The first day I tried this I couldn't even get ONE ball to shift slightly, much less rise. I was so depressed. Does this mean that my lungs are shot completely?? Is that it for me and my lungs? Am I going to stop breathing imminently? Oh dear. The most wonderful day in the ICU? When I got the first little ball to shift ever so slightly. Yayyyyyy!!!!!!! Please, I am not exaggerating, I swear!

I discovered a new meaning for 5 minutes while I was on admission. I got permission to visit the recovery garden, and timed it for when the wife was bringing me food. I could sit on a corridor and speak to her outside through a window. As soon as I sat down and said hello, a male nurse turned up and said we should all come back inside. What?? I just sat down!! He insisted, I begged, he said no, I said 5 minutes, he said no, I contorted my face, he gave me 2 minutes. 5 minutes, controlled by a faceless nameless man. I think I finally understand the meaning of time....

Strange facts about my experience with Covid: I have a little gum bleed that's quite regular; it stopped. I have a dandruff problem; not a scrap since I tested positive for Covid. My nails grew faster and harder; why? I have an afro now (okay, slight exaggeration).

Covid is real. I saw it kill. We have no idea how it affects each person. So it's not only about you, but whom you might pass it on to. And I am still here, by the grace of God only. I don't know how the staff at the Ga East Municipal Hospital are doing it. I don't know how my wife did it. I don't know how my family did it. I don't know how my friends did it. But they ALL kept me alive, even as I received prayers from everywhere and everyone. And even as I complained about tea and bread, God forgive me.