What a start to the year.
We weren’t even halfway through the first month of the new year when I noticed something odd. My 4-year old son was washing his hands in the kitchen when he said something smelled funny, and asked me what it was. I didn’t smell anything weird, but I looked around all the same. I noticed the fish I was defrosting for dinner, and thought he could have been referring to that.
But I couldn’t smell it.
Maybe I’m coming down with the flu, I thought.
The flu didn’t come. There was no cough, no runny nose, not even a sneeze. I could breathe easily. But I could smell neither my morning coffee, nor the onions that I sautéed for our stir fry dinner. I took the lid off a 3-wick scented candle and took a whiff: nothing. Not even when I picked it up and stuck my nose into the jar. I sprayed perfume into the air in front of me. Nothing.
I couldn’t smell a single thing.
I started Googling, knowing full well the answer to my question, hoping I was wrong. A little ball of panic grew in my gut as I scrutinised my calendar for places I’d visited and people I’d met in the past 14 days; but nothing in it could confirm my suspicions. My mind was a whirlpool of thoughts and fears, denials and consequences, but once I’d calmed them down, I stopped Googling for answers, and searched for a list of clinics and hospitals, instead.
At 7:20am the next morning, I went for a swab test.
As I was waiting, I spotted a rainbow. A good sign, I tried to convince myself, although I knew it was merely evidence of raindrops and sunlight, not of intruders in my body. When your mind is addled with fear, you cling to any sign of hope, no matter how ridiculous. It is how feelings are calmed, and how superstitions are born.
The swab test wasn’t as painful as I’d feared; just uncomfortable. And it was over before I knew it. I would receive the results within 24 hours; if I don’t hear anything by then, I was to call them.
I drove home and went up to my room where I had begun to self-isolate. The wait had begun. I started messaging close friends and family members, to inform those I’d met recently, and to share my fears with those I hadn’t. Apart from the anxiety of waiting for the results, and the confusion over where and how I could’ve gotten it, I felt perfectly fine. I didn’t have a fever, or a cough, or breathing problems; I had none of the other symptoms that had been drilled into us through the many infographics and articles flooding our lives over the past year or so. I just couldn’t smell.
I slept early that night. There had been no phone call.
I woke up the next morning and looked at my phone. There had been a missed call from an unfamiliar number the previous night, at 11pm. I could feel that little ball of panic again, forming in my gut. I put the phone down, and headed to the bathroom. I needed the shower to chase away my nerves, and I was hungry. If I was to receive bad news, then I should do so on a full stomach.
I calmly ate my breakfast, and then called the hospital. After a few tries, I got through, and having given my details, I was asked to wait.
A few minutes later, I received a call.
My test result had come back positive. I had COVID.
Ok, I said.
How else was I to respond?
The doctor asked what symptoms I had. Just the one, I said. Had I been exposed to anyone who was positive? Not that I know of, I answered.
“Do you know where you could’ve gotten it?”
“I have no idea.”
I was advised to isolate myself (which I’d already done), to get plenty of rest, and drink a lot of water. My symptoms were mild: Tier 2, he said, so I would most likely be allowed to quarantine at home. Above all, he said, stay calm, and everything will be ok.
I told my husband my results, and then I started calling those whom I’d had close contact with over the past ten days. My husband and our son went to get tested themselves, as did my close contacts.
The waiting game began again.
My husband didn’t seem to exhibit any symptoms, but my son had the sniffles. Please let that not be a symptom, just the common cold, I pleaded silently. I started thinking what needed to be done if they both tested positive. If they do, I thought, hopefully their symptoms will be mild. I feel fine, I told myself; I can still take care of him. Would all three of us be able to quarantine at home? What if any of our symptoms became worse? It was common knowledge that quarantine centres were quickly filling up, and that the healthcare system was fast approaching a breaking point.
Stay calm, I told myself.
Their results came back the next day, and they both tested negative. Thank God.
I continued my self-isolation with some degree of relief. I realised that it could still be the incubation period for them, but I allowed myself what little sense of security the first negative results afforded me.
One by one, the family members whom I’d had contact with received their test results. They all tested negative, thankfully. There was an exception: our part-time cleaning lady, who (up until recently) comes in twice a week. She, too, exhibited very mild symptoms: a sore throat and a runny nose. She has since been quarantined and discharged, and is feeling fine, thankfully.
At the time, I honestly believed I felt fine; just slightly under the weather, if anything. In hindsight, however, I realise that there was definitely fatigue, especially on days 4 to 6 of my symptoms. I’d wake up feeling slightly lightheaded, but at the time, I put it down to hunger. I had more than enough energy to get out of bed and into the shower, so I didn’t think much about it. My appetite wasn’t great, but I never skipped any meals, as I knew my body needed the fuel. Funnily enough at the end of every meal, the moment I finished eating, I would immediately feel tired and sleepy. I’d tidy up as quickly as possible, and then rest in bed. I took several cat naps throughout the day. I tried reading, but I couldn’t get past a paragraph before I drifted off into sleep. I felt slightly achy, but at the time, I thought it was because I’d been spending all day sitting or lying down in bed, either sleeping or on my phone.
On day 7, I woke up feeling refreshed. There was no lightheadedness; I felt the way I normally feel on any given morning. I didn’t feel sleepy or tired after meals. I didn’t need cat naps. The aches had disappeared, while my appetite returned. I found myself craving mee hoon tomyum for lunch. I ordered it, and finished the entire thing. I tidied up after myself, and as I was wiping down the surfaces with a disinfectant wipe, I caught a whiff of something.
Could it be...
Was my sense of smell returning?
I took the lid off the scented candle, and... nothing.
Slowly, I told myself. This will take time.
My 4-year old, however (let’s call him H), couldn’t shake off his flu. His sniffles were now accompanied by a chesty cough. He was taking cough and flu meds, he was his usual active self, and - more importantly - his test results had come back negative. He’ll be fine soon, I told myself.
There is this small matter of the incubation period, a little voice whispered in a tiny crevice of my mind. Shhh, I told it. He’d already had the sniffles when he took the test, I said. It can’t be.
I felt pretty much the same on day 8; my appetite and my energy had definitely returned. I opened the cap of my shampoo bottle and sniffed; I detected a faint trace of the yummy banana and coconut concoction. I took the lid off the scented candle, and held it up to my nose. There it was: the sweet and cozy aroma of a white caramel cold brew. It was faint and delicate, but my nose detected it.
I spent the rest of the day still in isolation, but with a renewed sense of hope. I was recovering. I even managed to do some work, drawing and “painting” on my iPad.
That night after dinner, H had difficulty breathing. My husband took him to the hospital while I stayed home. The doctor checked his vitals, which were ok. Continue with the flu meds, she said. H took a second swab test, just to be sure.
The next morning, after breakfast, H had difficulty breathing again. Back to the hospital he went. He was fitted with an oxygen tube, and an X-ray was done.
At around noon, my husband called. Was his test result out? Not yet, he said. But H has pneumonia.
My heart lurched. The ball of panic resurfaced in the pit of my stomach.
So what happens now, I asked. He’ll be temporarily warded in this hospital, my husband told me, until we get his results. If it’s negative, he stays here. If it’s positive, he’ll be sent to Sungai Buloh, the designated COVID hospital.
That little ball of panic grew, and it grew quickly.
He’s only four, I thought.
There was nothing else to do, however, but wait.
I couldn’t concentrate long enough to read, so instead I distracted myself with YouTube videos and a bit of work, stopping every now and then to check my phone. Six long hours later, my husband called again.
H’s test was negative.
Thank God.
It hasn’t escaped me how crazy it is that I was thankful it was “just” pneumonia. It’s perverse, I know, but I truly felt relieved.
H was warded for two days and two nights, and my husband stayed there with him. I still had to self-isolate, so I stayed at home with only Muci, our cat, to keep me company. Despite being home alone, I never felt lonely, thanks to Whatsapp messages and video calls. To his credit, H was in good spirits throughout his stay in hospital, and seemed unperturbed by the IV stuck in his bandaged arm. His “robot pistol hand”, he called it.
Once his condition improved, he was discharged and allowed to rest at home. I continued my self-isolation and was “discharged” several days later, after I’d undergone a COVID assessment by a doctor.
Our lives are somewhat back to “normal” now, in that we are back to our usual lockdown routine: my husband working from home, H attending e-learning classes, and me supervising him while doing the chores and squeezing in some work where and when I can.
H is recovering nicely. He has a bit of a cough still, but it is slowly going away. I have partially regained my sense of smell; I can smell a freshly showered H, and onions sauteeing in hot oil. I still can’t smell my morning coffee, though. If previously my afternoons were punctuated by the smell of my neighbour’s curries and fried chicken, wafting through my open windows, now I only hear an odourless clanging of a metal spatula against a wok.
Hopefully with time I will fully recover my sense of smell. Until then, food expiry dates are my friend, and I will cherish whatever I can smell, be it sweet or foul.
To this day, I don’t know for certain where I could have gotten the virus. I was unlucky enough to have contracted it, but I was extremely fortunate that my symptoms were very mild, that my family was safe from it, that all my contacts - barring one - tested negative, and that we were all in a position to get tested immedately. Things could have been worse.
2021 has been insane so far. And it isn’t even the end of January.
Till next time, stay safe everyone.