My experience with Covid

It took me one year, one month and ten days to get Covid-19 since it was declared a global pandemic.

I had been everywhere; in Covid hospital wards, testing centres, the worst hit parts of Mexico, the U.S. and Central America. Nothing; no symptoms, no antibodies, no positive PCR tests.

I must have picked it up in Puebla, either shooting the world’s biggest rabbits, or Mexican hand-made electric cars. To this day, there is no specific risk I can think of that I would have been exposed to. It’s virulent, that’s for sure.

On the Monday, Day 1, I suddenly had no sense of taste. I skipped through breakfast and had a shoot. By the time we were done, the producer and I visited Pinche Gringo – a Texas BBQ place. I could barely taste the habanero sauce. I told my wife, the long-suffering Oriana, that I suspected this was a symptom. She packed her bags before I got home and was at her mother’s. I organised my test for first thing in the morning.

Positive. You must now isolate 14 days; you must have no contact with your family; these are the six medications you will need. “Good luck”, were his parting words. I said my prayers, and put myself in the mental state to handle a crisis. Phone calls to my wife, my family, my best friends, my employers, giving them the news. The reaction was mostly positive: nay bother son, ye’ll be fine. One silly cow rang my wife and did her level best to scare the living daylights out of her.

I drove home in a daze – I realised half an hour into my favourite podcast (Top Flight Time Machine) that I hadn’t heard a word they had said, I got home and moved everything I thought I could need upstairs to my office. I’d be living here for two weeks. TV, Playstation, downloaded classic British sitcoms, enough cigars in humidor. Let’s go.

I did half an hour’s intense exercise, after which my lungs were screaming. It took me an hour to recover, and two further hours to forgive myself after reading that exercise is the LAST thing you need when you’re Covid-positive. I had wheezing in my lungs for 36 hours.

The first days were tough, as symptoms gradually worsened. My temperature began to rise, I began to cough up thick phlegm. On Day 3 my regular cameraman tested positive. The producer from the previous week in Chiapas reported he was negative.

It must have ben Puebla, and my wife – 30 weeks pregnant with our second son – had been producing. We had covered a story two months before that the leading cause of death in pregnant women over the course of 2020 in Mexico had been Covid-19. She rushed out. Negative. A massive relief.

My worst symptoms hit me on Day 5. Temperature at 37.6 (I never hit fever), a chesty cough that brought up phlegm, fatigue that had me sleeping 11 hours a day, and brain fog – a fuzziness like when you have the flu.

Throughout, I took the meds – Ribavirina, Celestamine, Paracetamol, Aspirin – regularly, and I felt that green tea – a pot a day – helped a great deal.

When Day 6 hit and I felt a bit better, was when the psychological stuff began. Being alone, even if connected via all the modern means, is hard. I have a family, a wife and son who need me (at least I like to think so). Saturday was my son’s second birthday. I had a fight with my wife in the morning and was five metres above him, though connected over WhatsApp, when we sang happy birthday and cut his cake. But you’ve got Covid. You’re toxic. And you know that what’s responsible is what you’re doing.

I hadn’t been scared of Covid. I’m 32 years old, and getting infected wasn’t a problem. In some ways, I was right. I never suffered badly, my symptoms were light. But at the same time I could see how it could get worse. Feeling the slightest tightness in your chest can freak you out. I don’t believe I’ve ever had aching in my lungs before. I’ve had headaches I can’t fully explain.

I rang a doctor friend of mine in Los Angeles; he’s the only other person I know closely who has had Covid. I talked him through my symptoms. “OK dude,” he drawled in his west coast voice, “ sounds like you had it easy. I nearly died. I had like two weeks when it felt like I was breathing through a thin straw, and went to sleep at night not sure whether I was going to wake up.” This guy is ten years my senior –mid-40s – and consciously works on having “no vices” – no meat, no alcohol, no tobacco, no weed, no drugs. And he nearly died. What chance do I stand? He may have ten years on me, but I smoke too many cigars and probably drink too much once in a while.

Throughout the pandemic and our coverage, we’d been hearing stories about the surprise deaths. But you never knew the person, hearing it from my friend was a shock. He’s fine now, describing himself as 90% recovered (nearly nine months on), and he warned me about long-term effects. Watch out for lung scarring, watch out for brain damage, watch out for X, Y, Z.

By Day 9 ; when, according to the internet experts, a patient either gets much better or much worse, I felt good. I organised a PCR test for Day 10. Negative. Alasdair, “termina tu quarentena” said my doctor. However, our gynecologist trumped him, speaking over video chat at the 32-week scan. “Complete the full 14 days of isolation." No chances, just a few more days.” Fair enough Doc, I care more about the new arrival’s health than three days more of this.

Now it’s Day 12. I’m not having a bad time. My symptoms have all but cleared up, but it’s not an easy landscape as you emerge from quarantine. How will your family receive you? What will the long-term effects be? Why couldn’t your luck have held out? We were planning to be vaccinated in the U.S. on Day 12 of what you’re living through now.

If you’ve read this far, then thank you, and if there’s a lesson I can leave it’s that not to underestimate this virus. I have no idea how I got it, other than not being in 100% isolated conditions. If you test positive, watch your symptoms, and let your friends and family know the situation you’re in. They can help, and when it comes to facing the virus, you and your body need all the help they can get.