“Breathe!” is a simple instruction that it’s hard to imagine will ever be impossible to follow. But in January of this year, I was hospitalized with Covid and pneumonia, and a few days later, I couldn’t breathe. I’d never pressed the emergency button in a hospital before, but it had an immediate effect. Suddenly there were more doctors and nurses surrounding my bed than my brain could process. “I can’t breathe!” I groaned with effort. I couldn’t fill my lungs, only take tiny, shallow breaths. I was taken to intensive care. I’m glad I couldn’t see the machines behind me, the blinking machinery, the digital graphics, the tubes—wide and thick, accordion-like, thin and blue—all the way to the ceiling. I just felt like I was in a safe place.
I recently realized that I think of my hospital bed as a child’s bed when I think back to the cramped conditions. In the ICU, you are pampered and get personal attention 24/7. Someone hears you breathing day and night. During shift handovers, you try to listen to what the nurses are saying and are alert to any whispers that might make you panic, but I usually give up.
For three and a half weeks, my lungs were in a bad state: scarred, damaged, with layers that looked like broken glass. The smallest of the masks you have to wear not only delivers oxygen, it also opens your lungs. It made me feel oppressed, like I was climbing a nearly vertical hill.
There was one Saturday, after three weeks, when I didn’t care if I lived or died. Living in that condition was just too hard. I thought my sons would forgive me if I chose not to. I thought about my life so far: I had done a good job raising two great children. I hadn’t let grass grow under my feet. Many people have much less. The next day, my mood took a U-turn. Feeling brave and determined, I wore the most uncomfortable mask for a full 14 hours, filling my lungs as deeply as possible, and then wore it all night. I don’t know if that had any effect, but my body felt different afterward. It seemed to recover. They moved me to a small respiratory ward with only six beds. The six of us women didn’t have much in common except that we had trouble breathing, but humans are such social creatures. Before long, we were not only exchanging names, but also talking about music—the woman in the bed across from us often started singing—children, our marriages, our divorces… and food.
