The first indication that things weren’t quite right was when I was walking my dog on Monday evening last week. I was aware that my muscles were aching, but, as I was otherwise fine, I thought no more of it. However, at three the next morning, I woke shivering all over. An hour later, I was drenched in sweat. My temperature was 38.4º. I knew I needed to self-isolate and get a test. Feeling so grim that I couldn’t sleep, I curled up on the sofa, and at 6 a.m. started trying to book a test online.
Four and a half frustrating hours later, I got a drive-through appointment for later that afternoon. I wasn’t that worried. I had been careful, and I didn’t know anyone else locally who had been ill; so I thought that I had one of the colds that seemed to be doing the rounds. I had a horrid sore throat and congested sinuses, which seemed to support my assumption. It was just irritating having to self-isolate until the test came back.
The test centre were friendly and efficient, and told me I would probably have the result within 24 hours; so we started planning what we would do when I got the all-clear. My husband had a list for the supermarket. I was going to walk the rather bored dog.
I spent most of the next 24 hours in bed, dosed up on paracetamol to hold the fever and aches at bay (although I did lead a brief online midweek service from my living room). Then, on Wednesday afternoon, I woke up from yet another nap to find a text on my phone. I had tested positive for Covid.
There have been many surprises about this diagnosis. The first is the sheer amount of Covid-related admin there is.
Read it all.
