I was certain that the doctor would say I was fine. I had been working from home for more than two weeks, and because I was worried that I may be at greater risk for COVID-19 [1] because of an autoimmune disease, I had chosen to stay inside [2]. I could count on one hand the number of people I had contact with — most of them kind strangers delivering lunch or a grocery order. So, when I began coughing, I thought it must be anything else. But then the cough kept me up one night, and the next day, I felt winded while on the phone with my mom. My husband was still leaving the apartment a few days a week, so out of an abundance of caution, I called a doctor.
"What you're describing are the same symptoms I've heard over and over," she said, explaining that she had spoken to many young, otherwise healthy people with mild symptoms of COVID-19 [3]. I reiterated that I hadn't even run a fever [4], but she reminded me that the virus can look different from one person to the next. She urged me to isolate [5] for at least a week — longer if my symptoms hadn't improved [6] — and said my husband should quarantine for 14 days. I was shaken, but with coronavirus cases in New York doubling every few days [7], I knew what was at stake. We'd do whatever it took to keep others safe.
That evening, my husband collected his pillows from our bed, and I moved into the bedroom alone. He put a chair just outside the door: a place he could leave food, medicine, and other essentials, and I could return my dishes when I was done. I cried when he said goodnight from the hall, still trying to process what had happened and how we ended up talking through a door.
Since then, I've battled a migraine, enjoyed one day nearly symptom-free, and then settled into a deeper, lung-rattling cough. I still haven't spiked a fever, and while I sometimes feel short of breath after long bouts of coughing, the heaviness I initially felt in my chest has subsided.
Without a test to confirm my diagnosis, I'm left only with the thoughts swirling in my head — the ones that question how I could be so fortunate, when so many others have not been.
There are moments when I regain my energy and my coughing quiets, and it's in those moments that the doubt and uncertainty creeps in. I worry that I'll suddenly take a turn for the worse. I worry that I'll pass it on to my husband, if he hasn't already been exposed. I worry we'll both be lulled into a false sense of security, thinking we've survived the coronavirus, only to fall victim to it later. I know these fears are irrational, but without a test to confirm my diagnosis, I'm left only with the thoughts swirling in my head — the ones that question how I could be so fortunate, when so many others have not been.
Of course, I'm not the exception — I'm the rule. The vast majority of people who contract COVID-19 experience only mild symptoms [9] and will be able to recover at home [10], and it's our responsibility to protect those for whom the virus could be much more dangerous, by practicing social distancing [11], listening to guidance from experts and elected officials, and taking every precaution when we're sick. I can't have the peace of mind of a test, because leaving this ever-shrinking bedroom would put others at risk, and there are patients who need the swabs — and the care of doctors and nurses — far more than I do.
I remind myself of these things several times a day, when I'm nervously washing my hands at the bathroom sink we share or trying desperately to fall sleep. This isn't how I expected to feel if I caught the virus — more anxious than physically sick — but even when I'm struggling to wrap my head around it, I know how lucky I am that this is the outcome.