Getting In and Out of My Head
I booked a plane ticket to New York without a second thought. I planned to visit my now ex-boyfriend’s family over winter break, but we cut it off before Thanksgiving. So after submitting the second chapter for my thesis, I decided that I needed to leave North Carolina. And I needed to do it alone.
New York came and passed. I drove back home from Durham tired and ready for some home-cooked restoration. As soon as I threw open the front door, I traced a path to the recliner and crashed.
I was depleted.
My mom noticed my lackluster entrance (I tend to make my presence known) and gently suggested that I get a rapid take-home COVID test. A friend from D.C. was planning to visit my family for the holidays, so I agreed.
Hours passed and my physical state was deteriorating. A positive test result was looking more and more likely. Once my mom returned from CVS, I ripped open the package. My eyes glazed over all of the fine-print and instructions.
I swirled the nose swab four times per nostril while tears welled in my eyes. We waited in anticipation for 10 minutes after dipping in the test strip. When the timer hit zero, I plucked it from the vial and immediately saw the pink and blue lines. Turns out I came back home from New York with more than a bag full of Nordstrom tester perfumes (that somehow made it past TSA).
“Welp,” I laughed nervously. “Looks like I have covid.”
My mom studied me carefully as a thousand thoughts swam in her head. My brain, on the other hand, was static.
“Should I get a mask?” I asked.
She nodded her head absentmindedly. I could see the mental calculus as she gauged the risk of our family’s exposure to the coronavirus. Eventually, she directed me to go upstairs and stay in my room indefinitely.
In the first two days, I ran a fever and felt like death. My body ached and it was a struggle to sleep. On the third day, my temperature abated but other symptoms settled in. I felt a tightness in my chest and it grew harder to breathe.
Inhale. Exhale. And repeat.
Breathing became my singular focus. Slow and careful, until fear kicked in.
I called my mom upstairs. My throat felt physically different. It was stiffening, like I was turning into stone from the inside out. She raced to my room and put a pulse oximeter on my finger. Precious seconds passed as she awaited the oxygen level reading. I heard her take a sharp breath.
“Okay, we need to get you to the doctor’s,” she said cautiously.
I looked down at my finger. 86. Dangerously below a normal oxygen level. The room dimmed around me and I fell to the ground.
Barely able to bring my voice to a whisper, I pleaded with her to call 911. As she dialed, I broke into a cold sweat.
I heard the sirens outside and slowly crawled my way to the doorway of my room. My hands were clammy and cold. The paramedics ran up the stairs and set down their equipment while asking me twenty questions: When did this start? How are you feeling? Do you have any allergies? When did you last eat?
I answered their questions. But I just wanted relief from this horrible feeling. They checked my pulse, listened to my breathing, and asked me more questions.
Within minutes it became apparent that my life was not in danger. Although my throat was tight, I could breathe just fine. My shivers subsided and the cold sweat evaporated. Miraculously, I was the image of health, minus the relentless cough and congestion.
I stared at my toes as the paramedics talked to me. It all escalated so fast: the anxiety, dizziness, and tightening throat. I muttered in disbelief underneath my breath, wondering how much I wasted of the EMTs’ time and how many minutes I shaved off of my poor mother’s lifespan.
It felt so real. It was real. But my body was healthy, not imperiled. The medics explained how my anxious reaction was understandable given that I had recently tested positive for COVID.
Earlier that day, I received my PCR test results, to confirm the at-home rapid test I took a few days prior. I didn’t feel stressed about the virus, though. I received the unfortunate positive test result without ceremony. The medics left and I returned to my room, skeptical of my own feelings and bodily symptoms.
Later, I heard a light knock at the door. My mom stood there for a moment, considering her words carefully.
“Everything that you experienced was real.”
She believed me. She called 911 on a fool’s mission because it was the treatment I needed to clear my mind and heal the part of me that needed reassurance that I was not dying.
“I believe you and I believe what you went through was real.”
The paramedics also validated me, encouraging us to go to an Urgent Care clinic or the hospital to look at treatment if I felt that my condition continued to progress. They knew I didn’t need to be whisked to the emergency room. I wasn’t prescribed steroids and didn’t have to foot the bill for an expensive ambulance trip.
The treatment they gave me was empowerment. It was knowledge so that I could make a decision about my own health.
My mom told me that the mind-body connection is powerful. When I first got the COVID diagnosis, my reaction was like TV static. I felt no particular way about it, other than that I should isolate myself. But my response changed when there was a perceived change in my condition — something that was unpredictable and out of my control. That fear catalyzed a reaction, giving me very real symptoms (dizziness, heavy breathing, clamminess, shivers) that were created from an interpretation of my physical state.
Feelings are real and your body recognizes them as such. That’s why they are so powerful. Navigating how to get in and out of your head is a continuous practice, and it’s not one we always get right.
Sometimes it may feel like you’re trying to untangle a knotted up ball of yarn. And that’s okay. Listen to your body, listen to your mind, and — most importantly — understand how they work together.
Trust your instincts. Know yourself. Ask for help. Because what you are experiencing is real.
