I celebrated my birthday donning a princess-cut pink dress which I had reserved for the occasion. Nothing very fancy, just a dress with a good fit, and at home with my dear family. I blinged it up with one of my favourite pearl sets that I had lovingly preserved for years.

Experiencing an itchy throat, I slept in the spare room- away from my kids. Morning arrived with a slight fever. I hastily grabbed a duffle bag, stashed some daily-wear clothes in it, and went to my parents’ house. They had a spare bedroom. My mother was already quarantined in one since she had contracted covid 19. The year was 2019, and the second wave of COVID was making its fateful rounds. I had gotten tested the day earlier: It was negative. Yet, I quarantined myself. Days rolled by with doctor’s visits and blood tests. My cough and fever worsened. A retest conducted after a few days still showed negative, thankfully.

Seven days inched by in isolation. My parents had worsened. A doctor told my mother, You will not survive.” They came home, weeping. All of us whimpered separately in our respective rooms. A decision to shift her to a bigger city hospital was taken. I said goodbye to her from my bedroom door. The farewell was hazy; it was teary.

A driver was found who valiantly took them to Hyderabad. My brother lived there and was ready at the hospital gate to attend to them.

My mother was shifted to the ICU. My father had to be tested since he had travelled with her. His results showed that he had a higher percentage of the coronavirus in him. He had not shown even a single symptom! He too was admitted to the same ICU.

Here, I was spending my time coughing. My kids were also quarantined back at my house, as they had been in contact with me. I was utterly thankful to Airtel for the calls I could make. They were confused; they were worried; but they tried to put up a valiant front.

The eighth morning had something different in store for me. I woke up feeling as if I could not breathe- as though someone had sucked all the oxygen out of the atmosphere. I switched on 5 fans in the house and pleaded with the ceiling to answer me as to where all the air went. I could feel it in my bones that, undoubtedly, I had gotten all false negatives earlier. I got home-tested again in the era when the result would come after 12 hours. Familiar with the drill, I went for a PET scan, which proclaimed the ugly truth: coronavirus was residing in my lungs.

I was fatigued already by the stunt of just getting a scan. I came back home. “What should I do?” The question bounced off the vacant walls. My worried better half was stuck in another nation; with flights being banned, he could not make it here. The single solution at that time seemed to be to join my parents in the ICU. My family somehow arranged the transportation.

I had to pack my reports and just a few clothes to take to the hospital with me. It took me TWO herculean hours, as each breath felt like lifting tons of weight and every tiny action was a colossal effort. It had taken me less than five minutes just a mere week ago.

The tougher part was still awaiting me: bidding my kids farewell. I stood meters away from them, as they came with masks on. I could not even see their entire faces! I gave my farewell from afar. A worse moment followed: I asked my sister to take care of them. We both knew what that meant. I could see the tears in her eyes; however, I had not an ounce of energy in me to welcome mine. I looked on, trying to memorise the scene. “This could be the last time I see them!” My mind was hammering in me. I finally trudged, step by step, into the car and reached medical care.

I lied to my worried kids, who were unaffected by COVID, that I was in the same city. I reached the ICU at night. I remember the journey. I sat by the window. I told the driver to keep the car window open. He complied, and I fell asleep, exhausted. It was a 3-to-4-hour ride to the Integro hospital in Hyderabad. Along the way, it started drizzling; as soon as the driver rolled up the window, I got up from my deep sleep. The air was gone!!! I told him it doesn’t matter if I get wet; the window has to be open.

We reached the hospital, where my brother greeted me in a PP suit. I plopped into the wheelchair with all the energy I had left in me. Then I was wheeled into the ICU. My mother was in one separate, isolated corner. My father was on one bed. There were two more patients. I was put on a bed in a corner. I remember fighting feebly with the nurses as they tried to put an oxygen mask on me. I was grasping so much for breath that putting anything on my face felt like death. The doctor came and calmly explained, “It is to help you breathe.” I gave in. When I later thought about it, I felt quite foolish, but had no energy to dwell on it further.

Needles and machine beeps were my companions for the following days, as my parents and I were tubed up in our respective beds. I remember trying to get a peek at them. The respite was my mobile phone and headphones. I was able to talk a bit with my family. Eating took a ton of energy. It took me an hour to complete oatmeal, an egg, and some salad. I used to watch FRIENDS and eat, like a small child.

That room is burned into my brain. Who from the ICU shall survive when 3 out of 5 patients were from one family? Daily tests in arteries, injections on a strict schedule, and wonderfully understanding and competent nurses and super-efficient doctors- all led to my breathing becoming gradually easier with each passing day. By God’s Grace, we all made it home- alive. How I survived after that- is another nightmare.

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