We left for the hospital, where we were received by nurses who had a wheelchair and a portable oxygen tank next to it. By the time I was being helped out of the ambulance, my oxygen was at about high 70s into 80s, if I remember correctly.
My Oxygen supply was transferred from the ambulance’s source to the portable tank that was being trolleyed by the nurses who walked alongside us as I was wheelchaired to the bed and onto the one at my bed at the High Dependency Unit. My identity now became HDU 9.
I was on 2.5 litres of supplementary oxygen.
I was put on drugs (additional to what I already had), mostly intravenously.
My oxygen supply kit was then changed from the mask to prongs.
Two days later, on Sunday, my wife sent me a message that seemed innocent, but was very telling.
Dann Mwangi: My Covid-19 journey to HDU and back – Intro
Phase 6
“What’s your NHIF number?”
I, being Daniel, interpreted this text. This could likely mean that she was getting admitted. She had avoided telling me to shield me from pressure and stress.
She was also ambulanced to the same hospital but was admitted in the general Covid-19 ward, as she was not as critical – she did not need oxygen support.
We interacted every so often, but I had to rest a lot. She was stressed about the kids more than she was about Covid-19.
Her brother Joe, a doctor, was gracious and bold enough to take the kids in when WangeShe was told to go in for admission. I still don’t know how to describe it all. But Joe will say, “That’s what family is for.” Then hope you will stop throwing niceties at him. African man, I guess?
As the days went by, I was increasing my reliance on supplementary oxygen – I moved from 2.5L, to 3L, then to 4L, in about three days.
The doctors said I needed some more intervention.
This, I believe, was also backed by the fact that my CT scan showed that my lungs had been hit quite significantly – the percentage was… 66 per cent! This means I was only operating on a third of my lung capacity.
Now I understood why I was getting tired or breathless whenever I did something small.
While I was on the supplementary oxygen, I was not allowed to be off my supply. If I needed to go to the bathroom, or anywhere, I was to move around with my facial gadgetry plugged into a small oxygen tank mounted on a trolley, so that I pushed it around as you would with a shopping trolley.
I sometimes sat on my bed, pensively thinking of my lungs and their one-third operations. I occasionally peeked at social media to find out out what’s happening in the ‘outside world’.
It was campaign season in Kiambaa for the constituency by-election. I saw images and videos of the masses, largely shared by politicians and their teams in political posturing; finding it more important to show their might in numbers. (They have consistently proved that, basically, people = votes).
It struck me now, more than ever, that they are blatantly facilitating desecration of the law. But, anyway, mta-do? (What can you do?)
Then I thought: “They are coming at you with their fangs, and you will pay for it with your lungs.”
Phase 7
I was in a very melancholic space; wanting to be in my own space, not wanting much interaction. I was glad the guys in my ward were not chatty; they would just say the polite “Hi” or “Good morning”, but that was it.
We had to do physiotherapy, at least thrice a day – mid-morning, afternoon and at night. This entailed walking (and I had to move around with the mobile tank as I was not allowed to be off oxygen) up and down the long corridor at the hospital, and doing basic hand movements, and deep breaths. Then I was given a spirometer to help with my breathing – this was hard, very. I would do it for about 10 minutes and feel like I was headed to Tokyo.
That mobile oxygen tank was meant to be like a weave, or attachment if you may, with me wherever I went and should not be taken off or there will be a problem. Yes, wherever I went. Bathroom, toilet, physiotherapy walk up and down the corridor, name it. I was not allowed to be off oxygen support.
I would get so drained even just showering that I would go and sleep after that.Dann Mwangi: My Covid-19 journey to HDU and back 2
Positive side of losing smell, taste
The beauty of losing smell was that I couldn’t sense the ‘hospital smell’ – if it was there – or the toilets. Anyway, so with my state, I was told I will be put on Remdesivir, a five-day treatment that comprised an IV-administered drug and a pill. I had to sign an approval form for it to be administered.
My situation was improving and they started to wean me off oxygen support. I was taken off it on Wednesday afternoon – I was on it for five days.
I was also using the spirometer, which was haaard to do. That inhalation difficulty makes you realise ni kufyam!
I remember I was told to walk up some stairs – just the two flights between the first and second floor (I think there were 10 or so steps each).
When I got to the second floor, I was so beat, I felt like I had been hiking! Dang!
I went down slowly after a rest and went to bed.
Phase 8
At one point, I was genuinely afraid of going back home. Somewhere in my psychology, the trauma of this tough situation made me want to stay on, somehow.
I was feeling like I was in a trance, like it was not real. I would just sit there and live.
Then, thoughts would cross my mind.
“What if this is it for me? What if this is where my story gets a full stop?”
Then, you sometimes don’t even have the energy or capacity to feel scared or to process it. You just … live, a breath at a time.
I am a born-again Christian, and have been since February 20, 1999, and have been in solid fellowship and ministry for years. But, this time, I was in my space, a space where I was not keen on being Christian in the way that many know it. I was not even saying stuff like, “I know God will heal me” or “God shall do it for me”.
A part of me was still processing all that I was going through and trying to rummage through the motions and see the place of faith. My circle is full of Christians, for which I am grateful. They would send messages of encouragement and prayer, and I would not respond with ‘God talk’, as that was not my space at the time.NTV journalist Dann Mwangi’s Covid-19 story
Should I tell my story?
I was going through deep motions. I was not going to share that I had Covid-19 online. That was not even a thing I cared about. I mean, it was a life-or-death situation for me, so what would traction do for me? Restore my lungs? Give us a solid nanny to ease the workload on my wife and me?
I deliberately decided to go through this away from the expectations set by either myself or society. I chose to wade through my muddy path and experience it, as opposed to doing it to share a story. The end was not in mind. The now was what I had, and what I was going to let myself go through.
I resolved that if this is how I was to experience God, let it be authentic, not because ‘this is how it is done’, not because if I share my story publicly it would get me likes, retweets, shares, sympathy, love, followers, name it.
But I made sure that I shared my feelings and state of mind and heart with people who would help me. I chatted with my church (AIC Ngong Road) Senior Pastor Rev Chris Mwalwa, who stayed true to being a solid hand, as well as Mary Musau, the therapist whom my wife and I have been seeing to help us have a balanced, healthy life.
Yes, I see a therapist. Not because I am “crazy” but because I have been learning the value of a balanced life, and I have learnt the value it has, plus, it will help me grow into a more wholesome person which is good for my wife and our children.
They need a more solid Dann in their lives, and I chose not to let stigma sprouting from misconceptions deny my girls that blessing of a better me. And not just them, but my wider family as well as my friends, colleagues and wider community.
Also, I am privileged that this is a facility that my employer offers. It is of great, great value. Ignore the stigma, go for therapy and learn more about yourself and be a better and more optimal version of you.
Getting better then… hallucinations
After four nights of being at the facility where the floor was marked RED ZONE, WangeShe was discharged – this was on a Wednesday, the same day they finally took me off supplementary oxygen, after slowly weaning me off it.
As the days went by, and motions changed, by the weekend, I realised that I was ready to go home. I was in a better mental and emotional space. Plus, I had deeply missed my girls, who would welcome me home with screams that I, Number 8, could ever receive at gigs – unmatched.
On Sunday, July 18, 2021, I was discharged.
That first night back home, I had hallucinations. It was surreal. I can’t remember what they were. I was sleep-talking, having random thoughts with visuals that I can’t remember.
WangeShe woke up and asked me if I was okay and I would actually respond, in line with my ‘visions’. I could subconsciously tell I was hallucinating and sleep-talking, but I couldn’t stop it. I was also quite uncomfortable sleeping that night. It was all so weird.
So, we all stayed home managing the lingering symptoms – they don’t disappear at once.
On August 2, 2021, we all went for retests (this time the kids as well, since we did not want to assume anything on this, because we would now start reintegrating with the world).
On August 3, 2021: All four emails had attachments that read NEGATIVE.
WangeShe and I had gone for a review and various other tests were done and they showed we were doing well in our recovery.
I was cleared to resume work. I asked my boss, Joseph Warungu, to allow me to start with working from home as I monitored the lingering symptoms, which he approved.
I still have some lingering symptoms but they are not as harsh – which is the way the illness plays out, we were told.
If I do a lot of physical activity, I will feel a strain on my lungs and the resulting feeling of strained breathing, and some general discomfort.
But, I am breathing. I am alive. I am here to live, and point others to life.
All said and done, I am grateful to God — the same God I struggled to refer to, or to trust in the storm — who came through for this wrecked sheep and saved him from being shipwrecked.
I am a renewed man, one whose renewal is still in progress, but on the right path – the straight and narrow one. BY DAILY NATION
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