My deadly war fought with Atta Kathi - Covid paridhaabangal

Two years ago, an episode unfolded in my life that I wish I could erase from existence. It was a time when I found myself alone, confined within the four walls of my home, battling an invisible and deadly enemy with futile, unproven tablets. It felt like I was thrust into a war armed with nothing but a flimsy shield, trying to fend off an insidious foe.

I was struck down by the merciless Delta variant of COVID-19. It wasn't surprising, considering I had been taking care of my mom, who had fallen ill with the virus. I stood on the battlefield defenseless, without any armor or shield, as there were no vaccines available back then to protect me.

As the symptoms began to take hold, unbearable body pain overwhelmed me. I quarantined myself, restricting my movements within the confines of those four walls. Each day, filled with hope, I anxiously checked the oximeter for any sign of improvement in my oxygen saturation levels (SPO2). However, to my dismay, the numbers continued to plummet, mirroring the decline of my hope and lung capacity.

Breathing, once an involuntary action, now felt like an enormous task. Simple acts like walking to the attached bathroom seemed like running a marathon. I longed to step outside into the garden and inhale the fresh air, but the fear of unknowingly spreading the deadly virus to my loved ones kept me confined.

Summoning the remnants of my dwindling hope, I mustered the courage to take my bike and rushed to the hospital for a chest scan. To my astonishment, the report revealed the devastating truth: 75% of my lungs were affected by COVID-infused pneumonia. The doctor's urgent plea to admit me immediately left me speechless and bewildered. I couldn't find the right words to express the sheer terror and confusion that engulfed me.

During that period, stories of seemingly healthy individuals succumbing to COVID were rampant. The intensity of the Delta variant was undeniable, and Chennai's hospitals were overflowing with COVID patients. The demand for oxygen beds reached its peak, and the scarcity of oxygen canisters was palpable.

Finally, I reached Parvathy Hospital in Chrompet, where a precious oxygen bed awaited me. The nurse gently assisted me, placing an oxygen tube in my nostrils. In that moment, I experienced the profound significance of breathing with its full capacity. The simple act of inhaling life-giving oxygen felt invaluable, a luxury I had taken for granted.

For five days, I underwent intense treatment, enduring a myriad of drugs and therapies. Slowly but steadily, my SPO2 level climbed to 98. I emerged from the ordeal having lost nearly 10 kilograms within a week. Weak and fragile, I returned home, only to face another 10 days of quarantine and a subsequent 90-day recovery period to regain my pre-COVID state.

Even now, I feel the lingering effects of this bitter episode in my health. I can sense the gaps and deficiencies that remain. I want to extend a sincere apology to my wife for making her life miserable during those three weeks when her sister's wedding was taking place simultaneously. She, too, was confined to a room with our two-year-old son, Aarav. She couldn't physically assist me in any way and anxiously awaited my messages and calls for updates. But I was consumed by my own physical, mental, and moral decline, and I unwittingly ignored her. I deeply regret not handling the situation better and offering support to those who were waiting helplessly outside for my well-being.

I have said sorry countless times, but I know it can never fully compensate for the mental anguish I inadvertently caused. Many of my friends and acquaintances remain oblivious to this episode, unaware of the battle I fought in the shadows. It is the haunting memories captured in Google photo memories that serve as a constant reminder, urging me to pen down this narrative. 

One day, my young son, Aarav, will come across these words and grasp the magnitude of the harrowing journey his parents endured