Diary of a sick black woman: Coronavirus

It’s 3:03 am on Sunday morning, and I have to say I think this is highly unfair. I’m never one to wake in the night; sleep is my first true love. But tonight I have been tossing and turning for what feels like hours. First, my pillow felt too firm; then, I was hot. My t-shirt came off, then my vest top, then my pyjama bottoms – still warm.

Then the ache started. My hips, no matter which way I turned, left side, right side, front or backside (sorry Mum) I was still in pain. It finally woke me out of my sleep, and I woke to pop to the loo. I say pop, if you have read any of my blogs you’ll know I became disabled back in 2018, so there are no fast movements for me, especially in the middle of the night, but you get what I mean.

Before I shuffled back to my bed, I went to the kitchen to grab a drink. Back in my room, I’m thinking “Well, I’ve not heard of aching joints being Coronavirus related, but a quick Google search won’t hurt.”. So I grabbed my phone and there it was.

You will have some respiratory symptoms; you have some aches and pains.

Oh, Lord. I remember coughing in my sleep, as well! But wait, I’ve got to be over-reacting. I go into my bedside table and grab my digital thermometer. Now, I have complained about this thing more than once. I bought it 17 years ago when my daughter was small, and neither of us has ever had a temperature of more than 36.3°C. It was a waste of money either because we were never sick like that or it didn’t work. So I check in my right ear, 37.4°C. Got to be a fluke, right? I check in my left ear at 37.6°C.

Now, I’m scared. I think I’ve got the coronavirus. And although I’m young and plenty of people have recovered all I can think of is that I have more than one underlying illness and more than 230 people have died in the UK, it’s not outside of the realm of possibility.

As mum always said, worrying never solved a thing. I’m blogging because one day, I want to look back and know what thoughts were running through my head. Worst comes to worst, my daughter will have a crazy running commentary typical of her nutter mum. But mostly, I want to write this for others who might get symptoms. Yes, I am scared, but thousands have recovered and, God willing, this will be another recovery story.

I’ll be back tomorrow.

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