Two years of over-washing my hands, wearing masks, disinfecting everything, and getting vaccinated (though falling short of being boosted). It didn’t matter. I had it. And so did everyone in my immediate family.

Okay, I had actually stopped wearing a mask after they lifted the mask mandates. I had a false sense of security and reminded myself it would be okay because I was “fully vaccinated.” After all, they promised the vaccine would get us “back to normal.”

It wasn’t true because the Omicron variant still made its way to me, my two sons, and my husband – whether through my son’s school, my work, or grocery shopping, who knows?

For me and my boys, it was like having a bad case of strep throat. It started with a sore throat, severe muscle pains, fever, and fatigue and progressed to sinus and chest congestion and cough.

My younger son had it for about four days and bounced right back, but he served his ten required days out of school anyway.

My older son lost his sense of taste for about half a day, which he described as really weird. He and I had it for about a week.

We followed the rules and stayed home for the whole week (more than the mandatory five days). Then, we wore a mask everywhere (the rule for five more days). After that week, I ordered groceries online for the first time and picked them up.

I haven’t had a lengthy visit with my aging parents or seen them, without wearing a mask, for a month.

Then, there was my husband, who chose not to be vaccinated – a fact that may or may not have been a factor, according to one ER technician who said he’d seen it both ways. It could have been his age, as he’s seven years older than me, or his fitness level. Nevertheless, he suffered the worst.

I watched and worried as he withered away on the recliner couch for two weeks. He wasn’t able to eat more than a bite or two, and I had to remind him to drink water. After a week, he fainted in the night and was too weak and nauseous to walk. His breathing was labored, and his fever spiked to over 100 every night.

My parents were very supportive – from a distance – sharing supplements, a pulse-oximeter, prayers, and much-needed advice from my mom, a retired nurse.

My husband’s struggle culminated on the night he started hallucinating, seeing imaginary ants on the walls and fringe on his fingers. And despite having no insurance since he lost his job last year, I had to do something.

I tried calling a doctor for an appointment, but they wouldn’t take him without insurance. So, we reluctantly went to the emergency room. I expected to see a lot of COVID patients, but that day, he was the only one.

At least, we were the only ones in the designated roped-off area or shadowy alcove at first. There were no signs on the roped-off area, located in a hallway where everyone walked past, so no one knew what it was for unless directed by the triage nurse. It still felt like a zoo exhibit.

I was lucky to stay with my husband since he needed me to push his borrowed wheelchair and help with questions, given his confusion. They were not allowing any visitors in the ER, except for parents. Even then, they would only allow one extra person. My adult son had driven us there, and I had to send him home.

The timeline of our experience echoed one almost ten years ago when my husband had emergency surgery at a Missouri hospital. We arrived around 1:30 pm, finally got into an exam room around 6 pm, and were there until 10:00 pm. The difference was that, 10 years ago, he was taken into surgery at 10:30, and for our recent visit, we were waiting for an oxygen tank to arrive for an hour and a half.

Due to a series of miscommunications, we eventually went home without his oxygen, and it was delivered the next morning to our home. That was what turned it around. He was on oxygen and medicine for a week and is now back to his old self – I am beyond relieved to say.

I share all this because I know there are thousands of people out there who have been through the same, or a similar, situation – or worse.

Still, I feel like there is so much fear and stress surrounding it. I haven’t dared to mention that I had COVID in the past weeks or that my husband still had it. In my mind, it was the same as announcing I had leprosy. Only my co-workers knew until recently.

I have heard that some people are ashamed to have gotten it like they did something wrong. That’s like feeling guilty for getting a cold. The advice is the same: just stay home while you’re sick.

I have also heard that the Omicron variant is so contagious that the usual CDC guidelines won’t stop it.

My wish is that anyone who is going through COVID right now hangs on and knows that there is hope for recovery – whether you’re like my teenage son or my 50-something husband.

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Originally Appeared Here