The thought occurs to him repeatedly, as he feels the slow rush of air in and out of his lungs.

The irony isn’t lost on him.

He is a pulmonologist, and all he can think about now is how he took every precious breath for granted.

He knows where this is going.

Dying breaths. 1/
He’ll never know exactly when he got infected with COVID-19. It’s a thought that resurfaces now and then. A lingering loose end.

He does spend a lot of his time being exposed to it as he works in the ICUs, but he is meticulous with his PPE.

It begins with a runny nose. 2/
The runny nose is followed by chills.

He self-quarantines, just to be safe. By the time a cough is developing, he has tested positive.

The shortness of breath comes on relatively rapidly.

He checks his oxygen levels at home and decides he needs to go to the hospital. 3/
Being admitted to a hospital he has worked at is a somewhat surreal experience.

So this is what it’s like.

Everyone wearing their PPE. Familiar, yet distant.

Like space travelers peering at him through the unforgiving void, and the safety of their air locks. 4/
He reviews his own chest x-rays and lab data with the attending pulmonologist.

He feels confident he is going to get better. He’s over 60, but he’s fit, and he’s in good hands.

He can’t deny, though, that it’s getting harder to breathe. He feels his respiratory rate climb. 5/
Have you ever thought about your breathing on a moment by moment basis?

If you haven’t, consider yourself lucky.

To have to work to breathe, really work at it with every breath you take, is exhausting.

And terrifying.

He is transferred to the intensive care unit. 6/
In the ICU there is a strange tranquility.

The landscape isn’t alien to him. He knows these machines, these people.

He hasn’t been put on a ventilator, but he’s getting close.

One day he sees his chest x-ray and has trouble identifying healthy lung tissue.

“God...” 7/
The attending pulmonologist talks to him, his face on a video screen.

Things aren’t looking good. They’re considering ECMO, but kidney function is worsening too.

He feels icy pangs of fear.

But he has things he needs to do now.

He suppresses the fear, and calls his wife. 8/
He goes over things with her. Financial details, insurance details, passwords and codes, all the minutiae needed for a life stopped in mid-sentence.

She understands what he’s saying. She’s stoic, like him.

She takes notes quietly, as he takes short, quick breaths. 9/
He falls silent, and she is quiet too.

The truth is he’s scared, but he’s also tired.

He’s been in the ICU for several days. He’s tired of being out of breath.

So he doesn’t speak now. He closes his eyes and listens to his wife tell him about his grandkids. 10/
Later that night, he has hallucinations.

He dreams vividly that his grandkids are playing.

He savors these glimpses of his life before.

Of love.

The steady beeps of the monitors bring him back to reality. He watches the nurses move in their armor, and is grateful. 11/
The thought occurs to him repeatedly, as he feels the slow rush of air in and out of his lungs.

The irony isn’t lost on him.

He is a pulmonologist, and all he can think about now is how he took every precious breath for granted.

He knows where this is going.

Dying breaths.12/
But the next day he wakes up, and notices that it’s a little easier to breathe.

His oxygen saturation levels are better. They’re able to wean his oxygen down slowly.

He is eventually moved out of the ICU to an intermediate unit.

He is on the road to recovery. 13/
The ordeal has caused him to lose a lot of weight, and muscle mass.

He has to go to rehabilitation for several weeks.

Finally, he goes home.

About a month later, he is back at work, taking care of COVID patients in the ICU.

He tells his story to a wide-eyed nephrologist. 14/
I watch him, later in the day, intubating a crashing patient.

Only his eyes are visible beneath the masks and shield. His gaze is steady. Once again staring down the Monster.

I respect his courage.

I respect his skill.

Most of all I respect him for who he is. 15/
Later I sit beside him.

I know he has gone through something I can’t know.

We sit in silence.

Finally he speaks.

“You know the question people ask me the most?”

I shake my head.

“When are things going back to normal?” He shakes his head.

I say nothing. 16/
“There’s going to be two groups of people. One group might have a normal again. The other? No normal, my friend. Just before, and after.”

I nod, thinking about what he’s gone through. What so many people have gone through.

Before.

After.

And every breath in between.

• • •

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More from @TheRealDoctorT

28 Jan
There are always questions at the end of the visit.

It’s only natural. Nobody remembers everything. I’m used to clarifying and reiterating.

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Read 13 tweets

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