Isle of Wight reporter relives his Covid nightmare

I started to show the symptoms of Covid-19 just before Christmas. I felt fatigued, nauseous and had developed a hacking cough.

I'd had a flu jab a few days earlier and considered the probability it was a side-effect of that, or kidded myself it was a common cold.

You know you've taken all the precautions possible not to catch it, but you can't help thinking — is it the dreaded virus?

December 23 came. I was pretty run down but felt OK to carry on working as usual, knowing Christmas was soon upon us.

However, Christmas Eve was a different matter. The cough progressed quite rapidly overnight. I was losing my breath, I felt sick, I was starting to shiver uncontrollably, became delirious and my temperature rocketed to mid-39C.

Christmas Day was a write-off. I couldn't share the joy of my young son opening his gifts, no traditional roast dinner, no celebration. Just suffering, hoping if it was Covid-19, I had a mild version of it.

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The paramedics came out to assess me that day. One said to me: "You've got all the symptoms. Don't be surprised if you have Covid," she said.

That was depressing to hear, but paramedics are realistic professionals who tell it exactly how it is.

Boxing Day arrived. My wife and I managed to book a drive-through test after two days of no on-line access to the NHS appointment system. Only the kits were available to order. Just as well. The kits arrived six days later. Then factor in sending them off and getting a result back.

The tests were taken at Newclose County Cricket Ground near Newport. Within 36 hours we received positive results by text message.

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Jon arriving at the Isle of Wight testing centre.

I stared at mine for a minute trying to take it in. I suppose I was stunned, but at least I knew what I had.

What preyed on my mind was the question of how much it would affect me.

However, following two further home assessments by paramedics, they felt my condition was serious enough to take me into hospital on the evening of January 2, when my temperature worryingly hit 40.3C — the 'red zone', something earlier paramedics had warned about.

The period between Boxing Day and my transfer to hospital was simply a living hell.

I was living hour to hour coping with the symptoms and dreaded when darkness fell. That seemed to be the worst time to cope with it.

My temperature never dropped below 38.9C for six days. My heart was racing, I suffered continuous headaches and coughing episodes I would not wish on anyone — losing my breath and trying to control the feeling of panic.

Of course, the other symptoms, like the loss of taste and smell, muscles aching, the loss of appetite and more, added to the distress.

All I felt I could do was stay hydrated and take paracetamol, as recommended by the NHS. I had also taken a course of antibiotics, although they seemed to have no affect on my condition whatsoever.

(archive pic)

On my arrival at emergency department 2 at St Mary's Hospital, I was given oxygen, was swab-tested for coronavirus, they took blood, X-rayed my chest, gave me an ECG and put me on an antibiotic drip — a whirlwind of tests in a short time.

Following about two or three disorientating hours in the bright lights and high activity of the ward, I was wheeled into the quiet of the Medical Assessment Unit (MAU), where they tried in vain to take more blood, which had pooled away from my limbs.

That was when they started me on anticoagulant injections, concerned I may develop, or had already developed, a blood clot on the lungs.

I went without water for about three hours, so it was a relief to be able to hydrate a little and a further drip was added.

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A few hours later, I was taken to the Isolation 2 ward, best known as Compton Ward, before the area was adapted for Covid patients.

It was a three-hour wait before I received any further treatment. Worryingly, my file had been mislaid between MCU and Isolation 2, according to a junior doctor, and they would not proceed until they had the test data in their hands.

I quickly realised I was on a ward full of elderly men, most of them confused by the effects of Alzheimer's and demanding all the attention of the hopelessly limited staff available during the night shift.

Jon Moreno in St Mary's Hospital.

The shouting from one was stressful enough in itself, but it often sparked a chain reaction spreading to three, sometimes four of them.

Others would simply repeat quiet, desperate pleas for help.

It was so sad to hear. As awful as I felt, I tried to calm the person in the next bed.

I also felt for the staff, who showed the patience of saints.

Just when I thought I had come to the end of my tether, I then started to get a course of treatment and more tests. A sense of positivity returned.

I had some fresh water, a little toast and some warm milk.

By early afternoon, a team of doctors visited me to talk through what they knew — that I was quite seriously ill, I was tachycardic, I had pneumonia, I had pleurisy, but they reassured me I was in exactly the right place.

A matron had taken control of the ward and things shaped up well.

Night time saw an evident staff shortage but as morning came and more staff arrived, care levels were restored. I got my medication — a steroid boost to my antibiotics and another blood and Covid test.

Having a little breakfast helped. Although I could not taste it, I felt my appetite returning slightly. Not what I expected.

I even had some lunch and I felt more positive.

But within an hour, I came back down to earth with a huge bump.

I had been pressing the alarm button, then, completely out of the blue, I suddenly lost all breath — in and out — and felt panic as I ripped off my breathing tube and pulled my drip with me into the centre of the ward.

It was all I could do to get some attention.

Several staff descended on me rapidly and, in what seemed an eternity, but which was, in reality three or four minutes, I was calmer and my breathing eventually restored.

That was possibly the most sobering few minutes of my life — when you feel totally out of control.

Thankfully, my condition stabilised over the next couple of days. I did not feel better, but I certainly did not deteriorate. I saw that levelling off as a real positive.

The day care on the ward was very efficient, considering the ongoing problems they faced, and I was getting the medication I needed, a change of sheets, decent food (the catering at St Mary's is extremely good) and even an opportunity to have a shower — a simple, but really positive change for me psychologically.

The stress of having to listen to the elderly men continually demand everything from the staff — and even compete with each other for attention — remained hard to bear, so sleep remained out of the equation.

Occasionally, I could hear the urgency of staff on the adjoining ward deal with what appeared to be a downturn in someone's condition.

I lay there wondering and hoping it was not the worst.

Day five was a huge turning point for me. The doctor decided to move me into my own room, off the ward that afternoon.

It was quiet. I had my own bathroom. For me, it was heaven sent. I slept for the first time in about 12 days. I had to be woken up for my medication.

The following day I was told I could go home. The doctor told me that what I had gone through was a 'total assault' on the body and that it would take some time to recover.

I still had pneumonia, the pain of pleurisy in my chest and had tested positive for Covid yet again, but they believed being at home was the better alternative on my road to recovery.

Leaving the hospital that evening, I expressed my deep gratitude to the staff and felt quite humble and emotional, knowing they had turned things around for me while under such huge pressures to deliver quality care in such extraordinary circumstances.

Things were not ideal some of the time, but generally the NHS staff were absolutely superb. These are people who really, deeply care, are highly professional and, yes, I believe they are still unsung heroes who do so much more than can be properly portrayed.

Yes, coming home has been a huge plus as I recover, but the after-effects of Covid have proved to be more debilitating than I dared imagine — the extreme fatigue, the wasting affect on the muscles, the damage pneumonia did to my lungs.

Building up and sticking to a basic exercise regime has been vital — walking around the garden and using steps for ten minutes to begin with, which was exhausting, to now doing a half-hour walk.

The walks are extremely tiring, but I feel more strength returning to the muscles now.

Covid clearly affects people in different ways, but one thing is for sure, one should never get blase about it — even with a vaccine on the horizon for the majority of us.

Vaccination is a race against time.

If I had to say one thing — stay sensible, take all the Covid precautions necessary and be considerate to your fellow man and the corner will surely turn soon.