I’ve never kept my medical history a secret. I was in a coma as a teenager which led to an overall decline in my wellness from then on. Seizures, blood clotting complications, and a host of other issues grew from my teenage brain stem damage, the most notable being a 12-inch blood clot, seven pulmonary embolisms, and a stroke in 2012. So, when Covid came along and we got the work from home order, I headed for the hills, because I was not taking any chances. I moved to my parent’s home in the rural Northeast Georgia Mountains, far away from the bustling city and Covid. Or so I thought.
On Christmas Eve 2020, I was taken to Habersham County Emergency Room with excruciating lower back pain. After tests, I tested positive for Covid and was diagnosed with double pneumonia. I had pulse oximetry levels of 82. For reference, a pulse ox number measures the oxygen levels in your blood. It is, quite literally, a measurement of how well you are breathing. A normal level is 95 or above and I was at 82.
I had Covid, I could not breathe, and to save my life, I was immediately put on oxygen.
Just a day after I was admitted – on Christmas morning – the first Covid patient during my stay, died. That death brought the enormity of the situation crashing down. I desperately needed comfort and my family, but I was in isolation in the Covid Unit. I had only limited contact with doctors and nurses. Beyond that, I was cut off from the world and my loved ones.
I decided to share my story on Twitter. I wanted to reach out to other Covid patients, survivors, prayers warriors, mask burners, virus deniers – anyone. I wanted to share the message that the virus was real, that is was a killer, and that I needed prayer.
The tweet was simple, but the feeling was strong. Covid had taken away my physical ability to speak as I had a nebulizer tube in my mouth, but through Twitter, I could communicate with others who were going through, or had gone through, the same experience. In a way, it gave me my voice back.
When I was lucid, I checked messages and gained encouragement. Gratefully, I was released from the hospital after seven days. I was sent home on oxygen, unable to walk or perform basic functions without assistance. Think about that for a minute – I spent seven days in the hospital, I was on oxygen, I couldn’t walk, I couldn’t take care of myself, and I was one of the lucky ones.
As my illness dragged on, I grew more adamant about sharing the seriousness of Covid. I tweeted a side-by-side photo of my face taken just days apart to show how quickly the virus can devastate a person’s body.
I promised to keep people posted on my progress as I worked with my mama and nurse to perform simple tasks. During this time, some of our CNN colleagues, including anchors Ana Cabrera and Jake Tapper, started following my story. Tapper took a real interest and started sharing my story. Hundreds (if not thousands) of people started privately messaging me. They shared their stories.
Some were in Covid units. Some wanted me to pray with them because they were scared they were dying. Some asked really human questions, like did my hair start falling out. (The answer is yes.) I felt so vulnerable posting photos but I think those pictures are what people who were struggling with Covid needed to see.
Covid affects everyone differently, but if it hits you hard, as it did me, you feel bad, you look bad, and you are terrified. You feel all alone.
I sent my final Covid tweet 68 days after I was diagnosed – the day I was given the OK to return to work from Medical Leave.
Although recovered, I still keep in touch via Twitter with many of the people who first reached out to me. We share Covid long hauler stories as so many of us still struggle with lingering issues. But mostly, and perhaps most importantly, we just say “hello” and remind each other that none of us are alone in this ongoing battle.
Wynn Westmoreland 