Upon arriving at hospital, my body felt like it was no longer mine

When I first left Nation Centre in February to work from home, my then boss Mutuma Mathiu told me that all journalists who were 50 and over were at risk and couldn't work from the office.

I was in the first batch. I worked for close to five months entirely from home. Little did I know that a few months later I would be writing about the same virus, but this time as its erstwhile victim.

About the time that it was at its height and prior to going to Coptic Hospital on Ngong Road, my nights were pure hell.

I kept feeling like I was drowning, my chest had a heavy weight on it, I could hardly breathe and keeping food down, if I could eat it in the first place, was a big task.

Just to give you an idea: I normally throw a T-shirt over a vest, put on some boxer shorts and off to dreamland I go— Not this time.

Over and above my short sleeved T-shirt, I added a long sleeved one, and topped it up with a woolen jacket. Now add a bed sheet and a duvet.

I know this sounds like an overkill but even then I was shaking and would wake up at least twice in the night to wipe the sweat off— and fall back to sleep with difficulty.

My skin was paining— everywhere, and the discomfort was just too much. So when my son called Dr Laurynne at Coptic to explain how I was feeling, and the random sugar he'd done on me (which came to 23), her one question was:

"What is he still doing at home?"

And off to Kenyatta University Teaching, Referral and Research Hospital we went, but ended up stopping somewhere after a friend recommended Nairobi South. Meanwhile, as he was driving me he was also busy fending off calls for ambulance services: How did they get wind of my case? Why the sudden unnecessary efficiency?

When he reached Nairobi West, KU called and the two of them had to quickly make up their minds.

The admission was a flurry of activity for me. All I wanted was a bed to lie on, freedom from discomfort, ability to sleep (and God, please spare me from that horrible, horrible looping dream), maybe something to eat somewhere down the ladder.

I think the greatest feeling on this earth is to be of good health, to live a life devoid of pain— something money cannot buy. Nothing original, I guess, but one that I came to understand and live so well.

To quote my late mum, my body was no longer mine. It felt like it belonged to someone else.

The doctors, nurses and other frontline workers are doing a great job— this pandemic notwithstanding.

Some acts I've witnessed were so moving to say the least, but they need so much support— they are on their feet for lengthy hours, wearing uncomfortable personal protective equipment for close to 12 hours in a day, maybe more. Picture this, most of us feel suffocated for just wearing a mask in public transport, an eatery or even a supermarket.

Now imagine wearing a hazmat suit (the material is not the same, thank God, but the concept is), covering your entire body, mask and goggles.

I don't envy them, but make no mistake about it, they are the heroes and heroines of this Covid-19 war.

And if it's ever won, they'll win it for us.

Mr Mbuthia, a former Nation quality editor, is currently a consulting editor