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My very first memory upon waking up was hearing Debbie's voice on the phone. I was very confused. I thought I was still in Los Angeles, not Fresno. I didn't know who Debbie was, I

didn't know where I was and I didn't remember that I had COVID-19. It also turns out I'd had a small stroke on the ventilator, which may also have impacted my memory. Everyone

just assumes that when you're taken off the ventilator after COVID-19, that's it, and you can go home. The truth is the recovery is brutal. I couldn't walk or stand, and my

arms were like rubber. I'd lost so much weight that one of the male nurses could easily pick me up and carry me when I had to go to the bathroom. I stayed in the hospital for two weeks,

and then spent two weeks at rehab, where the only time I could see my wife was to wave at her through a glass window. It was so painful to see how hard it was for her. She later told me

that when I was admitted, all she wanted to do is camp out in the parking lot of Kaiser Permanente, but because she'd been exposed to the virus she had to quarantine for two weeks at

home. When I finally did go home, I was greeted by a surprise homecoming car parade where I got to see my four daughters and two sons, 24 grandchildren and two great-grandkids from a

distance. But my recovery hasn't been easy. Debbie and I walk every day, and I return to Kaiser for physical and occupational therapy twice a week. I'm still recovering from nerve

damage in my hands that I got from lying on the ventilator in the ICU. People think this is a disease that affects only people who are at high risk for the disease, but up until this

I've always been very active and healthy. I rarely even caught a cold, but this took over my lungs like a tornado. It could happen to anyone. Wear your masks. JUDITH HUNT, 80, NEW YORK

CITY _"THIS IS NOT THE FLU. THIS IS SOMETHING THAT WANTS TO KILL YOU."_ When I was wheeled out of Mount Sinai Morningside Hospital in New York City on July 7, it was my first time

being released from either a hospital or rehab center in over six months. I had been admitted there at the end of January, when I fell and broke my right hip and femur. During my stay, tests

revealed I had both an aortic aneurysm and small bowel obstruction, and required surgery for both. I was in the hospital still recuperating at the end of March when I developed a high fever

and respiratory distress. On March 23, I was diagnosed with COVID-19. It's still a mystery as to how I became infected. Everyone always asks me what it was like during that time. But

my memory is pretty foggy. I told my nurse I was fine, only to walk out of the bathroom coughing and wheezing saying, “Please do not let me die” a day later. Every breath was pure agony, and

I didn't know if I'd be able to draw another one. I remember hearing voices saying, “We need to put her on a ventilator” and thinking, Oh, good, I won't have to worry about

breathing, before drifting off to sleep. When I woke up, the ventilator must have been put in, which was necessary but god-awful. I couldn't hear or speak, and felt like a turtle on its

back in the hot sun. When I had enough strength at times to force my voice out, I sounded like a robot. On April 9, the ICU ran out of space and I was sent to a nursing home. At Mount

Sinai, every single doctor, nurse, nurse's aide and housekeeping staffer were the most wonderful creatures God ever created. I had the most fabulous care — I couldn't have been

treated better if I were a precious jewel. I never felt like just another patient in bed number 17. One of the nurses would talk to me and tell me to remember a happier time, when I

traveled, to take my mind off of things. But at the nursing home, it was weird. People would come to the door and I'd try to motion them in, since I couldn't speak due to the

ventilator, and they would turn around and scurry away. Later that month, I developed kidney failure and was sent back to the hospital, where I then came down with sepsis. It was like the

hits just kept coming, one after the other. When I got sent back to the ICU, I got a standing ovation from the entire staff. Finally, after a shorter spell on a trach tube, I was able to

breathe on my own. But I still had weeks of recovery in front of me. At one point, it took three people to move me to the edge of the bed and help me stand up and take two steps. I began to

have three hours of physical and occupational therapy every day, because I couldn't even do simple everyday activities like climbing stairs or putting on socks. I slowly made progress,

until I could finally walk about 200 feet unassisted. When I left the hospital in a wheelchair on July 7, the entire hallway was lined with my team of therapists. Each one gave me a piece of

paper with a different challenge I'd overcome — like sepsis — and I'd tear it up. At the end, they decorated my wheelchair with a balloon and sparkling garland. When I got home, I

bawled like a baby. Now I'm back home with my elderly cat. My brother flew in from St. Louis for a few days, and I have an aide who comes a couple times a week to check on me. I also

will keep doing physical and occupational therapy at home. The only time I leave my apartment is to work with my physical therapist outdoors. I see photos of people out at lakes, parties and

bars, and I'm incredulous. This is not the flu. This is something that wants to kill you. It saps your strength and makes you feel like you prefer to die. This disease is such an

unknown quantity. I cannot understand why anyone would refuse to wear a mask. It's a pandemic!