From Midwife to Bedbound: My Long Covid Story

I got Covid age 29, in April 2020, it was pretty mild, I felt mild fatigue afterwards but managed to go back to work and continued my post as a community midwife. In June the fatigue had mounted and I started working from home but the stairs and the jobs demands meant I deteriorated further, with trips to A&E due tachycardia/hypoxic episodes where my SPO2 would drop into the 70’s.

I went off sick in August, was seen quickly by my local long covid clinic (pushing me into a big crash) and diagnosis was confirmed. I was referred to a ME/CFS clinic and had phone calls with their team who also confirmed a diagnosis of ME/CFS. I continued to push myself too hard at times but I learned caution and somehow paced myself well enough to recover back to mild by March 2021 so I went back to work.

I got pregnant with our first child in May and continued working on and off throughout pregnancy. In December 2022, my son was diagnosed with stage 4 Neuroblastoma. He was 11 months old and was very unwell. We spent 8 months of 2023 in Great Ormond Street, his treatment was gruelling, he almost died several times.

My husband continued working his 40hr job and I was mostly alone with the exception of the occasional visit from our parents. In May 2024, my husband broke down, between Jasper, our son, and his work, he was exhausted, overwhelmed and very depressed. I told him to quit his job, to care for Jasper and I would go back to work. I felt strong, I felt hopeful.

I started back on a phased return in June 2024. At first, I was superwoman, working felt so much easier than motherhood, socialising with my colleagues, caring for women in the antenatal clinic. It felt like a holiday until I increased my shifts to three days a week. The fatigue was creeping in. At times over the years I’d had this happen, and I’d managed it. It had been dealt with. I pushed along pretending all would be okay. Then I was placed on a training week, no adjustments made for my health. Five full ten hour days. I panicked, I cried, I told my seniors I couldn’t do it and the week was reduced to four days. Still too much, more than I’d done with a body screaming for rest. I caught covid again during that week. I had two months of near normalcy before it all imploded.

I deteriorated so much over that first 9 months of being sick, becoming housebound again, then bedbound. I have done multiple types of counselling for the trauma sustained during Jasper’s treatment. I’ve tried every supplement and possible treatment option available to me. I am stuck and terrified that this is my life now.

Right now I am stuck in bed listening to my now healthy four year old play downstairs whilst my husband works. I’m both sad he hasn’t come to say hello and nervous that he will because I don’t have the capacity to entertain or enjoy him right now. I want to be well, I want to be working, I want to be planning for another baby. Instead I fear that this is me now for the rest of my life. I know I have more than many, a doting husband, a safe and beautiful home, but I have no quality of life. I’m just grateful I don’t have to use a commode. Yet.