On April 2, Detroit fireman Najuma Fulton sat on his couch in Warren crying, struggling to breathe, terrified and alone.

His house was normally filled with family and activity. His "75-year-young" mother lived with Fulton, his wife and their 5-year-old daughter.

But his mother had died from complications from COVID-19 just days earlier, his wife was hospitalized with the virus, and his little daughter was at his in-laws to protect her from the virus. Soon his long-time boss would die and his co-worker's 5-year-old daughter also would be dead, both from coronavirus.

At age 40 and with asthma, Fulton had tested positive for COVID-19. He figured it was his death sentence, too.

"I’d be lying if I told you I held it together 100%. I thought it was over," Fulton said. "A couple times I called my best friend. I couldn’t breathe. He had to talk to me and calm me down. I kept asking, 'What happens if my wife gets home and finds me dead? I don’t want to die.' "

Fulton and the 1,200 employees in the Detroit Fire Department have been hit hard by coronavirus with 80 of them quarantined for coronavirus-like symptoms, 68 of whom have tested positive for COVID-19. One, Captain Franklin Williams, 58, died from it, said Eric Jones, Detroit Fire Department executive fire commissioner.

In Michigan, there are 35,291 coronavirus cases, deaths from it totaled 2,977 as of Thursday.

"The entire department is affected and everyone has been impacted. Some, more tragically, than others," Jones said. "(Najuma) is representative of so many others in the department. This thing is hitting everyone."

More:1st Detroit firefighter, fire captain Franklin Williams, dies from coronavirus

More:Detroit girl, 5, dies of COVID-19. She's Michigan's youngest victim

Broken bones and blood

Fulton, who became a fire prevention inspector lieutenant last summer, has been a Detroit firefighter for 20 years. At 6-foot-4, he looks formidable, but to friends such as Karen Gilbert, he is a "huge teddy-bear type guy."

He works at the Detroit Public Safety headquarters downtown now, but for the last seven years, Fulton fought fires out of one of the busiest houses in the city: Engine 44, Ladder 18 at 7 Mile Road and John R Street.

It's a firehouse that Fulton describes as "old-school busy, a lot more fires and a lot more exposure" than Engine 5, Ladder 20, Squad 2 at Cass Avenue and Alexandrine Street, where he served from 2006 to 2012.

"My last seven years ... there were many a night when I saw the sun come up on the roof of the house," after fighting fires all night, Fulton said.

He's seen every kind of fire the Motor City has to offer, Fulton said. From big ones where the roof, floor or entire building collapsed around him. To small ones, some involving chemicals, that made them even more dangerous than the big blazes.

"I’ve fallen off roofs and fallen through floors … I’ve broken bones, I’ve bled for the fire department," Fulton said. "I’ve battled chemical spills and overturned tankers.”

But to Fulton none of that compares to the coronavirus.

"Having COVID-19 is worse. That’s the simplest way I can put it," Fulton said. "How can you fight an enemy you can’t see? At least with fire you can see it, you can hear the potential creaks in the floor to know the floor is going to give away or the ceiling is going to give. You can’t gauge this because it affects every person differently. It’s very scary.”

'You don't want to fight?'

Fulton tested positive for COVID-19 on March 26.

But ten days earlier, his mother, Josephine Sampson, would come down with it first. Sampson had been the picture of health and an energetic volunteer at Gleaners Community Food Bank. But on St. Patrick's Day, she complained to her son of a "tickle in her throat" and asked him to pick up some cough medicine on his way home from work.

Over the next three days the tickle escalated to a severe cough and fatigue overtook her usually buoyant spirit, he said.

"We took her to urgent care on March 21 and she had a fever of 103," Fulton said. "They transferred her to Beaumont Royal Oak where they gave her a test for COVID-19 and it came back positive."

Fulton was not too worried initially because his mother's only underlying health issue was high cholesterol. Doctors released her that day, sending her home with Tylenol for her fever, Fulton said. But by March 24, her fever spiked back to 103 and she was going in and out of consciousness. Fulton called 911 and she was taken to Ascension Macomb-Oakland Hospital in Warren, he said.

Two days later, hospital personnel called Fulton at 4 a.m.

"They said, 'Your mom is having problems breathing and we called for respiratory.' They asked me, 'If anything goes wrong, do you want us to resuscitate her?' I said, 'Yes.' But later the doctor told me that my mom told him, 'No.' "

Fulton asked to speak to his mother, "I said, 'You don’t want to fight anymore, mom?' She said, ‘I’m just tired.’ So I had to respect her wishes."

At 1:05 that afternoon, Sampson died. Fulton pauses at this point in his story, then speaks quietly, almost to himself, about how his mother's passing changed his life.

"We were so close," Fulton said. "It feels like I have to learn to live again. I don’t know what to do. What was so hard was that I couldn’t even see her in the hospital.”

'Automatic death sentence'

On top of this emotional pain, Fulton was battling his own physical ailments. He had developed a cough, mild fever and fatigue during his mother's hospital stay. He learned he tested positive for COVID-19 the same day his mother died.

To treat it, his physician prescribed the one thing Fulton was in short supply of: equanimity.

“The doctor said, 'I know you have asthma and you just lost your mom, but you have to remain even keel,' because anything that upsets me could trigger my asthma," Fulton said. "I thought it was an automatic death sentence. They told me to go home and stay calm and if I have to use my asthma inhaler, do so, but if I can’t breathe to call the hospital.”

He remained sanguine by leaning on his five closest friends or as he calls them, "My brothers. I blew their phones up.”

Fulton's three siblings — two brothers and one sister — planned their mother's funeral. The visitation was April 5 with a small, private funeral the next day.

“I was able to go, but I couldn’t participate with the rest of the family because I was sick," Fulton said. "The funeral director let me view my mom though."

Sampson was buried, but Fulton said his family is still waiting for the doctors to sign off on the death certificate, adding, "To my understanding, they're backed up."

'Find every golf course'

Meanwhile, Fulton's wife, Marsha, had been caring for him after he tested positive. Soon she developed a cough and extreme body aches. On April 2, she too tested positive for COVID-19. She had a high fever and breathing difficulty so she was admitted to the hospital for two days. She's since recovered and returned to work.

Others in Fulton's life were not as fortunate. His long-time boss, Captain Franklin Williams, died of COVID-19 complications on April 8. The news hit Fulton hard.

"I last saw him on March 23 and we talked and we were all at the firehouse," Fulton said. "He said, 'We’ve got gloves and masks.' I said, 'Be careful, this is looking bad and it’s not just the flu.'"

Fulton said he and his former captain also joked a lot.

"He was about to retire and he loved to golf," Fulton said. "He said he was going to find every golf course in the state."

He pauses, and added, "Frank was one of the strongest guys I ever did see. He could tear through a wall like any young guy and he didn’t have any underlying illnesses."

Detroit fire department's Eric Jones said Williams was beloved by many in the department. There will be a memorial for him.

"We want to do a procession to celebrate his life, with the fire rigs," said Jones. "It will be on the other side of the emergency order when we can have large gatherings again."

Making sense of tragedy

Williams' death and Fulton's grief for his mother overwhelmed Fulton, yet the virus still wasn't done with him.

On Sunday, he would learn two of his colleagues lost a child to the pathogen. Skylar Herbert, 5, became the youngest person in the state to die with the virus. The child's older brother, Antjuan Herbert, and father, Ebbie Herbert, are both firefighters. Fulton had worked in the same fire house with the little girl's brother and had fought fires in the past with Ebbie Herbert.

“I never thought, in 2020, anything like this could come across and wipe out so many people in such a short amount of time," Fulton said. “We talk a lot, a lot of the firefighters. We deal with tragedy on a daily basis and we understand it. But when it hits close, it’s a different ball game. It takes the wind out of your sails.”

Fulton is mostly recovered from his fever, aches and extreme exhaustion he experienced from the coronavirus. But his cough persists, “It usually happens in the morning and it’s a deep coughing spell and your chest hurts.”

He cannot return to work until he’s symptom-free for 72 hours, he said. And, he misses his 5-year-old daughter, Ka'Miya. He has not seen her in person for more than a month. But she is healthy, and for that he is grateful.

When he returns to the job, Fulton ponders what the new world will look like. The Fire Department's Jones said the workforce will continue doing business as usual.

"There won’t be any social distancing for us," said Jones. "We have to respond and get in there and deal with the situation and make sure everyone is protective because we’re on the front lines. That’s not going to change.”

Fulton agrees and said it frustrates him that some people are not taking coronavirus as seriously as they should by social distancing and sheltering in place.

"It hurts us because we’re the ones who first respond to the calls," Fulton said.

Despite the danger and the toll this virus took on Fulton's life, he is steadfast in his commitment to serve.

"I’m a people person and I’ve interacted with the public for 20 years now. I can’t say I’m going to stop interacting with the public," Fulton said. "People rely on me for help and assistance and I have to be there to give it to them.”

Contact Jamie L. LaReau at 313-222-2149 or jlareau@freepress.com. Follow her on Twitter @jlareauan. Read more on General Motors and sign up for our autos newsletter.