Alex Wheatley had gotten his orders: Report to the front lines of the COVID-19 pandemic in a uniquely exposed role.

A nurse anesthetist at Ochsner Medical Center, the operations Wheatley typically worked — putting patients to sleep for procedures ranging from back surgeries to colonoscopies — were canceled last month as the Jefferson hospital funneled personnel to the fight against the deadly respiratory disease.

Wheatley, 33, would instead work 12-hour, overnight shifts in an intensive care unit, directly caring for COVID-19 patients who needed tubes forced down their throats so they could be linked to the ventilators that would try to keep them alive.

He protected himself as well as he could, donning gloves, a gown, a surgical cap, a mask that filters out 95% of liquid and particles, and a transparent face shield.

Yet health care providers on the front line are especially vulnerable and while specific numbers are not available, anecdotal evidence suggests many have themselves been infected.

Five days after his second ICU shift, Wheatley developed the telltale symptoms: fever, body aches and the loss of smell and taste.

A test (it later showed positive) and isolation followed. It was a hellish time, made only a little better with Pedialyte, cold medications, and his mom’s chicken noodle soup.

Wheatley has since returned to the job. His tale, though, vividly illustrates how medical workers worldwide have veered far out of their comfort zones — often at great personal risk — to help combat a potent, unfamiliar foe.

“I can’t let down my coworkers,” Wheatley said. “My patients need me.”

During intubation, patients' mouths can create an infectious mist that makes those in Wheatley’s line of work particularly vulnerable to coronavirus, which as of Friday had killed more than 750 people across Louisiana, according to state officials.

Nurse anesthetists like Wheatley, and the anesthesiologists working with them, armor themselves in protective gear because they often are mere inches from the mouths of sedated patients.

Wheatley’s duties in the ICU have also involved going into the rooms of some of the most severely sick patients to manage the ventilators, adjusting the machines providing them various medications or even turning them over on their stomachs so they can breathe better.

The social distancing that officials implore the public to observe isn’t an option for Wheatley and others working with the pandemic’s sickest patients. They try to minimize the risks through their protective equipment, with which Wheatley said he’s been adequately supplied.

But it’s impossible to eliminate risk in the ICU.

Wheatley isn’t sure precisely when or where he was infected. However, on average, people with COVID-19 exhibit symptoms — often a fever and exhaustion — within five days. And it was five days after his last shift when Wheatley felt unusually exhausted.

“I hoped it was me just adjusting to working overnight,” he said.

But his fever and the positive test told him it wasn't just exhaustion from long work shifts.

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A healthy, muscular man, Wheatley knew his odds of survival were good. He had been a champion swimmer at Jesuit High School. And he had stayed in shape through college and nursing school at LSU, competing in grueling Ironman competitions over the years.

Still, loved ones were alarmed when he shared the news. What if he was a tragic exception, as others who are young and fit have been?

“Your head still goes there,” his brother, Cullen, said. “That’s hard to get over.”

Alex’s circle sprung into action as he tried to ride out the storm alone at home.

His mom, Trish, who was an operating room nurse for 40 years, whipped up a massive pot of chicken noodle soup. His dad, Bruce, helped her package it up and bring it to their son’s house. They left that and other provisions on his driveway, backing up to a safe distance and then calling him to come get it.

When Alex emerged, Trish and Bruce Wheatley had to stifle the urge to embrace the son who would come over multiple times a week before the pandemic.

“We just told him we loved him,” Trish Wheatley said. “And anything he needed, we were there.”

Lifelong friends cooked him shrimp pasta and other meals. He couldn’t taste the food. Nonetheless, he appreciated the way his friends were feeding his soul.

“I’m not fighting this alone,” Wheatley recalled thinking.

He mostly slept throughout the four days when the chills, aches, nausea and dry cough were most pronounced. He chugged Pedialyte and Gatorade, desperately fending off dehydration. He treated his fever and cough with Tylenol-infused cold medicine.

He provided updates to friends and family via texts and phone calls.

Gradually, the storm passed. His fever vanished by day five. The other symptoms dissipated later.

The thought of taking some extra time to recover didn’t cross his mind. Instead, he quickly asked for permission to return to his colleagues and patients.

Ochsner granted him his wish. By Friday, he’d put in three, 12-hour shifts since April 4.

Public health experts are still uncertain over whether antibodies of people who recover from COVID-19 completely shield them from reinfection. Wheatley said he behaves as if he can contract the disease and transmit it to someone else.

But he's willing to put up with the inherent risks of what he considers his life's purpose.

“I felt pretty useless at home,” Wheatley said. “I’m glad I’m back.”