I’m 26. I don’t have any prior autoimmune or respiratory conditions. I work out six times a week, and abstain from cigarettes. I thought my role in the current health crisis would be as an ally to the elderly and compromised. Then, I was hospitalized for Covid-19.

On Friday, March 13, only a few hours after deciding I would begin to socially distance for the well-being of others, I developed a fever and headache. I tried not to assume the worst, but just in case, my partner and I decided to sleep in separate bedrooms. By the next morning, I had a cough. On Sunday, I started to feel better and my fever was gone. I felt thankful that even if this was coronavirus, I’d most likely be able to ride it out at home, as I’d heard people like myself had little to worry about. I began planning the work I’d catch up on the next day, and the much-needed shower I’d take.

That night I woke up in the middle of the night with chills, vomiting, and shortness of breath. By Monday, I could barely speak more than a few words without feeling like I was gasping for air. I couldn’t walk to the bathroom without panting as if I’d run a mile. On Monday evening, I tried to eat, but found I couldn’t get enough oxygen while doing so. Any task that was at all anxiety-producing — even resetting my MyChart password to communicate with my doctor — left me desperate for oxygen.

There were many reasons that I didn’t want to go to the hospital. When I’d called 311 earlier in the weekend to inquire about a test, I was told people with Covid-19 symptoms must stay home. I’d read this same advice elsewhere, and wanted to do everything possible to prevent spreading the virus if I had it. I also was wary of taking doctors’ attention and hospital resources away from more vulnerable populations who might need them. Finally, I feared that if this wasn’t Covid-19, going to the hospital could expose me to the virus. Ultimately, even with my serious trouble breathing, a part of me believed I would be fine, since I was young and otherwise healthy.