“I have three little children who lost their father,” I tell [the doctor]. “Save me.”

[My translation of a letter sent to the editors of this Bergamo publication. I have not verified the source, but the symptoms and experiences match those of the woman in this Washington Post article.]

I’m a 38-year-old woman, widowed for four years, with three young children to raise.

There’s talk of the Coronavirus, the Covid-19 that hit China. “It’s too far away to get us,” I tell myself over and over again, trying to keep up an appearance of positivity. But certain thoughts and fears start stirring inside me.

The first Italian case is announced in the news, in Codogno. I’m less calm than before but continue selfishly to think about how lucky the distance is that separates Bergamo from Codogno.

Then the news comes of the first cases in Alzano Lombardo, in the province of Bergamo, in my backyard practically.

On February 26 I wake up with a fever. It had been four years since I’d gotten sick. Not now! I call emergency services and am asked to immediately distance myself from my children. I’m hoarse, I can’t taste or smell anything, my eyes burn, I have a headache and feel hazy. I’ve had a fever for two weeks but the doctor says the saturation of oxygen in my blood is good and prescribes some antibiotics.

It’s March 3, I can’t breathe right, I’m out of breath and I call 112 [Italy’s 911].

They take me to Ponte San Pietro [Hospital], my first circle of Hell. I spend the entire night on a stretcher, cold, parked in a hallway, surrounded by other sick people. The only sounds are of people coughing and moaning in fear. No one who took care of me asked if I was thirsty or had to go to the bathroom. The staff isn’t prepared, they didn’t expect this influx of people; they still don’t understand what’s happening.

I’m discharged, weakened by two weeks of fever, a difficult night and my wrists hurt from the IV. They tell me I have bronchitis, it will last five days.

A couple of days later the fever spikes to 103.4. The doctor tells me to wait for the antibiotic to take effect, but with every coughing fit, less air enters my lungs. I feel like I’m suffocating. A friend who’s come over is very worried, and calls 112. I’m afraid, I don’t want to go back to the hospital but I can’t breathe. I throw up. I cry.

I enter the Emergency Room of the hospital in Bergamo. They’re excellent here, I think, they’ll cure me. Once they’ve taken my vitals they take me to the triage in no time. IV, oxygen, they draw blood, take urine tests, an arterial-blood gas test and x-rays, and finally the coronavirus test. I’m number 425. In the chaos of doctors and nurses, one doctor comes over to me and says: “It’s Coronavirus.”

I break into tears. ”I have three little children who lost their father,” I tell him. “Save me.“

It’s March 8 and I’ve been admitted to the Respiratory Care Unit. I have an oxygen mask but the air supply isn’t enough. I’m put in a CPAP, the Minions-style bubble. They tell me my alveoli are full of fluid and this is the only way to save me for now. It squeezes my neck, I feel like I’m choking, my anxiety makes me feel like I’m being buried alive. I take Lexotan to relax.

The sensation inside the bubble is crazy. The noise is continuous, of the fan in my ears that introduces oxygen from the right and sucks out carbon dioxide to the left. I can’t make out what they’re saying to me nor can I even read their lips because everyone is wearing masks. TV and phone calls are impossible. I’m all alone, with my fears and my thoughts.

I haven’t been able to get out of bed for days, not to bathe or relieve myself. They wash me and I go in a pan. The syringes for the arterial-blood gas test are quick but painful, the Heparin in my stomach, the endless drawing of blood, the IV needle that keeps falling. I withstand it all, I need to get out as quickly as possible.

I’ve stopped counting the days. My father and mother have also been taken to the hospital. A friend is taking care of my children. Meanwhile, news of the dead is continuous:  relatives, friends, friends’ relatives. I cling to the idea that the virus is more benevolent towards women and younger people. I’m 38, I keep telling myself, I’m young. I pray to God, intensely, I’m afraid but I don’t give up.

The hospital staff is unbelievable. They run back and forth, they work tirelessly and make us feel like one big family. I’m a positive person and they give me a reason to continue being so.

My anesthetist finally arrives. He’s no-nonsense, he distracts me, calms me down. He makes me smile.

“How about a pact?” he asks.

“Right now I’d make one with the devil himself,” I tell him.

“I’m going to take this bubble off, and check your vitals, I’ll finish my rounds in the hallway and come back. If everything’s fine, we’ll keep it off for good.”

We move slowly, the straps that hold the bubble rotate under my armpits and leave marks on my skin. It hurts as if I’ve been cut, or bruised. I’m out of the bubble. The tears fall uncontrollably. Perhaps this nightmare is over.

I call my children, to calm them down. They didn’t see their father leave the hospital, imagine what they felt knowing I was in here. The fear isn’t gone, though. My mother and father are still in the hospital.

While they change my sheets I sit next to the woman in the next bed. She’s 72, alone like me, and afraid she won’t see her children and grandchildren again. She cries with dignity in her bubble, silently, without disturbing anyone, without complaining. I take her hand, we comfort each other with tenuous smiles and weak caresses. We were the unit favorites; never a complaint.

The saturation levels [rise]. I eat sitting up, surrounded by doctors and nurses  who are enthusiastic about my improvement. It’s a success, everyone’s in seventh heaven. Exhausted by the few steps I took, I go back to bed and fall asleep.

When I wake up I find a letter. The night-shift nurse thanks me for having comforted my roommate. I cry. The hospital is a parallel world. We’re like a family in here, we comfort each other so that we don’t feel alone; we fight together. My phone is full of messages from friends who offer support and I cling to each one when I reply; to get strength and be able to endure the physical and mental devastation I’m going through.

In the following days they keep lowering the external oxygen supply, my strength slowly returns and my awareness of what’s going on around me heightens. Without the bubble fan in my ears I can clearly hear the screams of panicked patients who tear off their IVs and everything else they’re attached to, the groans of pain. Every sound is a testimony of suffering. It is surreal.

The medical personnel never stop moving. They stay in their protective gear and masks all day long; they can’t change them. Taking off the uniform or mask means throwing it away and getting a new one. But there aren’t enough so for their entire shift they can’t drink, eat or go to the bathroom.

It’s March 21, my blood pressure is low but my vitals are good. I need to go home even though I’m still positive. The beds are limited and I have to make room for those who are worse off. I say goodbye to my neighbor. I feel terrible leaving her alone. I go home, back to my children. My parents are doing better too. In the hallway the nurses’ and doctors’ satisfaction lifts me up. I leave the unit.

The hospital is enormous and deserted. I feel tiny. I walk slowly, one step at a time, to the statue of Pope John XXIII. I struggle to stand, but I plant myself before it and pray. I pray for the sick, I pray for the dead, I pray for all those who are suffering. I thank our Lord and recite the Eternal Rest. I cry, I’m finally out.

Home. My friend has been an incredible help. He brought me home, took care of my children and today takes care of all of us while I’m still positive and have to stay in my room. I’m a little scared about this, but I try to keep my spirits up. It seems the worst is over.

Today, I take deep, full breaths of new air I don’t think I’d ever enjoyed before, I think back to what I’ve gone through, the fear of leaving my children, the fear of not making it and, inevitably, cry.

We have to respect the few rules being asked of us, so that we avoid the risk of getting sick. So that we respect the relentless work of the doctors, nurses and hospital staff who risk getting the virus in order to save others, who work without taking a break and don’t see their families. So that we respect all those who are forced to leave their homes and go to at work, to those jobs that bring food to the supermarkets, and medicine to hospitals and pharmacies; and other jobs that must continue because they’re needed to keep the machine that props up our country going.

This is not the common flu. We can all get it and spread it to others.

I’m a 38-year-old woman, widowed for four years, with three young children to raise.