CoVid19 tried to kill me – an adventure in the Red Zone

CoVid19 tried to kill me – an adventure in the Red Zone

into the Red Zone
there’s light ahead

Red Zone adventure

This is a hastily written narrative about my first experiences in a hospital Red Zone, hammered by CoVid-19.

Who am I? Where am I?

On April 1 my symptoms reached a breaking point. Until then for nearly a week, I’d been having nightmares, sweats, shakes and hallucinations. Nevertheless, I followed the mantra “Stay Home, Save the NHS” – it took me to the brink. Alone in lockdown, my wife watched me fade/fight. She knew I was very, very poorly. 

Even though neither of us is good at asking for help, ask she did, she contacted a local GP (family connection). It’s amazing how a stethoscope as icy as the Arctic gets your attention. My savaged lungs said ‘f*** this for a game of soldiers.’ The Red Zone wanted me.

Gotta go

Right then, waiting for an ambulance in our wee part of rural Scotland seemed like a bad idea.

‘We have to go,’ my wife said. ‘Get a warm jacket on.’

In moments I sat beside open windows in the rear of the car. In our case, a chilly gale protected the driver. On the upside, I gained a refreshing break from a high fever. Then we were there.

A fierce blast from a sporty driver’s airhorns shocked me from my dozing. Along with the blare, crazy flashing lights disorientated me. Amazingly, this event happened right beside the CoVid RedZone at ‘The Vic’ Hospital in Kirkcaldy. The turn wasn’t clear to my frazzled driver-wife. Me, I raged. If I could have bounded from the car and confronted the idiot… I’d have fallen flat on my face.

I’m glad she/he didn’t stop. We jerked out of the way as more horn and flamethrower flashes strobed the side of the hospital. Engine roaring through designer mufflers, the driver stormed off lurching on two wheels around the corner into the main entrance area, fool. No lives lost.

Into the Red Zone

A security man came over and checked my name. We said our goodbyes as a young nurse collected me. Asked to stay in the car, she couldn’t come along and when we next met, a week later, described me as a frail old man being steered into the building. Watching me hobble off, she thought she might never see me again. Poor bystander.

Inside, I don’t remember much beyond caring, interested NHS medics, all asking about timelines and symptoms. Not at my most lucid right then, my version of the facts was theirs to unravel.

The next thing I remember was being in a private room, I don’t know how I got there. At 01:50 my watch lit up as the whooshing sound of a curtain pulling around woke me. This led to another medical conversation with a Consultant. As a result, I believe a moment of lucidity and conversation persuaded a listening consultant-medic against ventilation. My uncertainty, having read reports about being ventilated, and my belief in my routine breathing practice, avoided the respirator. 

Strange new world

At around 04:00 I came too, disorientated. It felt dark, probably wasn’t. With difficulty, I climbed/rolled/pussy-footed off my bed. I saw a door and walked into a room, lights came on, big toilet, shower and hand-washing station. One hundred yards away I made out my bed. Was this 2001, where the old man is in another dimension? I needed to know. I found a door and opening it, a corridor as long as a Heathrow runway. Miles away a nurses station, soft light and quiet. Then I remembered. Safe.

After exploring, I needed a wash. Two towels enticed me. After a bit of a palaver, I stood naked by the shower. It worked fine. In moments I washed and swirled and staggered about grabbing safety poles and hand-holds like a gymnast. I hope a vision of a stark-naked, wrinkly isn’t too much, or too exciting, for you. 

I quickly learned that being stood on one foot inserting a wet leg into pyjamas is a dangerous manoeuvre; especially alone, at around 04:30 in the morning, with no help to hand. Still, I made it.

Disorientation a go-go

Next, I don’t know how, but I found myself back on the bed; then a few delirious episodes, and then there’s another medic.

‘I’m confused.’

‘You’ve been quite disoriented.’

Now I receive more diagnostic, feedback information. My state of mind is fluid, interested, somewhat there. I’ll do my best. Good news, in particular, is a megadose of antibiotics coming my way to tackle secondary infections.

It transpires that my blood oxygen is a problem too. To begin with, there are the benefits of sitting on a straight-back chair… a lot; it gets the lungs hanging properly. As a result, I decide I’m going to do it forever until my blood-oxygen level is sorted.


Some medics are researching different types of medication that’ll work for CoVid19 patients as quickly as possible. Naturally enough, I volunteer for a project, Oxford-based they said. I hope my data helped. I later discover that the Dexamethasone given to me will have been a great help with my blood-oxygen recovery.

Moving Forward

Knowing what day it is isn’t a strong point of my journey early on. At the start, I was very weak. Still, I struggled into the straight-back chair often, using a rather shaky technique which gradually improved. Meanwhile, I learned ways of making the seat-experience bearable. If you’re ever in the situation, lay a pillow on the standard wheeled table by your bed, adjust the height, level your elbows to a comfortable place and rest your weary head.

The following days’ showers followed the same routine, two rough towels and a spot of pole dancing. They moved me to another room. By the way, if you need a stable world, sorry friend, this isn’t it, just go with the flow and let the hippy-within have a relaxed trip. Our NHS folk need cooperation. They call it, you do it.

By now, I was attached to an O2 (oxygen) line. I learned I’d have to wean off it or I couldn’t go home. More day of wobbling into/out of my seat. Needles come, needles go. The nights are fucking hard, there’s no real sleep available, just delirium and non-existing worlds, but part of me knows, remembers, and that anchors reality.

Big Mask

My O2 (oxygen) stays problematic. Single-mindedly, I work on sitting and breathing. Naturally enough, I cough for Scotland. It’s hard work on the incremental fight forever deeper breaths. Being human, I sometimes chicken out, it’s hard, often harsh coughing-work, but someone (me) has to do it. Blood-oxygen becomes my main focus. A big mask is a sign my blood-oxygen-level is bad. I persevere and around four/five days in, the mask shrinks. They didn’t boil it, it’s simple progress, my blood-oxygen is improving. 

Next day they put me back on the cannula and reduced the O2 level. Disconnecting from the wall supply and carrying an O2 cylinder to the loo breaks up your day. Of course, taking lots of water adds trips. The day after the cannula, they took the oxygen away. I had another short FaceTime with my wee granddaughters. The fun figuring out what had changed – no mask! What motivation. I never looked back.


The porridge in my Red Zone was world-class. Of course, the food varies and, early on, my appetite was long-gone. I found ways to eat as it’s essential. Milk, fruit, bananas, rice crispies (don’t ask), fresh sandwiches (not Subway, but fresh as in soft bread and basic fillings). Along the way, a divine Chicken Korma reminded me of the outside world, talk about a magnet.

Set Back – too much of a Good Thing

In the early days, I was advised to take lots of water as my urine was a dark, dark colour. If you’re into burnt orange, you’re not even close. Working diligently, I soon became the hydration-king or should I say over-hydration-king. My sodium washed away, and as a result, another mission, drink less. My sodium recovered over the next eighteen hours. 


Right at the heart of the healing matter is a vast, committed organisation. Our NHS is a long-suffering political football. On my journey I watched clinicians scheming to cope with a lack of just about everything. In the midst of it all, they must support a seething brew of demanding, scared, fading, strengthening humanity who expect to be nurtured and healed. 

I watched PPE visors arrive but not still enough to go around. I met doctors who weren’t properly equipped marching, willingly, into risk… let’s be straight, facing death.

My last ward is a colorectal surgical ward. All the surgeons and staff embraced new skills, norms and training. They made it happen. Enough, and not nearly enough, said. Thanks to their diligence, I survived.

Not Political

This isn’t a political piece, but our leaders deserve a mention. After Austerity and the lies, half-truths, threats, ideology, incompetence, intelligence-insulting, I can only say shame on them all. If our government worked like the NHS we’d be a much better country for it.

Any CoVid19 success is down to the people who cared for me, all of them; from the balletic old man swabbing the floors with lithe grace; to a young doctor who sat on the floor, holding my arm like a baby as she took blood samples; to consultants studying my chest x-rays. My survival is down to all of them, and their massive, unstoppable commitment and resolve.

Whatever the evidence of political stupidity, it all boils down to one thing, people are more important than money. The proper provisioning, funding and de-politicisation of the NHS is a constitutional need. Citizens can deny Westminster control. It must be enshrined in law. Fund it, keep it funded, stop tinkering and block the pompous, dishonest political shenanigans.


In the ward, during my last few days, I met a few very sick people. I suspect one may be dead already – they took him away. Another wasn’t cooperating about food or O2. He was unconscious most of the time I was there. When he awoke he was angry and huffy. One time when his wife called he cried and a nurse hugged him like a toddler, her blue-gloved thumb stroking the back of his hand.

A brave young policeman had a couple of awful episodes – talk about pain. He toughed it out. We talked and connected. It’s the old story, share a rough journey, chat and bond. I promised to have him in my thoughts and a day later I left him there, brave and a wee bit scared. (He made it out next day – I tracked him down.)

One guy did go home. Good luck wherever he is.

There’s one I won’t mention.

Did he escape?

A wee story threads through my experience. It involves human moments, challenging talks about O2 and finally sodium (dehydrated I wasn’t).

A pleasant doctor became my blood taker-in-chief. Only my last morning, she told me, ‘Your sodium is improving. I’m going to ask my Consultant’s permission to send you home, but you mustn’t be disappointed if she says no.’ A couple of hours later, cocooned in safety kit, she danced towards me, I knew. Our eyes met. ‘You’re going home.’

‘Thanks, doc.’ There aren’t enough words in English to say thank you properly. I saw her smile through her facemask. 

Exactly 10 hours later I walked into my house eight days after leaving it with Death close on my heels. That is eight days after walking into the Red Zone with a scary high fever, CoVid19 and the small matter of severe viral pneumonia.

The woman who watched me stagger like an old man into the Red Zone and I sat opposite each other that first night home. We reminisced, we laughed, we may have wept. Above all, we were together and had a good day.

Key Points for Survivors

  1. Listen
  2. Cooperate and do as you’re asked
  3. Don’t throw strops, you’re dealing with tired people who care enough to give themselves to your care, yes, risk their lives for you. 

As for the Partygoers and Anti-“lockdowners”

I get your need to party. No criticism. We all need fun, but timing and method are worth a thought. Please spare me it’s my body, my freedom, crap. If you get it or pass it on, you’ll expect care and treatment. What’s more, you’ll be scared. If you get it really bad, you’ll be dependent. You might even die. It’s other peoples’ bodies too and many on the line caring for humans like you. 

My logic goes like this: imagine you’re at a party or somewhere sociable … You bump a few people, friends, family. The mood is great. You love the fun, banter, booze and food. What you don’t see is the COVID19 serpent wriggling onto and into you. Over a few days, you infect people. You stroke your granny’s arm – you love her so much. She smiles, delighted, and squeezes your hand. A few days after that she makes her trip to the Red Zone. She doesn’t come back. Much younger, you have a minor dose. What price a party?

My Tune?

When I got to the end, I cried. Something to do with tired.


© Mac Logan

This Post Has 7 Comments

  1. Pauline McGee

    Mac……………………………Be well and thank god for all your wonderful family and the NHS for taking top care of you. Big love my friend and on my mind xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx

    1. admin

      Thanks Pauline, we’ll have time to pursue our muse. Bless you both.

  2. Elizabeth Bart-Smith

    No words Mac. Just thankful you’re OK. Take care both.

    1. admin

      Thanks Liz. Lunch one day, when the dust settles. I’ll be a while recovering, but I’m here!