NEW YORK, NY: I was one of the lucky ones, and, trust me, you don’t want to get this. Battling coronavirus is an experience that will forever be etched in my mind. I had what’s considered a mild case, but even in its weakest form, this virus is brutal. Now that I’ve recovered, I’m sharing my story because I want people to take this situation seriously.

My boyfriend and I have been trying to trace our steps back to where we first came into contact with coronavirus, and we think it was the night we went out to celebrate his sister-in-law’s 40th birthday in early March. We went to a Mexican restaurant on Long Island that Friday night, and we shared lots of laughs and food. We took turns placing our straws into this mega margarita, passing it around the table.

We didn’t think anything of it at the time, of course. The news was just beginning to report the spread of COVID-19 in America, so it wasn’t exactly at the forefront of my mind. I was still living my life just as I always had—riding the train to work each day, working long hours, going out with friends and family, and, yes, sharing margaritas.

The test consisted of the doctor putting a very long cotton swab as far up my nose as possible—it felt like it went to my forehead. He sent me home with advice to take Tylenol but said there was nothing more he could do for me. He also stressed the importance of staying hydrated. On the way home, we bought whatever Tylenol we could find at the store. Finding medication, along with many other essentials, is difficult right now—which makes things extra hard for the people who really need it.

That Saturday evening was the absolute worst. My fever spiked to 101.8 degrees, and I couldn’t sleep. I was sweating profusely, and my knees, hips, and back were in excruciating pain. It was as though I had run a marathon that I never trained for. I couldn’t shake it. I lost my sense of taste and smell, which led me to over-seasoning my food in the hopes that I could taste something. It didn’t work. Then I developed stomach pain and diarrhea. Oddly enough, the dry cough I developed only arrived at the very end. My symptoms were reversed, according to most of the anecdotes I’ve heard about the novel coronavirus.

As I lay there, just trying to survive each day, my fear of having to go to an already overwhelmed hospital was palpable. I was terrified that I’d be forced to seek help and that there wouldn’t be enough doctors, nurses, ventilators, or beds to help me. I was scared that there was no cure and no vaccine. The thought of being alone, and possibly dying alone, in the hospital, weighed heavily on my thoughts. I didn’t know how much worse I was going to get, and I feared the uncertainty of it all.

My fever finally broke on Wednesday. I went to bed that night and the next morning I awoke to a perfect 98.6-degree temperature. It was such a relief. Two days later, the health department called me with the news that I’d tested positive for COVID-19. By then, I was feeling mostly back to myself again, except for a lingering dry cough.