In New York, I caught coronavirus — and nobody seemed to care

I'm 21 years old with no previous health issues, but breathing felt like putting my lungs through a paper shredder

In New York City, it seems like you can only get a test if you're rich, famous or both (Getty Images)

As Covid-19 wrenched my 21-year-old lungs, all my NYU doctor said was, "I feel for you, man." When I mentioned coughing felt like my lungs were sliding through a paper shredder, he replied, "Yeah, I bet." He told me to quarantine with my girlfriend — who was sick as well — and recommended the State Health Department for testing, since he had no kits available. He ended the phone call saying high Tylenol doses “work fine.”

My mom texted: Come to Jersey. As the child of Honduran immigrants, I had expected a high-anxiety text, one that would inevitably also include YouTube links to Christian prayers. I am my mother’s youngest child and only kid who went away for college. From New York City, I reassured here: "I have classes all day and my film equipment is here. Don't worry, I’m fine.” Then I added, "I'm reading the bible before bed, too.”

The New York Health Department told us there were instructions for doctors, available on our website, for collecting specimens so LabCorp or Quest could run the tests. They took our details and offered to call if we qualified for testing. They never called. My girlfriend called her doctor. He was adamant he wasn’t testing either. We had all the symptoms for coronavirus, but it seemed like there was no way for us to find out for sure — even though my girlfriend had a condition that put her in a vulnerable group.

I tried the CDC but got nowhere. Everybody voided themselves of responsibility. Nobody knew the percentage of people infected in our area because unless you were dying, Kevin Durant, Tom Hanks or Chris Cuomo, there were no kits available. Student? Bus driver? Transit operator? Average American? Sorry, out of luck.

Covid-19 had me lying to friends and family to keep them sane. "Join our FaceTime!” people in my group chat would beg. I’d make an excuse and lie back down.

Once my voice shed its laryngitis, however, I did FaceTime someone dear to me. “Don’t you wanna hang out with me?” the unicorn on the video pleaded. “My mom said you can stay here — we’ll paint every day!” Behind the unicorn filter and thread-thin voice was my nine-year-old niece, Arieleigh, quarantined in Jersey. The unicorn wasn’t just a fun way for her to explore her creativity; it was also, she had found, an easy way for her to hide the distraught emotion on her face when she video-called with family and friends. She didn’t understand why I couldn’t — shouldn’t — travel to be with her.

As I recovered, college classes started up again online, but felt anxious every time I saw the unmotivated faces pop up each day on Zoom. I felt tired and emotionally paralyzed, so I tried to paint. It helped — my mind and body became calmer. I thought I had been through the worst of it.

Then, that evening, my temperature crept up in waves as I was painting. Thinking it was the heater, I bolted up to open a window. I felt like all the air in the world stuffed into my head. I reeled to bed, where a 103F fever delivered small flashes of hallucinations for two full days. Still, my email flooded, phone dinged, assignments flew past their due dates. My life fermented between my eyelashes every night.

A week later, I video-chatted with my doctor. “Three days after fever subsides, you're no longer contagious and become immune," he said.

"Shouldn’t you get me tested? Won’t my antibodies help others?" I asked.

"Good point," he said. "But outpatient testing is now forbidden in New York.”

He told me “the upside” was that they were testing for new cures. But who was the upside for? Future patients? Drugs companies? Politicians? On the TV, Trump was suggesting people should inject Lysol. Nothing seemed to make any sense. I didn’t try the TidePod challenge years ago, and wasn't planning to try now.

A 21-year-old with no previous health issues, I swam daily before I (presumably) caught Covid-19. Yet still it floored me. Post-recovery, I’m now frantically trying to make up for lost time in my career and my college assignments. I’ve started to wonder whether I can at least get one of the antibody tests they’re now rolling out in New York to confirm that I did have coronavirus once and for all. Come to think of it, perhaps the best way out of this mess is for me to confirm it and then enter some kind of immune system cell black market as a career backup choice. If the economy goes to hell and I can never sell my art, can I at least sell my antibodies?