'I Almost Died. It Was the Best Thing That Ever Happened to Me'

As the world responded to the spread of COVID, I thought: I'm in great shape. I'm only 44 and I'm strong. I'll be fine; let's just get it over with.

On June 22, 2020, our entire extended family of 14 was getting ready to leave on a trip to Colorado. Before leaving, and although none of us had any symptoms, we did the responsible thing and went in for a COVID test. Surprisingly, although she was asymptomatic, my wife Stephanie's test came back positive.

Meanwhile, that very morning, I went into work—my background is in cardiology and I'm the CEO of a primary care provider—and was bragging to my assistant about what great shape I was in. I'd had knee surgery about a year before, but I had worked my way back into triathlon-competing race condition. The pandemic had inspired me to take my training to the next level. My swimming and biking speeds were right where I wanted them to be for a race.

But, as it says in the Bible, haughtiness goes before the fall. That night, my temperature climbed to 103 degrees. For the next four or five days, I ran a fever and felt much worse than I ever had with a case of the flu. It was a confirmed case of COVID. After that fourth or fifth day, I felt much better, and I thought the worst of it was over. I was wrong.

Complications with COVID

That very night, my fever came back with a vengeance. My second phase of COVID was even worse than the first.

After three more days of running a fever well over 100, Stephanie asked, "Chris, how many days can you have a fever like this?"

"Not too many," was about all I could muster. It was time to go to the emergency room.

Because of our strong relationship with our local hospital, I was able to go in the back door. I was so weak, someone had to bring out a wheelchair and wheel me into a private room.

I didn't have to wait long for them to check my oxygen levels. I know how to read those things and was happy to see my numbers were not too bad. So, I was confused when the emergency room doctor wanted to order a CAT scan. I thought I would be going home soon, but he informed me I was breathing incredibly fast—more than 22 times per minute.

I hadn't even noticed how much of a struggle it was for me to breathe—maybe because of all my endurance training. I'm used to sucking it up and enduring any discomfort when I work out.

I tried to argue with the doctor that the extra tests were unnecessary. Finally, he got through to me with this: "Chris, you need to be a patient." Doctors are notorious for being the worst patients, but I reluctantly agreed.

The doctor ran a CAT scan and my team of doctors and nurses freaked out because they realized the seriousness of the situation. You could see that I had pneumonia in all five lobes of my lungs. Being in race-shape probably saved my life, but it had also masked the severe state I was in.

The doctors and nurses immediately began loading me up on every therapy they could find. The problem was that two of the key therapies they wanted to use—plasma and Remdesivir—weren't available.

My time in ICU

I realized that I was only a few quick, shallow breaths away from going on a ventilator. My medical degree and all my swimming, cycling, and HIIT workouts couldn't help me. I was admitted into the intensive care unit.

Before this happened, I was naïve about life on the other side of the ICU glass. As a doctor, I had conducted countless blood gas test procedures but had never had one done to me. I had never known the feeling of being strapped down and prodded every few hours for blood tests and injections. While I knew the jumble of cords and wires coming out of my patients made it hard for them to move, I now feel foolish suggesting that they "try to get some sleep."

I knew how to treat ICU patients but I had no idea what it was like to be one. And when you're an ICU patient with COVID, it feels like dying in solitary confinement.

A feeling of despondency overcame me. Then the questions began: Am I going to be a statistic? Will Stephanie no longer have a husband? Will our children be fatherless? Who will take care of them? I imagined not having a funeral and what that would do to my parents.

Deep sadness overwhelmed me as I thought about not being able to let Stephanie know how much I love her, or to hug my children one last time. That was all I cared about as I lay in that hospital bed.

Over the next 36 hours, my condition showed no improvement. I felt like I was staring into a dark tunnel—standing alone on the train tracks without my family, or any human contact, for that matter. Sure, the doctors would review my numbers and call on the phone to speak with me. Nurses would come in frequently, but fully-gowned and only for two minutes or less. I was alone and I was lonely.

The nights were the worst. That's when the fevers were the highest and my breathing the most labored. I felt like I was wasting away: covered in sweat, unable to bathe or shower, tied down by cords, and trying to breathe. I felt totally helpless and totally useless. And this had all happened in just one horrific week.

I was watching my numbers go in the wrong direction, and I knew very clearly what they meant, the story they were telling. Sometimes it's better not to know.

Recovery

One night, after about a week in the hospital, and as my condition continued to worsen, an ICU nurse, Helen, showed up for her night shift.

On this night, my condition was at its worst. I fell asleep, but every hour or so Helen would open the door and yell, "Chris, c'mon, you've got to breathe. Breathe for me."

I knew what she was doing, so I would take a few faster breaths and then the alarm would stop. If I didn't continue to breathe on my own, I would be put on a ventilator—and from that point, I knew my mortality rate would increase dramatically. I believe Helen kept me alive that night.

Around 3:00 a.m. Helen came in again. When I heard her voice, I was already well-trained. As I took my faster breaths, Helen said, "Chris, your plasma and Remdesivir has arrived. I'm going to get it."

The plasma wasn't supposed to get there for a couple more days. All I could say was, "Praise God." This was my first glimmer of hope. I received the plasma as the shift changed in the morning. "Thank you, Helen, for getting me through last night," I said as she left.

After close to 10 days of fevers, my temperature returned to normal. My breathing stabilized. That afternoon, I began to feel better. I was moved to a chair. After a few more fever-free days, I was ready to go home.

As the nurse wheeled me out of my ICU room, I looked around. The hall was reserved for COVID patients. When I had arrived, more than half the rooms had been empty. That day, the rooms were full and many of the occupants were on ventilators. I knew the statistics of the time—only half of those who required ventilators would ever leave the hospital. I asked the nurse to stop so I could pray for my fellow COVID brothers and sisters.

Ask anybody who knows me—I am not an emotional person. But in that moment, I was overcome. For the first time since entering the ICU, I realized I would still be a husband, father, brother, son and doctor. The realization that God would allow me to continue in these roles overwhelmed me. It was the greatest blessing.

My recovery was extremely slow. Each day, I thought, Could I live like this? Only able to walk five steps? But if it meant I could be with my wife and my kids, I knew I could live like that. The next day, I took 20 steps. And I knew I could live like that, too.

As strange as it may sound, this was perhaps the best thing that ever happened to me. To have everything taken away from me, stripped down to nothing in a week's time, and then, over a period of three months, gradually getting one thing back each day, I came to appreciate each one of my many blessings as the gifts they are and how valuable and precious they are to me.

Dr. Chris Chen is a doctor and CEO at ChenMed. He is also the co-author of The Calling: A Memoir of Family, Faith, and the Future of Healthcare.

All views expressed in this article are the author's own.

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