The Virus That Stole My Breath—Twice

I never imagined a virus could push me so close to the edge.

It started subtly last year — an itch in the throat, a few sneezes, and a persistent fatigue that I attributed to overwork or aging. I remember thinking, “Well, here comes another cold.”

But within days, that “cold” escalated into something much more serious.

My first encounter with RSV — Respiratory Syncytial Virus — wasn’t gentle. It was more like a sudden attack, as if something had stealthily entered my chest overnight and decided to take residence. Even after receiving the RSV vaccine a few months earlier, prompted by reports of rising adult cases, it didn’t fully protect me. Perhaps it eased the severity, but the impact was still devastating.

It began with a dry, persistent cough, the kind that wracks your entire torso and steals your breath. My chest burned with every inhale, like breathing through smoke. But the absolute terror hit on the fourth day — I awoke drenched in sweat, gasping like a man pulled from deep water. My heart raced erratically, pounding like it was trying to punch through my ribcage. I was dizzy, disoriented, and weak. So weak I could barely stand. I remember crawling — not walking — to the kitchen to get a glass of water, gripping the counter for support like a child learning to walk. The fever surged above 103°F that night.

My thoughts became tangled in fog. Time slowed down. My surroundings blurred at the edges. I wasn’t hallucinating — at least I believe I wasn’t — but I wasn’t fully present in reality. The RSV-induced fatigue was overwhelming: it invaded my muscles, my mind, and even my spirit. I felt like I was decaying from the inside out, hollowed out by exhaustion and fever.

Sleep didn’t bring rest. It brought dreams soaked in dread, frantic, looping nightmares of drowning or suffocating. I’d wake in the dark hours, throat dry as sandpaper, lungs burning. One night, I stood before the bathroom mirror and looked at myself: gaunt, sweat-streaked, with sunken eyes. I whispered aloud, “Is this it?”

It felt close. The helplessness. The terrifying quiet of weakness. The realization that your body is no longer yours but a battlefield you barely recognize.

But I did survive.

Eventually, somewhere around day fourteen, the fever broke. The cough, still stubborn, eased. I could walk more than a few steps without collapsing into a chair. My appetite returned, and with it, a measure of life. It took weeks to regain full strength, but I did. And with survival came the wisdom of what I had endured.

I thought that was the end of it.

But this year, RSV returned.

It arrived quietly, just like before. A tickle in my throat. A dry, barking cough. But this time, I knew exactly what it was. That’s the cruel thing about second encounters — you recognize the monster even as it sneaks around the corner.

I felt no panic. No false optimism. Just a sober readiness.

Nietzsche’s words came to me: What doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. I clung to that thought. Not because it made the suffering less, but because it gave me purpose. I’ve been here before, I reminded myself. I survived. And I will survive again.

The symptoms returned with eerie familiarity: the fevers, climbing like flames up my spine; the muscle aches that felt like someone had sanded down my joints; the dizziness that turned every step into a gamble. I sweated through shirts, coughed until my ribs ached, and felt the now-familiar brain fog settle like a grey film over my thoughts. RSV isn’t just a lung virus — it infiltrates your clarity, your concentration. I couldn’t read or write for more than five minutes without needing to lie down.

Yet, this time was different — not in intensity, but in my response.

I didn’t resist it. I surrendered.

Not in defeat, but in acceptance.

I crafted a routine. Mornings began with warm tea steeped in ginger and honey, followed by quiet breathing exercises to loosen the congestion from my chest. I propped myself upright with extra pillows and took hourly naps. I kept a fever log, monitored my oxygen levels, and accepted that there would be long nights of sweat-soaked sheets and coughing fits.

I stopped trying to be “productive.” Instead, I became attentive to the subtleties of the illness. On day three, the fever climbed fast, just like last year. On day five, the breathlessness reached its peak. On day eight, I noticed my appetite began to return — the first real sign that my body was turning the corner.

I used my knowledge like armor. I reminded myself that RSV flares before it fades. That panic and despair only feed the beast. And while I still had nights of choking on my breath and moments where I feared falling asleep and not waking up, I carried something the virus couldn’t steal.

Control.

Even amid chaos, I still had the map from the previous year. I walked the same valley, but this time, I walked with my eyes open.

One night — around day nine — I lay staring at the ceiling, the room dim, and felt a strange calm settle over me. I thought of how fragile we are. How our breath, something we take for granted, can be taken away so quickly. But I also thought of how resilient we are, that I was enduring this again, knowingly, and surviving.

I whispered Nietzsche again, lips cracked but firm: What doesn’t kill me…

By day fourteen, the fever lifted again, right on schedule. The cough lingered like an old insult, but the worst was over. I stepped outside one morning, still weak, and breathed in the fresh air, shaky but triumphant.

RSV had taken me down twice. But it hadn’t broken me.

The second encounter was hellish, but also affirming. It reminded me that experience is a form of power. That suffering, when endured consciously, can transform. It taught me that health is not a guarantee, and survival is not just a matter of biology — it’s mental, emotional, even spiritual.

There will likely be a third encounter at some point. That’s how viruses work. That’s how life works. However, I no longer fear it as I did the first time.

I’ve met the monster. I know its face. And I know now, so long as I breathe, I can face it again.

And emerge stronger.