Monday was the darkest day. My chest tightened as though I had smoked a brick of Marlboro Reds while walking up 100 floors on a StairMaster. Each time I took a breath, I’d feel a sharp pain; the nurse said I had pulled a muscle from violently coughing. The oxygen helped and kept my anxiety levels down. I slept. A lot. By Tuesday, I was able to sit up properly in bed and take in my surroundings. There were eight beds in the isolated ward, many with the curtains closed around them, but I could hear the faint hissing of the other patients’ oxygen tanks. I was surprised to see that I wasn’t the only ‘young’ one there . One guy on the ward looked in his mid 20s, others seemed to be in their 30s or 40s. My nurse, who had been attentively looking after me, told me I was lucky to have been brought in so quickly. I noticed she was trying to lift the mood, despite the fear in her eyes. She told me I was strong and would get back to good health soon. I didn’t believe her. Then I received a text from my friend, asking if I was still alive. I read it out to my nurse. "Still alive? Of course you are. I’m looking after you!" she said, smiling at me. And she did.