People with Covid-like symptoms took almost a year before feeling like themselves again, researchers say
Did you have Covid-like symptoms? It may take nine months or even longer to start feeling like yourself again.
Researchers at UCLA found that 20 percent of patients with those symptoms continued experiencing suboptimal quality of life for nearly a year after infection. Whereas, physical well-being returned after only three months.
"We have newly recognized the difference in recovery with respect to mental vs. physical well-being after a COVID infection," Lauren Wisk, an assistant professor of medicine at UCLA, said in a statement.
"The findings showed that health care professionals need to pay more attention to their patients' mental well-being after a Covid infection and provide more resources that will help improve their mental health, in addition to their physical health,' she added.
Wisk was one of the lead authors of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention-funded study that was published Tuesday in the journal Open Forum Infectious Diseases. The study compared people who sought treatment for Covid-like symptoms. Of those, 75 percent tested positive for the virus. The rest were negative.
Of the 4,700 participants who experienced the symptoms between mid-December 2020 and late August 2022, the people who were positive for Covid were statistically likelier to return to optimal health-related quality-of-life than their Covid-negative counterparts in the year following the infection.
The authors said the findings suggest that health authorities may have previously underestimated the long-term effects of non-Covid infections on a patient's well-being.
To reach these conclusions, researchers analyzed responses from nearly 1,100 Covid-positive patients and 317 Covid-negative negative patients, assessing aspects including physical function, anxiety, depression, fatigue, social participation, sleep disturbance, pain interference and cognitive function.
They found that approximately one in five of those who were part of the study remained in poor overall quality of life, with a high likelihood of self-reporting long Covid for up to a year after initial infection.
'In this large, geographically diverse study of individuals with 12 months of follow-up after Covid-19-like illness, a substantial proportion of participants continued to report poor [overall quality of life], whether or not the inciting acute symptoms were due to SARS-CoV-2 or another illness,' they said.
Mental well-being recovered gradually, with significant improvements manifesting between six and nine months after infection, researchers found.
The authors said further research was needed, noting that it remains unclear which conditions the symptomatic Covid-negative patients were suffering from and that Covid tests can yield both false-positive and false-negative results. The common cold, allergies, flu and Covid share many similar symptoms.
"Future research should focus on how to improve the treatment models of care for patients who continue to experience Covid-19 symptoms and their impact on patients' quality of life, especially as one in five patients may continue to suffer over a year after their initial infection, which likely reflects long Covid," Wisk said.
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In my rural community, very few people knew what Tourette was. I certainly didn't. When I was a teenager, a television program, possibly 60 Minutes, aired an episode on the subject that I watched with my mom. It featured a young man who shouted obscenities in some large American city. By that time I'd been ticcing for years — in fact, I'd already been hiding my tics for years. But I didn't recognize myself in this program, because never, not once, did I swear or shout in public. When I was in elementary school, a teacher once stopped class to tell me to quit making noises and 'doing that thing you're doing with your head.' She actually demonstrated 'that thing' in front of my classmates because I was apparently annoying her and disrupting her lesson. Every head turned my way, and I put mine down, humiliated. I could not tell her that I couldn't help myself. In birding, there's something called a 'spark bird' — the bird that, when you first see it in the wild, truly gets you hooked on birding. But this was my spark moment, when I realized my tics were not 'normal' and that I needed to hide them if I wanted to be normal. If my mom made any connection between that kid we saw on TV and me, she didn't mention it, and my parents didn't take me to a neurologist to have me checked out. Because of that TV program, I assumed, wrongly, that having Tourette meant shouting obscenities in public. I learned that this version of Tourette is called coprolalia and, according to the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, it 'only affects about 1 in 10 people with Tourette.' It is not as common as popular media likes to portray it. For me, ticcing has always meant a near-constant urge to do things with my body. 'Urge' may not be the right word for these head jerks, blinks, snorts, grunts, throat clearings, tongue clicks, etc., but it's the best I've got. From the moment I wake up to the moment I fall asleep, my body seems to have a will of its own. In any given hour, I probably tic at least 100 times. During periods of great stress, like when I rear-ended that car, my tics are like a parasitic fungus that assumes total control over my body. Nobody wants to twitch or make weird noises in public — to be the person people crane their necks to see. What's wrong with this guy? you imagine them thinking. After getting called out by my teacher, I only wanted to blend in — to become invisible — because when you're in elementary school, you don't want to be seen as a freak. You want to be like everyone else. I couldn't stop ticcing, but I discovered that I could make it less obvious. To shield myself from shame and embarrassment, I developed an arsenal of tic-hiding strategies. Instead of jerking my head, I would put my hand underneath the table and waggle my fingers or ball my fists repeatedly. Instead of snorting or chuffing — obvious and strange sounds — I'd click my tongue softly, like an irregular metronome. These tricks satisfied my near-constant urge to tic and kept me mostly hidden from view. I wasn't bullied or teased in school, as kids and adults with tics often are, but I probably would have been if I hadn't learned how to control my tics. I've been using these tricks ever since. When I'm out in public today, I'm keenly aware of my internal pressure to tic, but I've become adept at suppressing it, bottling it up and capping it tight. At home, where I'm free to be myself, it's a very different story. My tics come and go. Six months ago, I began squirting air from my mouth the way someone might blow hair off their face; a few weeks later, I started hocking as though to spit a loogie. Like uninvited guests overstaying their welcome, both tics remain with me as I write these words. Sometimes a particular tic will go away only to return a year later, like an exasperating big brother who'd gone off to college and come home with a sly grin and a shaggy beard. There is no cure for Tourette — all you can do is try to manage your tics. There are treatments available, ranging from antihypertensives like guanfacine and clonidine to alternative options like the antipsychotic drugs risperidone and Abilify. But I'd honestly rather have tics than the potential side effects these drugs can cause. When I was first diagnosed, I tried guanfacine and I'd wake up in the middle of the night so parched that it was like I'd swallowed sand; my sleeplessness felt more like a punishment, especially since the drug didn't even control my tics, so I quit taking the pill. 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