With Covid-19 restrictions gradually disappearing, life is beginning to resemble something closer to pre-Pandemic. Most of us have received at least one vaccine, and many of us have had two. Social distancing is a thing of the past and more and more of us are choosing to discard the masks we’ve been wearing for months. There is a growing sense of optimism. Shops are open and streets are bustling.The media features pictures of travellers smiling with wheely suitcases in tow, and clubbers dancing ecstatically together, arms waving. Graphs show falling numbers of hospitalisations and infection rates. We are starting to feel safer, to believe we have ‘got through this’ and can move on, putting it behind us.
But are we right?
I had my first Astra Zeneca vaccination on 13 March, almost regretting it when flu-type side effects laid me low for several days. My second shot was almost exactly two months later on 14 May. This time the after effects were milder, and I timed things so that I could recover over the weekend, rather than miss any work.
My partner had also been ‘double-jabbed’, and I think we both felt we were protected, especially as we continued to social distance and to wear masks as required. That and the fact that we weren’t actually going anywhere anyway made us feel comparatively safe. Apart from the odd coffee out and weekly supermarket trips, we weren’t really mixing with anyone.
So I wasn’t unduly worried when I woke up one Friday in July with a sore throat and headache. It was only when I started coughing that I decided I should take a lateral flow test. Even then, I was surprised when the second line appeared.
I booked a PCR test for the next day, and my partner drove me to the test centre. By now my temperature was 38.8 degrees and I was feverish and feeling ill. I got the results back on Sunday. It was official: I had Covid.
It took a while to absorb the enormity of it, and my first reaction was a childish sense of injustice. I hadn’t been going to football matches or parties or travelling abroad. I had done as I was told and had twice queued up in requisitioned community centres for vaccinations. I had kept my distance and worn my mask. How could I still have coronavirus? It just didn’t seem fair.
Once I had accepted that this really was happening, the reality of the situation hit. I had to self-isolate for ten days, and so did my perfectly healthy partner, who had tested negative. We placed an online grocery order, got out the anti-bacterial wipes, and made up the spare bed.
The first few days I mostly slept. My temperature remained high and I fluctuated between sweating and shivering. My head still ached, and I felt weak and shaky, as well as exceptionally tired.
In between all that sleep, I read book after book or watched television. My life shrank around me. Outside the sun shone, people walked their dogs, drove their cars, stared out of bus windows, went about their business. Sometimes I took a book out into the garden, but I worried my coughing would disturb the neighbours.
One of the very worst aspects of the whole experience was being bombarded with track-and-trace texts, emails and phone calls, all telling me I must self-isolate and that I would be fined if I failed to do so. The threatening tones were upsetting and, I felt, unnecessary. Surely most people would be prepared to complete a ten-day self-isolation without need for harassment, while those with no intention of following the rules would not be influenced by such bullying tactics.
On the positive side, I felt very loved. I might not have been able to see anyone, but friends, family and yoga students phoned and sent get well cards and messages. My mother rang me every day, and one dear friend dropped off books and fresh fruit, along with a beautifully wrapped gift. And of course my partner cooked for me, and checked up on me – albeit from a distance while wearing a mask.
By the end of the first week, I was starting to recover. I felt weak and was still coughing a little, but my symptoms were gradually improving. As the isolation period drew to an end, though, I was unprepared for how tired I still felt. The smallest activity seemed to drain me, and I found myself walking with the slow, painful pace of a far older person when I ventured out for the first time.
It’s been a month now since that positive test result, and I’m continuing to rebuild my strength. I’m teaching yoga again, and would say I’m probably 80 per cent better, if still not quite my usual self.
As well as the tiredness, I have yet to regain my sense of smell, although, oddly, my taste appears to be unaffected. I am also still suffering from what the websites term ‘brain fog’. When I was ill, I realised that I was struggling to think of the simplest words. My brain would just seem to jam: “Would you get me the… thing? You know, the thing! The thing next to the thing!”
While that has, fortunately, improved, my memory still feels holey, like a torn net through which some words continue to slip – something that, as a writer, concerns me far more than my loss of smell.
I lost two weeks’ work (and money) and my sense of smell, but I do wonder how much worse it might have been for me if I had not been vaccinated. My partner didn’t catch Covid, so maybe I was just unlucky. And perhaps, as someone joked, I am now totally ‘Covid proof’ and need not worry as I re-emerge into society.
My son was among the first to go clubbing, queuing for the doors to open at midnight on 19 July (the ninth of my ten days). He says he no longer carries a mask and believes we have to learn to live with the virus, as we would any other disease.
On balance, I think he is right, and that we need to reclaim our freedom, to take responsibility for our actions and make our own choices. The risks are still there, as I know only too well, but life is too brief to spend in fear. Even if none of us will ever be truly ‘Covid-proof’, it’s time to start living again.