MY BRUSH WITH THE CROWN - Covid-19

My lodger left me in Lockdown. And I was alone and elated.

I could smugly make smoothies at unhealthy times of the morning, use up every utensil in the kitchen for my disorganised cooking, line up teapots full of different liquids: warming liquorice, fresh ginger and lemon, the ‘Cleanse’ because now finally I could start using up the teas that everyone had given me ….for years. And all this with the volume of the radio turned up to follow me into every room.

But it wasn’t just the news of Covid 19 that followed me into every room, it was the ‘thing’ itself which began to plague me – this insidious, invidious, and hideous pestilence.

Today is the 12th day of being crowned by Corona. I could almost wear it as a badge of honour. Almost. Because I have come through it. I have waded through the murky river and trudged out the other side. I am alive. But there is no credit in dodging this killer, no rhyme nor reason why me. And I am truly sorry for those who have died in such extraordinary times and for those left behind without the opportunity for hugs, smiles, caresses and a final farewell.

And it didn’t feel mild.

I have asthma. I had locked myself down before we were asked to. I was scared. The endless news on how desperate people were in their struggle to breathe, terrified me. I know what it is like to struggle to breathe. I didn’t want to get this unknown ‘thing’ before I had hugged my children once more. They felt emotionally further away than even their physical distance: America, Australia and Africa.

I can’t pretend that when my migraine had past, after a bad night’s sleep, when my aches started and when I began to feel hot, there wasn’t also a shiver of excitement. ‘Oh – is this it?’ Suddenly my chaotic, catastrophic fear was laid aside, packaged up with recycled paper and a scrappy ribbon. This was something more certain. I could deal with certainty. I could lay it out on my lap in a green gingham tea-towel and view it: high temperature (monitor this with thermometer), headache (take paracetamol), thirst (just drink loads), exhaustion (so stay in bed), stomach ache (eat what’s easy to digest), coughing (well monitor your breathing through the oxygen monitor), sinus washout. Oh, and the emotive cascade vomited out via WhatsApp? My poor unsuspecting children: it was unleashed distress.

I begin to wear my crown like a child who has just rediscovered the discarded diadem at the bottom of a dressing up box. ‘I’ve been chosen! I’m special’ You anoint yourself. But of course, the crown is ill fitting. It slips down quickly over my eyes so I can’t see where I am.

The shivers turn into agonising aches, my temperature tips into the excessive zone and I could hardly find the energy to get out of bed to pee. Slow mornings, endless drinking of tea, listening to Woman’s Hour and sleeping punctuated by texts and messages from friends and family.

After a few days I awake for the first time without a headache. I think, I am emerging out of a chrysalis – I am going to be transformed - after just a few days. How lucky am I. No longer crunching crumbs under foot in the kitchen, I have the energy to sweep the kitchen floor. What a joy. I love sweeping. It is so satisfying to brush up this amount of dust. Surprising amount of dead skin I muse. Now I can go back to being industrious. I put on the washing, I make more sloppy green soups substantially sprinkled with salt and chilli. I smile on camera and off and feel virtuous, re-assured that no one can witness me making mess. So I send my soup photo virally into the virtual world. But it is a virus infected world. And mine is no different.

Day 6, it strikes again. I wrap myself up in a blanket, turn off my phone and dial inward.

Day 7. The cumulative mess in the kitchen no longer generates shame. I am passed that. No- one, but no-one is going to be dropping in for a coffee. Fleeting thoughts follow – but I don’t want anyone coming round after I am dead thinking I lived in a hovel. It passed. I didn’t have the energy even for that. My breakfast was cake. Yes cake. And crisps for lunch. No guilt. They are the only foods that taste. And I don’t have to make a decision about what to eat. Cake and crisps. What’s not to like. The self-assured soups sit still, sludgy and smugly in the fridge.

Day 8. Loads of guilt. Not inspired guilt by cake and crisps but simply by not keeping up communication with everyone. I am sorry. I am ill. I don’t want attention. Texts, emails, WhatsApp – begone. Go away.

Come back. I want all the attention. Give it to me. Why don’t you love me? I am ill. I need care and attention. Don’t ask anything of me. I cannot deliver. I cannot respond. I am indeed confused. No wonder you are too. The fall out of turning off my phone for half a day rings alarm bells for everyone else. I create more distress when all I wanted to do was curl in a shell. Thanks to my cousin, I set up a system. I phone my partner or he phones me every three hours. Then what? Well at least he has keys to my flat so doesn’t need to beat down my door. A plan is put in place. I like a plan. It is re-assuring and makes me feel in control. I now feel back in control. Almost.

Day 9. My temperature starts to spiral at precisely 6.00pm. My coughing has taken on new dimensions. My headache is pounding and I become still more breathless. Sh*t. is this it? What I have been waiting for? I measure my oxygen levels – not ideal. I put my hand on my heart. Yep – that’s working. I smile. I try to breathe more slowly and soothe myself. Not possible. Not yet. I am not able to take any more than short shallow breaths.

New tactics: I turn over on the bed and face the floor. I switch on the diffuser which is beneath my head, now hanging over the edge. I start inhaling the oil. I have prepared for this moment. I wasn’t a Brownie for nothing.

And equally I am not prepared. I am struck by my difficulty to rationalise – isn’t that part of the more extreme symptoms, I ask? The irony is not lost on me. I am still compos mentis. I am breathing, yes fast and shallow, yes coughing more violently but I feel ok. It if gets worse than this I will do something, phone someone. Get help. How will I know when I need to? I go round the cycle of support again: thermometer, inhaler, oxygen monitor, water. I pause. I allow the love of friends and family to surround me to ease the pain. I am managing. I stroke my hands again. The oxygen monitor is a stable 94. Any lower and I will phone to get help. I promise. I inhale and splutter and grip my pillow under my chest then consciously release. I will be okay. I will slow my breathing. I will overcome. But what if I don’t? Focus. Breathe in what you can. Hold if you can (No chance) breathe out slowly. I can do this. I am doing this.

Day 10. I don’t wake til about 10.30am. I am exhausted. Nothing new there. I let people know that I cant really talk today. Tomorrow.

Day 11. Today there are many highlights. The weather is impressively hot and I can do nothing but lie in the sun sleeping. I have roast lamb brought to the door by a neighbour. It is delicious. I can taste it. I am on the mend. Good food, sunshine and a deep sleep. Those are the most joyous things in my day today.

Day 12. I would say this is day one of recovery. I have very little coughing, I have had no temperature for several days and I don’t ache. I am tired but not enough to fall asleep right after breakfast. Today is the first day of my journey towards my new normal, my reality. This is by its very nature an insular personal journey and I am still in recovery. I am not bruised by it, rather brushed generously by it. The gems and nuggets of this experience lie low and will tumble out in the recycling of it in the next few weeks and months.

 Thank you everyone for the friendly phone calls, check-ins and all your virtual good wishes and hugs. X X