Not If, But When
Five hundred and twenty five days. Quite the stretch – almost a year and a half. The number of days I managed to sneak out of the grips of any form of imposed isolation due to COVID, which, all things considered, ain’t bad at all. Through shielding, luck and an aversion to partying, I managed to sneakily glide through hotel stays, Christmas, three holidays away and a wedding – all without needing to get a PCR. (My hospital stay in November did, however, culminate in a routine swab down the throat, and as such I was keen to avoid repeating that experience if at all possible.)
And then it happened. 10pm on the night before my birthday, where I was cosied up on the sofa, reading a book, nursing a cup of chamomile tea and getting excited for my day off work, my presents, my cake, my planned trip to go mountain biking. My phone pinged; a friend who I had met for an outdoors coffee had felt unwell and taken a lateral flow that afternoon – and tested positive. She then headed for a confirmatory PCR and was pending the results. Technically, I didn’t have to self-isolate: I felt fine and she hadn’t been positive on the official test. But, naturally, I couldn’t actually go about my day pretending that everything was normal. Thus my birthday was officially cancelled.
Immediately I felt a bit unwell. Desperately scrambling around my flat at half ten for a lateral flow, I ended up calling on my parents to deliver a swab kit. Negative. An uneasy sigh of relief to tide me over until the morning of the birthday itself, which I would spend endlessly refreshing the government portal and entering my bloody date of birth repeatedly – as if taunting me – to book a PCR in Inverness. My pal’s test came back positive.
I managed to get a slot, and went through for my swab. The drive-in centre is reminescent of an apocalyptic film set. If I wasn’t already in a mood, then being shouted at to KEEP YOUR WINDOWS DOWN certainly plunged me into a deeper ire. Every niggle in my throat set off a new wave of anxiety, and I convinced myself I was feverish in the car before realising I actually just had the A/C on full blast.
The worry turned into self-punishment: why did I suggest going for coffee? Did I spend too long in my friend’s company? Why didn’t we stay 6 feet apart at all times? Then the self-flaggelation turned into hopelessness: will this be the groundwork of how to live my life from now on? COVID is never going to go away, and the only way to feel absolutely safe is perhaps to impose a quaratine on anyone who wants to meet me, or just avoid going out of my house. My weary mind was distracted by responding to the countless lovely birthday messages, which I had to truthfully dispel with the reality of self-imposed isolation.
Thankfully, my test came back negative (as did consequential lateral flows, done just in case), which is perhaps testament to the science behind outdoors transmission and vaccination, or both. My friend is not terribly ill, thankfullly, and none of her family were infected. But the whole episode has provided a reality check; both to maintain my guard and not become too complacent – but also to reflect on what my new life will likely need to be. I either learn to manage the anxiety that comes with a potential infection – which is a tricky behavioural shift, given that the ultra-vulnerable were, at one point, told to not leave our houses to avoid getting this illness – or I make exaggerated and unrealistic risk calculations on every single interaction going forwards. The risk can only be mitigated to an extent, and I’m not sure I will ever have the freedoms I enjoyed before COVID.
It also feels like the general concensus is that we will all eventually be infected with COVID, and that it’s a matter of when, not if. Which makes the recent news of a third vaccine for the 1% of the most immunocompromised population all the more welcome.
Kirsty x
