Anna Sarjeant: What it's like to be seven months pregnant with Covid-19

Deputy travel editor Anna Sarjeant is seven months pregnant and recovering from Covid-19. Photo / Alex Burton

OPINION:

"Of course, you won't be able to share any of the same spaces," my doctor said. "So, he won't be able to cook for you, you'll have to make all of the meals."

We shared a knowing glance.

It was inevitable that my partner, who works in construction so is unable to work from home, would soon be bringing Omicron through the door. And here we were: him on the couch, day zero and steadily succumbing to a fever; me at the doctor seven and a half months pregnant but mercifully testing negative.

I went home under strict instructions to steer clear. Moving out completely was advisable but as two English ex-pats, our extended family – ironically Covid-free for 770 days and counting – live 19,000km away.

I retreated to the top floor, taking my workstation and bedroom arrangements with me, only returning to ground zero to use the bathroom, check the patient, wince at his barking cough and make dinner. We passed like ships in the night. I made the meals but left his plate on the counter before retreating to my hovel upstairs.

My partner's fourth day of Covid was his birthday. As soon as he became ill, I did an online shop; working 4-5 days in advance ensured we had enough food to eat, and a birthday cake was left on the lawn. A severe cough medicine shortage soon became apparent and buying certain fruit was like scoring an egg from the golden goose. So much for a pregnant woman's recommended seven fruit and veges per day. I did manage to get an iodine refill, thanks to my pharmacist who kindly popped a bottle in my postbox. Here comes one glowing Google review – I almost cried over his kindness. Maybe it's hormones.

We only have one bathroom and I became very aware that as much as my partner was barred from the kitchen, the man had to go, so I was permanently armed with a bottle of Dettol.

Sarjeant says having Omicron was like having the flu. Photo / Alex Burton

Futile. My throat started to scratch soon after.

Back to the doctor to receive the news I could already predict. I knew the drill: park outside the surgery's back door and wait in the car. One of two medics, dressed head to toe in PPE, face masks and plastic head shields, came to the window and probed my nostrils. The one good thing about having a very obvious protruding belly – instant concern and special attention.

This time the positive swab came with a stark warning that I was "probably in for an awful weekend". Day 6-7 was pipped to be my worst, giving me a full two days to worry about what may or may not be coming. The advice was grim, notably due to my compromised immunity as a portal of human life. I would likely feel dreadful. If it was really dreadful? Go straight to the hospital. Reduced fetal movement? Go straight to the hospital. Difficulty breathing? Go straight to the hospital. It was clear-cut at least.

Driving home I felt uneasy, but let's not forget the golden rule of pregnancy. Do not worry, stress or get anxious. It's harmful to the baby.

On the upside, the due diligence of my GP was commendable. Ringing daily to check in. Should I require a stay at North Shore Hospital they had a solid six pages of notes to refer to. I did try to resist panicking. However, my brain insisted on inventing every A&E scenario: my partner unable to come with me or offer any kind of bedside support because well, Covid.

Luckily, my fears did not eventuate.

I'm now well past day 10. When a RAT test finally gives me the all-clear, I'll breathe a sigh of relief. Call me wild but I might walk to the library and pick up a book. I think we deserve a long-overdue date night. The bump has been hankering for fresh fruit ice cream from Kumeu for weeks, his needs must be met.

Hindsight does of course raise its ugly head - what was I ever antsy about? In the thick of it, my symptoms were long and drawn out and that did add an element of nervous suspense. One day a vengeful sore throat, the next day a rib-rattling cough. One full night of extreme nausea but thankfully no fever. And finally, sneezing, a headache and snot that sat so densely in my upper nostrils, I wanted to rip my nose off. Being pregnant, hard-hitting medication was a no go. Paracetamol is as good as it gets and Google is ill-advised for the wary: you'll always find one person who went into early labour from a Strepsil.

Much to my relief, albeit warned that pregnant women can "decline rapidly at any moment", my run-in with Omicron has been fair. At the risk of sounding predictable, it's been nothing worse than a bad cold for both myself and my partner. We are double-vaxxed; my booster reminder somewhat cruelly pinged through my phone the same day my partner tested positive.

I did lose my sense of smell for a morning, which was disconcerting, but at the same time seemed beneficial for upcoming nappy changes. The cough lingers but is now reassuringly accompanied by a disgruntled kick from within. My midwife informs me that I will see an obstetrician for at least one additional scan to check his growth, which may have been stunted by Covid-19, but I'm confident he's fine. Most days his legs feel longer than mine.

One other lasting symptom. Irritation. The wee chap is joining us world-side in six weeks and I have a baby to-do list that doesn't shrink. Omicron stole 17 days of my time and for that, I'm peeved.

Infinitely worse is Covid-19 stealing precious family time. I'm simply grateful my family are healthy and my parents, no longer a couple of young pups, have dodged a disease that in France - where they live - was infecting more than 250,000 people per day.

I am unsure when they will get to meet their first grandson, but they intend to spend Easter in the UK with my brother, a week before our coronial baby is due. And "with a bit of luck", as my dear mother said, "we'll all be together for his arrival on Zoom".

Oh, what times we live.

• Anna Sarjeant is the Herald's deputy travel editor.