Day Two. Did a few chores out and about, delivering books to the library, picking up a few groceries. Feeling weary as I drive home. Radio talk mentions the benefit of exercise. I have an epiphany and think exercise will be the answer to clearing my head so I take a briskish walk. Feel fresh-aired but still muzzy.
Day Three. Still weary. Do home chores. Sew a bit. Pull a few weeds. Those tiny ones twitched between forefinger and thumb. It's all. Rather desultory. Read a bit. Bright idea. Brisk walk will help. Take a brisk walk. Feel pleased at my pace.
Day Four. Slower. Nose drips. Bit of a fever. It comes and goes. Vacuum house. Read a lot. Watch TV a bit. Talk to son. He suggests RAT test as his kids are due to spend a week with us. Take RAT test. Very surprised. Two red lines. Husband takes RAT test. Same. Two red lines. Damn.
Feel disappointed. And annoyed that the booster wasn't available until three weeks after I was due for the six months second booster. I mutter about the health authorities. And accept that I have reasons to feel lethargic. Unwell. Miserable. Yet surprisingly upbeat. We both stay home, get up late, mooch about. We let our friends know, especially the close contacts. I rack my brain to remember who I saw, when, where and for how long.
Day Five. The days go on. They're boring and long and slow. Husband and I debate merits of contacting health authorities. He doesn't want the intrusions. I want the protections. A friend's wise counsel and my breathlessness tip the scales.
We fill in forms. And get the message the same day that we can now have our Covid boosters. Yeah. Like we need them now! The day goes on. Lethargy. Reading. TV. A bit of stitchery. Eyes shut a bit. Open. I stay indoors in my red, white and black remember-Paris PJs.
Breathlessness hits harder. Cough gets worse. Add in headache, visual migraine, nausea, sore ears, diarrhoea, achy muscles, general grumpiness. They come and go. They're not steady and they're not predictable. Still, I sing a bit. Dance a tiny bit. Make up the jam that's been waiting thawed out for four days. You know. Before I got sick. I wash my hands a lot. Use hand sanitiser a lot. Feed the cats. Take decongestant and lots of water and lemon. Grandies stay away. Very wise. Maybe next week.
Day Six. Kind friends bring groceries and send messages and check in and bring meals. I crave mandarins and eat toast and down glasses of lemon-flavoured water and sit upright in chairs. I make tea and food becomes tasteless.
My sense of smell diminishes. Jonquils and lavender and mint no longer wafted through the yard, and the husband becomes the arbiter of flavouring the pumpkin soup I think would serve us well. Honey and marmite become my go-tos. Peanut butter is too thick in the tongue. I join the couch.
I stay in my pajamas. Hot water bottle becomes my best friend. Along with slippers and an extra blanket. I gaze out at the rain. And the grey sky. Or watch the wind in the trees. Shut my eyes. Float into nowhere with my muzzy head. Friends offer books. Name TV shows. Recommend movies at my request.
Day Seven. I empty the bins filled with tissues. Think that really they should be burned. I envisage Covid germs rising out of rubbish heaps in centuries to come. And keep binning the tissues. Tissue boxes in every room. They empty and my body empties itself of Covid.
The doctor's surgery rings me to check. I tell her that overall I am okay, That it's not horrible. It's different to flu. For me. I am not laid low sleeping and waking and drifting and aching. I am not out to it for hours on end. I am just here. Being. Short of breath. Muscles sore. Muzzy of head. She tells me I will get a message the next day releasing me from isolation. Or is it quarantine?
Day Eight. The message arrives. The health authorities tell me I am free. Providing I don't have symptoms. I do. I have a RAT test. I am so disappointed. But unsurprised. With a blocked nose, a mildly sore throat, improving but not great concentration, the test is again positive.
Day Nine. I am still positive. A friend says you can test positive for up to 30 days after the infection. I refer to Auntie Dr Google and stay home, watch the wind, the birds against the grey sky, the neighbours' cats squelching across the lawn and am grateful. Because I am not super unwell, I have been immunised, and am safe and warm and cared for.
Especially moving has been the kindness we've experienced. Not government-encouraged kindness as we were reminded of in early 2020 when Covid appeared in Aotearoa New Zealand. Yes, there's the security of a health system available to provide reassurance as needed.
But most moving has been the thoughtful generosity of friends and family, checking in, gifting time to deliver groceries, books, recommend distractions, of folk being human, caring for us and one another as a community. If nothing else, having Covid, teaches me again the joys of being part of such a community. Thanks to you all. With love.
Covid experience cont ...
Days Ten to 15 or 16 or 17 or more: Recovery is challenging. And unpredictable. It's not worse than having Covid. But it's uneven. The cough comes and goes. The muscle aches come and go.
The husband concurs. We both admit to feeling less like A A Milne's Eeyore and more like the balloon Piglet and Pooh turned up with for the sad old donkey's birthday. One evening I eat dinner and my breathing becomes a challenge. Not a major but a discomfort.
It's the same the next morning. Then it disappears and my arms ache. A calf muscle yells. I walk about. It eases but it is not a cramp. More a moveable pain than a cramp or an ache. My appetite is still low. I no longer crave mandarins and marmite but something more substantial. Protein. Nuts. Fish. Meat. Eggs. I can't decide. Toast serves a purpose then I move to poached eggs on toast. Marmite and cheese toasted sandwiches. Peanut butter sandwiches. The comfort food of childhood. Easy to prepare. Easy to digest. It all tastes bland.
Next, my sense of smell emerges. But not strongly. My energy peeps out and I decide it's time for a walk. It's cold out. I wrap up warmly. But not warmly enough.
I haven't been out of the house for a week or more. The wind is chill. The day is grey. I walk slowly around a long block. The next three hours I spend on the couch, vaguely watching TV, drinking tea, dozing, thankful for the warmth, the comfort and horrified by the debilitating nature of this disease and the style of recovery.
Having ME/CFS was a trudge but not like this. This is so uneven and unpredictable with moments of clarity, no muddling of words, inconstant fatigue.
Nonetheless, next day I stay home. I wander a little in the garden, pick a few snowdrops, admire their white bells with green smudges. Push them into a vase, return to couch, books, television. Open and close the fridge, the pantry. Add apple to the diet. It helps. My digestive system readjusts yet again. Tells me I am getting there. And then not. And so on. My nose remains blocked. Then clears. The cough pops back again but at last my chest doesn't hurt.
Two days later, I wake with a clear head. I can think a little straighter. Concentrate a bit more steadily.
For the first time since Covid hit, I look forward. Beyond clouds and hedge and suburb and decide I can go out. Together. With my husband. In the car. 'Ha,' says Covid. 'Enjoy.' I did.
Masked, leaning on a trolley, I trudge around a garden centre. It all looked a bit green and grey. I wanted colour. And lots of it. So we left to trudge around another garden centre. It was less green and less grey, more pink and red and green and orange. We selected some colour. All the time I leaned on the trolley. I wasn't surrending this chrome-wheeled support to anyone. By the time I reached the counter, I was done.
We made one more call. I stayed in the car. Resting my eyes. By the time the husband returned, he too was done. At home, we placed the plants. Then it was back to tea, books, television. And a bit of yard work for him. He is slightly ahead of me in recovery.
But still it goes on. Friends offer warnings. "Take care, rest up. Do you need anything?"
I take note. And know I am now recovering. Now friends message to say they now test positive. The emojis frown, sniff, weep, glare.
I am well enough to ask if they need anything. Panadol, strepsils, cough medicine, lemon syrup. Some say, "yes please". Others say they just need to lay low. I agree. Very low. Go very slow. Don't mistake this disease for something ordinary. It's not. It's unpleasant, unpredictable, debilitating.
I am grateful, not for Covid, but for the connections, the care, the messages. In learning how we're all connected in this web of unwellness, supporting one another through, creating bonds directly and indirectly.
Sharing our stories. Being a community. Who would have thought that such an experience could connect so many of us? And so widely. Even so, no thanks, Covid. I will keep up the vaccinations while we learn to live with this.
And wear a mask, wash my hands often, use hand sanitiser and stay away from crowds. This recovery is hard work. Don't dismiss it. Even if you're young and fit and generally healthy. Look after yourselves. And in doing so, your community. It's mine too.
[Penny Robinson has since recovered and normal life has resumed]
