When the positive result landed it was no great surprise. The young adult in the house had already tested positive for Covid-19 – asymptomatic of course (who says youth is wasted on the young?). A night of sweats, headaches and a general feeling of being run over by a bus were the big giveaways, and so the bedroom door closed and the waiting began.
Mild symptoms, mild symptoms, be grand. Don't google a thing – everyone knows that's where madness lies. The phone starts to hop. Well wishers, concerned possible contacts and best of all, medics. Google and hearsay medics admittedly but sure you can't have enough of those. Can you breathe? Can you smell/taste? Have you taken vitamin C, D, zinc? Unless they are key components of chocolate, red wine or goose fat potatoes we could be out of luck there.
Poleaxed in a bedroom for days on end you've a lot of time to ponder the full extent of symptoms
Winter Nights
Mild symptoms. The mind starts to race. Oh God, why didn't I do more with my life? If only I were a better person. There's going to be a tsunami of cases overwhelming the hospitals, they won't be able to help everyone. Christ, if I was David Attenborough or Sr Stan they'd definitely have to help me. Even Ryan Tubridy has a surplus of public goodwill after that fantastic bloody Toy Show. Then again, he's had it. Endless addled daydreams about standing outside Vincent's hospital jostling for medical attention before all the ventilators run out.
And then the pulse oximeter arrives. Quare name but great stuff. A fingertip monitor, it provides a digital read of oxygen saturation levels in the blood. Wha? Yeah, yeah me too. Main thing is if the big number is between 95 and 100, good. Moving south of 95, not so good.
First read: 93. You’re having a laugh. Quick call to actual medic friend who says cheerily, “Oh right, your Christmas gel nails might throw the reading off”. One acetone fingernail bath later, 98 . . . and breathe.
For me, this was a hero piece of kit. Everyone’s experience of the virus and their symptoms are different, and as all backseat medics will tell you, it can all go horribly wrong on Day (insert number here) so it is virtually impossible to know while generally feeling unwell if you are getting worse in a way that might be a cause for concern.
Poleaxed in a bedroom for days on end you’ve a lot of time to ponder the full extent of symptoms. After all, one woman’s mild breathing difficulty could be another woman’s final death throe. Covid is palpable as it works its way through your system and it also gets inside your head. Just think how much it’s in your head when you don’t have it. Having the virus elevates that anxiety and uncertainty to another level because you just don’t know what way it will go.
The joy of the oximeter – apart from being affordable at about €50 and looking reassuringly medical – is that it keeps your head while all about you are losing it. It’s a good early indicator, not the only one mind, of whether you’re heading in a direction that might require actual medical intervention.
Paracetemol helps. Lots of water helps. If you've a pain in your back or chest pressure, lying on your stomach helps. Breathing exercises help; you can google those, for three minutes only mind. Prof Luke O'Neill helps greatly. A font of informed optimism and reassuring common sense he should be taken twice daily. Under no circumstances should George Lee be taken.
The taste/smell thing didn’t happen, thank God. An abiding memory of 2020 will be that segment on the news showing a very unfortunate Covid survivor adding green chillies to his morning porridge “just to give it a bit of flavour”. That was my dystopian moment in all of it, right there.
So, to the angels who arrived with food, your reward will be great. Casseroles, chilies, roulades and tarts – you know who you are. Maybe it's a Stockholm Syndrome thing but as chief caterer in the household, the wrath of Covid didn't stop me distractedly wondering what actually might be for dinner and how it would materialise.
Surely a silver lining to a spell in bed with mild symptoms of the virus would mean all that Christmas reading would get done. Not so much. Uncomfortable and exhausted, reading is an effort. But online streaming is the motherlode. Let it all wash over you. Borgen. Motherland. Mrs Maisel. Lupin. Bridgerton (lord save us if I see that guy’s rear again). I had somehow managed to avoid Downton Abbey first-time out and so it unfurled episode after episode. Following an early reintegration dinner downstairs I wondered if we shouldn’t “go through” to the drawing room. Recovery was surely nigh. But then Downton’s Spanish flu episode struck. Falling like ninepins they were.
Christ, pass the oximeter.