I hear you’re down with Covid… again!
You never get hit by the same infection twice, as we’re now discovering
It’s just the best feeling, getting out of a Covid-induced isolation and seeing that the world outside has continued to exist without your assistance. You’re high on antibodyflavoured bravado, despite the lingering cough and fatigue, and you resolve to make the most of life from that moment on. Except, life likes settling back into old grooves, like an old cat in the interstices of a sofa, and you have just a few days before the evangelism wears off. So, before forgetfulness takes over, once again, here are a few insights from my latest incarceration.
Feeling saturated
We’re all largely well-adjusted to the concept of Covid by now. And so, this latest wave of infections has spared us the high drama surrounding its discovery. Gone are the days of the whodunnit, where contact tracing was everybody’s favourite blood sport, and offenders were as damned as those at the end of a communist witch hunt. The two lines on a self-administered test are not so much a death sentence as the pause button on every individual’s social player. You now pretty much know what the infection will entail, with, of course, notable exceptions. But if you, like me, are lucky enough to encounter the garden variety effects of the virus, there’s already a well-thumbed playbook to refer to.
Nine months ago, caught in the crosshairs of #myfirstcovid, I was the model patient, documenting every .5 degree rise in body temperature in a yellow notebook. Checking my oxygen saturation was the most exercise I got, fretting over the occasional drop from 99 to 98 percent. Cut to Infection No. 3. Even as I coughed and moaned with all the misery that Covid brings, it simply didn’t strike me to keep a record of my complaints.
Spare the doc
Recurring Covideers cannot resist conducting a comparative analysis of different bouts. To me, this particular infection has been the least painful of the lot—despite the literal pain and weakness—because it’s spared my sense of taste and smell. I’ve been spraying myself with perfume obsessively, like a modified Lady Macbeth, just to make sure I still can smell—such is the trauma of olfactory loss. The mitigating powers of tasty food (and a good period drama like The Gilded Age) cannot be overstated. No one should have to bear the ignominy of Covid without the
uplifting qualities of comfort food arranged by friends and family.
Of course, the symptoms drag you down no matter how many times you’re afflicted. I’ve spent days with an implacable, soundless wheeze lodged in my chest. It has recently deigned to ascend to the throat and will hopefully leave by way of the mouth, accompanied by a fitting curse. The fever has stayed away this time, but there are all the usual aches, and that tell-tale fogginess that is a special remnant of the devious virus. But it’s nothing that rest and common-sense home remedies cannot alleviate. I have the utmost respect for doctors, but there’s a case to be made for sparing them a blow-by-blow account of our easily managed ailments.
NO ONE SHOULD HAVE TO BEAR THE IGNOMINY OF COVID WITHOUT THE UPLIFTING QUALITIES OF COMFORT FOOD ARRANGED BY FRIENDS AND FAMILY
Post-isolation frenzy
Perhaps this is what they said two years ago about the virus becoming endemic, like an invisible, hateful acquaintance lurking around the corner, forever threatening you with a visit. We are learning to treat it with the same disdain as we do the other unseemly realities of life. Travel is not the impossible dream it was until a few months ago. We eat at our favourite restaurants and show up at the theatre if adequately enticed—all of it without a flutter of conscience. Rumours of lockdown are passé, as are long-winded arguments about the relative efficacy of different vaccines. We’ve masked up and moved on, carrying our Covid scars lightly. We’ve lost so many and so much to the disease; it’s time to reclaim what we can.
Meanwhile, there are cheap thrills to be had. Post-isolation life brings with it a short-lived but madly enjoyable frenzy. I’m at that overzealous stage where the rain-soaked city is a wonderland of possibilities. Autorickshaws beckon, busy cafés tempt and colourful streets seduce. I’m wearing a temporary and, perhaps, notional shield. But look how it gleams!