I love how much resilience there is still in the world

The Covid-19 virus brings out my most paranoid instincts and I think of how fragile humanity is, writes Aoife Mannix

I’VE become obsessed with checking my phone for live updates about the coronavirus. I don’t know why, as all I learn is that more people are getting sick and that I should wash my hands. A lot.

Also, that it’s best to avoid kissing and handshakes. Not a problem I think, as being Irish we don’t go in for all that European touchy-feely stuff. We just mumble ‘how ye, grand, grand’ at each other when saying hello. Goodbye rarely involves more than a ‘good luck’ and a bit of a wave if we’re feeling particularly generous.

I lived in Switzerland for a year and even after months of pecking on cheeks, I still always seemed to go the wrong way and bump noses. Or I’d forget you were supposed to do two bisou, not just the one, and leave people awkwardly leaning into the air and wondering what was wrong with me.

These days I envy young lesbian couples who stroll around arm-in-arm with affectionate confidence. I have never held my wife’s hand in public in case hordes of homophobes descend on us and beat us to death. I know this is ridiculous and the world has changed but unfortunately, I have not.

I confess that Covid-19 brings out my most paranoid instincts. Maybe this is partly because I remember vividly, though it’s over a decade ago now, a perfect summer evening at the Big Chill. The light was just beginning to fade. Music wafted over the field towards me. I was sitting watching some festival revellers go wild in their wellies. I’d a bit of a cold but I was determined not to let it ruin this precious weekend.

Suddenly I started coughing. My lungs tightened so I reached for my inhaler. But for the first time in my life, the small blue pump seemed to make no difference. My heart started to race as I shook and pressed again, sucking in desperately. It was a brand-new inhaler, why wasn’t it working?

I started to panic that I couldn’t breathe. A passing medic noticed my distress and rushed over with a supply of oxygen. I gulped and gasped in gratitude as sweet air entered my lungs. It occurred to me I should go home but I was performing myself in the morning. I’d be grand, of course, I’d be grand.

The next day I felt worse but the adrenaline of being on stage was the perfect cure. Then at the very end of my set, the tent suddenly lurched to the right and a blur of faces in the crowd spun past me. I stumbled but somehow finished without passing out. I rushed out into sunshine that hurt my eyes as my head felt as if it was about to explode.

What was wrong with me? I hadn’t even been able to have a drink the night before and I hadn’t touched any dodgy pills. I had to explain this many times over to sceptics as dizziness at a music festival is automatically assumed to be self-inflicted.

It turned out I had swine flu. When we got home, my wife rang the hospital because I’d gone a very strange shade of grey. But they were adamant I was not to come in because I’d only give it to other people. Instead, they dictated a prescription over the phone. I felt abandoned and it took me weeks to recover.

So now I find it hard when I arrive into work and one of my colleagues tells me, repeatedly, how she’s not worried, it’s all a big fuss about nothing. According to her, coronavirus is like catching a cold.

“Remember the Eighties when we were all supposed to be worrying about getting Aids,” she declares, “I never got infected.”

I’m tempted to reply that millions of people did, and before the discovery of HIV antivirals they died horrible, painful deaths. But I don’t because during this entire conversation, she is busy scrubbing every surface in the office with bacterial wipes. A classic case of the lady doth protest too much me thinks.

The next day, I go to the funeral of another colleague’s husband. He died suddenly at the age of 45, leaving six kids behind. I wonder if anyone will think about not shaking hands in the face of such grief. But by the end of the service, there are grown men in tears and plenty of hugging. Sometimes, maybe we need that physical contact, to feel ourselves held in an atmosphere of love and sorrow. It is a public display of how much a person’s life matters.

I have turned off my phone for the whole afternoon. Instead of constantly checking it, I think of how fragile humanity is and how much we should hold close those we care for.

When I switch it back on, I discover that people in China have now invented the Wuhan shake which involves tipping the ends of your feet. Others are perfecting the art of elbow tapping. In Iran, some construction workers bump their bums off each other. It’s hard not to smile.

There’s also a video of health workers in masks and gowns dancing together in an Iranian hospital. Dancing is forbidden in the Islamic Republic, so I am deeply admiring of their courage in the face of both illness and authoritarianism.

It makes me realise that even if none of these alternative displays of affection offer much protection, what they do show is how much humour and resilience there is in the world. I believe as human beings we will find new ways to greet each other as well as new ways to care for those who fall ill.

‘My wife rang the hospital because I’d gone a very strange shade of grey’