Getting Covid, a tale of three RAT tests
RAT I
Following instructions has never been my forte. Writing them in the tiniest font possible is hardly an incentive, either. I suppose the possibility of mid-50s men getting Covid-19 never really occurred to the manufacturers. It’s only those with 20/20 eyesight who need to use the product.
My wife hovers, considerably sicker than I am and already a veteran of the testing process. She’s yet to be ‘ratted out’ as it were but it hasn’t been for want of trying. I assume the demeanour of a toddler and let her tell me what to do. Nose blown, hands washed, the little test tube thingy is propped up in the cardboard box.
I poke and prod a nostril whilst Janine gives precise instructions on depth and angle.
The long thin swab is thrust into the vial like the procreative act in microcosm, twirled around a tad then left to sit in the juices.
We pour the fertilised result into yet another hunk of plastic and hope for the best.
How long does a pregnancy test take? The RAT boffins suggest around 15 minutes before you can peek. I’m not sure of the politics involved in comparing the two.
Once upon a time motherhood was the exclusive preserve of, well, mothers.
These days, according to a midwife friend, the nomenclature has shifted.
The correct term is ‘birthing person’. It’s an advance foretold in a particularly prescient scene in Monty Python’s Life of Brian (1979). How wonderful that women are now sharing. A feminist dream come true.
Anyway, I digress. After the allotted quarter-hour the result is but a single line, the disinterested Mr Control.
As a family, we are disappointed. It’s hugs all round and a stoic, largely unspoken agreement to try again later.
The need to reconcile one’s symptoms with one’s results is a part of the wider Covid story that goes unsung.
Obviously, you tend not to test if you do not feel crook.
If the wife is coughing and spluttering and you’ve attended an event together after which other folk are falling like flies too, you don’t have to wear a funny hat, smoke a funny pipe and use cocaine on the sly to draw conclusions. Superspreader, anyone?
I’ve been admonished on social media for not having the science to back up such claims but the Waikato Film Hub Cinema Quiz, a Friday night bit of fun, turned into one of the most dramatic evenings of my life. One of our team, a robust educator, emerged unscathed. Two others subsequently had worst suspicions confirmed. Our most senior member was not seen again.
RAT II
The official website is consulted. How well do I do on the checklist? The olfactory functions remain intact but this is exception, not rule. I score highly in all other areas, especially ‘‘malaise – a general feeling of discomfort, illness or unease’’.
Previously, as a student of existentialism, I had put this down to a run-of-the-mill midlife crisis, bemoaning the fact that I had insufficient funds to acquire a sports car, motorbike or leather jacket. It’s somehow comforting to have an excuse to be pissed off at the world.
How thoughtful of government officials to provide a description of ‘‘diarrhoea’’. It’s one of those unusual words that aren’t spelt the way they are pronounced. The less literate among us are grateful for the bracketed explanation ‘‘runny poos’’. Best to be clear as possible in such things.
As a small businessman who runs the show mostly by himself, it behoves me to put public health before (the attempt at) profit and close up shop.
Those few remaining enthusiasts for physical media to be found in the Waikato must fend for themselves for a few days.
I’ll put my feet up and watch some of those movies I’ve been putting off for years.
Things don’t work out. It’s impossible to comprehend Masaki Kobayashi’s ninehour trilogy, The Human Condition (1959-1961), whilst experiencing ‘‘malaise – a general feeling of discomfort, illness or unease’’. Covid is not art house friendly.
Janine tests positive. She alerts the world, putting an Anglo-Saxon expletive to exceptionally good use on Facebook. The world is sympathetic.
RAT III
I am overwhelmed by the kindness of strangers. Folk who ring up Auteur House with inquiries about this or that film respond to news of our closure with offers of food delivery. Nothing is too much trouble for a disembodied voice on the other end of the line whom they have not met before.
Just over a century ago, during the Spanish Flu pandemic, Hamiltonians rallied around at genuine risk of life, assisting their neighbours in time of need. The same spirit persists today.
We have no real need of assistance outside the family. Janine’s ‘‘malaise – a general feeling of discomfort, illness or unease’’ has not precluded her from placing a supermarket order, which is duly delivered. Janine’s mother, a saint, leaves a steady supply of orange juice and assorted treats at the back door.
My culinary expertise extends to warming canned soup for lunch. A new routine, so foreign to one accustomed to a seven-day toil, is established.
If sophisticated cinema is out, the pleasing simplicities of Hollywood revenge melodrama correspond nicely to reduced energy levels. Rolling Thunder (1977), a tale of wronged Vietnam veterans bringing the war home, improbably one of Quentin Tarantino’s favourites, is enjoyed so much that it suggests that the virus must have already done its worst.
I prepare for my third RAT. Now an expert, in complete command of the process, things proceed swiftly and with confidence. I delve deep into the nostril, to the point where a sneeze is imminent. This time I will nail it. The third time will be the charm.
Having poured the solution out and set the time piece, I walk away and let the magic happen.
Fifteen minutes later, Mr Control mocks me, a solitary line at odds with ongoing symptoms. If you have to fail a test, better a RAT than any other.
Dr Richard Swainson runs Hamilton’s last DVD rental store and is a weekly contributor to the Waikato Times history page.