‘Only when something knocks on your own door do you realise the awfulness’

When I began writing this article, Covid restrictions were being lifted in Ireland. The chant of ‘return to normality’ echoed everywhere. We have lived through two years of a pandemic. Countless people have died. Some more than others have been forever affected. For them life will never be normal again. Not even a new normal will heal the wounds.

People died alone. Families of those ill in hospital or resident in nursing homes suffered anxiety for their loved ones from a distance or via a FaceTime call. People were buried with ten gathered by their graveside. Sons and daughters grieved alone. Husbands or wives had few hands to shake – no outstretched hand to grasp their own. The empty chair in the corner. The unset place at the table. Shoes at the back door, never to be filled. Slippers gathering dust under the bed. Sharing sadness and grief with friends and neighbours was no longer an option.

The legacy of Covid will be analysed in due course. But it’s safe to say the curtailment of our freedom, which we had taken for granted, impacted on our mental health. Remember when we had the 2km limit? I felt that restriction suffocating. Then, when it increased to 5km, it was like I’d won a get out of jail free card.

Those isolated in nursing homes suffered greatly. Immediate family members were only allowed a wave at a window to let their mother, father, granny or granddad know that they hadn’t been forgotten. Older people suffered this heartbreak in solitude. My family and I were spared the direct impact of this terrible isolation. That is, until my mother suffered a stroke on Jan 17 this year and was hospitalised. The week after that, restrictions were lifted, but hospital visit restrictions remained in place.

My 82-year-old mother, suffering the consequences of a stroke, was now lying in a bed surrounded by a sea of unfamiliar, harried and stressed faces. Did she feel alone? Was she terrified? I don’t know, because we couldn’t visit. My 86-year-old dad was left at home, lost without the woman who had been by his side for over 60 years. Lack of communication, through no fault of hospital staff who were out on their feet, was frustrating. The reality of not being able to see her was overwhelming for my dad.

After two years of Covid and its restrictions, our family was feeling the direct consequence of having a very ill mother in hospital. Over the following weeks I came to understand the feelings of helplessness endured by countless families who had gone through similar trauma during restrictions and lockdowns. Only when something knocks on your own door do you realise the awfulness of the situation experienced by others.

You have to live through it to understand it.

We had kept our parents cocooned. Safe. They’d done everything asked of them. But the lack of social interaction, outside of immediate family, was difficult. A lifetime of freedom had been snatched away in an instant. I think it was easier for young people to adapt to being restricted and in lockdown. I noticed this with my grandchildren. But for those living their later years, it was difficult to learn how to live a different way of life. But they did it without complaint.

It’s easy to not give a thought for how restrictions affect others. Being denied a visit to the pub in no way compares to seeing your elderly dad being separated from his ill wife. Having done everything right, eventually the consequences of the pandemic had caught up with my parents.

Following three weeks of hospital care, my mother is now back at home with dad, though life will never be the same for them.

The world has moved on, but once again they are confined to their home because of her illness. At least we are thankful they still have each other and their family.

Gratitude in the aftermath of tragedy and upheaval is vital. We owe our thanks to so many for getting us through the last two years. The heroic efforts of doctors, nurses, all the hospital staff who worked over and beyond what they ever envisaged they’d have to deal with. Retail workers who kept us with food on our table; pharmacy staff who ensured medicines were available. Refuse collectors, the gardaí, council and transport staff, and so many people who worked through it all to heal, serve and keep us safe.

From sitting on the sideline I thought I knew the consequences of the restrictions on individuals and families. I didn’t really get it until my own family was thrown on to the field of play. Only then did I truly come to understand the pressure of restrictions. Despite knowing these rules were necessary to prevent the spread of disease, it didn’t diminish the impact on individuals.

The restrictions are all but gone now, but the legacy of isolation and confinement will reverberate for years to come.

Buried Angels by Patricia Gibney is published by Sphere and available now

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