Response free of sympathy

So, after two and a bit years of oh-maybe-I’mone-of-those-magical-immune-pixies, I got Covid. Ironically, after living in the ground-zerosuper-spreader-city-Auckland and working in a nightclub every weekend, I got it in Wellington.

My eyes ached, my head ached, my whole body ached. It felt like someone had been twanging on every nerve, like an over enthusiastic harp player at their first hotel high tea. I had fatigue, fever, and sweated so much you’d think I had an ornamental water feature in my mattress.

I texted my family WhatsApp chat deliriously, unashamedly punting for sympathy. I was expecting at least one long text fussing over me. After all, a year ago my family were swapping selfies of us all wiping down our groceries with Dettol…

Not so much as an emoji. A day later I got an “oh bummer”. Man. I got a bigger reaction the last time I put up a shelf in the bathroom. But it turns out the lack of public sympathy is pretty much ubiquitous now.

See, if you’re like me (ie lucky to be statistically unremarkable from a health professional point of view) and you get Covid this late in the game … you’re about to discover that no-one really cares.

Especially in Auckland, it’s gone from a cultural cue to send cake-carrying carrier pigeons, to being more akin to having haemorrhoids. It’s painful and inconvenient … but we’ve all been there, buddy. When can you come in?

It’s strange because while culturally we’re underplaying it, medically it still feels rubbish. If you haven’t had it, you’re likely in for 14 days of feeling like you’ve been shipwrecked and crawling ashore wearing a heavy denim boiler suit and a sandpaper balaclava.

And, while face down in the sand, trying to respond to emails that began with, “Hey, hope you’re feeling better, can you just take a look at this for me… ?”

That’s what happens after six months of saying oh-it’s-just-a-bad-cold. We’re now expecting you to treat it like a cold, ie go to bed but still work from home a little bit. That and the fact that Kiwis always underplay everything. You could be kidnapped by a satanic cult and have your liver removed at a masked orgy and, when asked how your weekend was, say “yeah, fine”.

But the thing is, while Omicron is milder than previous strains, that’s not the same as being mild. And look, I know why we say it is. Most of us have had it, and can remember it from a place of detached, retrospective stoicism. Plus the mood has shifted because it’s undeniably a helluva relief to stop yelling, “Stay inside or you’ll die,” and start shrugging, “yeah, nah, she’ll be right, eh”. So I am enjoying this relative nonchalance after two taught, overwrought years. (And if we’re lucky enough to have no underlying conditions, this is a far less severe situation than it was two years ago.)

But still. It’s not a cold, however much we want it to be. So if you know someone who has just got it, tell them to take it easy. I’m not going to say “be kind!” I know the phrase makes you want to stab someone with a nasal swab. Maybe just tell them to turn their phone off.

And, if you’ve just arrived late to the positive party, for the love of god take it easy. I know we’ve morphed the idea of working-through-the-pain into a matter of national pride, ever since Wayne Shelford’s infamous torn scrotum. But this isn’t rugby, you’re not Shelford, and Omicron isn’t something you should just push through.

Just go to bed, eat Marmite toast, and feel sorry for yourself for a while.