I’ve felt like a sitting duck for two years. Now I have Covid.
It’s been a week. My HHT symptoms are off the scale (lots and lots of nosebleeds). My youngest daughter had steroid injections in her surgery scar, which I had to stop three minutes into the procedure as she was screaming in pain. And this morning we both tested positive for Covid resulting in my own, long-awaited HHT diathermy laser surgery, scheduled for Tuesday next week, being cancelled.
Deeeeeeep breath. It’s fine. We’re fine. Our Covid symptoms so far include headaches, dizziness, sore throats and snotty noses. Basic flu symptoms, really. If this is the worst of it, we’ll count ourselves lucky.
Initially my two youngest we’re frightened when I said I had tested positive. Their lived experience of Covid is their Nan and Granddad catching it and Granddad becoming a ‘star in the sky’ just three days later. It’s still frightening.
We’ve done everything right. Vaccinated at the earliest opportunities. Washed our hands, kept our distance, wore the masks – and yet it’s still hunted us down.
Reassured, we’ve ordered more lateral flow tests, an Asda food shop and my mum stopped by to help top up the gas and electricity (yep, still on pre-pay metres in 2022, talk to me about budgeting!). We’ve got lots of clean pyjamas, Calpol, board games, art supplies, books and a decent sized garden. I’ve already explained why the kids can’t have their tech plugged in all day every day. Cheers, Rikshi!
It’s Mother’s Day this Sunday. We didn’t have anything in particular planned but with the fine weather set to last and the BBQ dusted off, it would’ve been nice to get the family together to celebrate my mum. It made me realise how gutting it’s been for couples who have spent thousands on weddings only to have them cancelled once, twice, three times. The families who’ve missed big birthdays or had to watch funerals of loved ones on Zoom. The front line staff who have had their lives turned upside down knowing the government couldn’t care less. It’s such a shit storm, isn’t it?
Into isolation we go.
Kate Reilly James 