For a little while – perhaps because I was an early case to come out of hospital – I became “that Covid bloke”, asked to share my experience in print, on radio and on TV. I was happy to do it, but I’m not sure how long I want to be that (ultimately) happy “good news” story.
Because, as we all know, almost nothing about this Covid calamity is good news. As I recover, my elation at being alive is developing into something else. Determination. And fury.
Here below (image clicks through to the BBC’s twitter) is me talking to Victoria Derbyshire recently about my hospital experience – and, although she invites me to talk about my anger, I don’t really take it. More fool me. I should have leapt at the chance.
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PS – I articulate some of that fury for you here. No extra charge!
Ask a scientist or a mathematician, as I have done, what those eleven fateful days in March cost us.
You won’t like the answer.
It has kept me up, my mind spinning like it does when I’ve had too much caffeine, half the night.
The eleven days in question are 12th – 23rd March. Eleven days in which the government decided to give up with contact tracing and do, well, nothing. Mass gatherings were still allowed (because “science”). Concerts and racing and Champions’ League football. Pubs. Public transport. Everything. The over-70s, it must be conceded, were advised to avoid cruises.
Medics in Italy screamed – Do something! Don’t make our mistakes! Are you blind? Look at what happens if you leave it too late!
In those eleven days, our government decided there was nothing to be done. We wrestled open-mouthed with the ideas of “taking it on the chin” and “letting it pass through the community” and “herd immunity”.
Then the government realised that this “strategy” might produce upwards of 250,000 deaths in the UK. It woke up. And it locked down. Not very firmly, it has to be said, compared with other European countries. But still.
The eleven days during which our government decided there was nothing it could do include the days during which I was asymptomatic with CV-19. I’m confident I picked up my infection on a packed train from Northallerton to London, on March 8th. I had no idea. In the following few days, of maximum infectiousness, I went to King’s College Hospital for a routine ultrasound. A medic there reckoned all the fuss and fear was unnecessary – It’s just like ‘flu, isn’t it? (Remember those days? It’s just like ‘flu!)
I went to shops and cafes and took my kids to school. On 12th March, with our government saying there was nothing to be done and abandoning us to the virus, I tried to buy hand sanitiser, but it was all gone. I went to the Post Office to pay £3 for underpayment of postage on a mystery item, which turned out to be a small tin of Love Heart sweets, a late present for my daughter’s birthday. I passed my credit card to the post office worker to show my ID. At the pharmacy I signed the back of my prescription using a communal pen tied to the till with string. I went to our tiny, closely-aisled Tesco’s. Etc, etc. All the time, I was anxious about catching this invisible virus which was already wreaking such havoc in Italy. I had no idea that my selfish fears were pointless. I had already caught it. I wasn’t catching it. I was spreading it.
The very thought of it is chastening. I probably spread my infection to others using the post office, the pen at the pharmacy, the keypad at the little Tesco’s. I made them ill. I had no idea, of course. No symptoms at all. But I may have killed people. Let’s be honest, almost certainly I infected people, who infected others, who infected still more… and “my” viral spreading will have cost some people their lives. Some families their loved ones.
It doesn’t bear thinking about. It makes me sick. But I had no way of knowing. These were the early days of Covid in the UK. It was still a virus that was “over there” and not here. It was still a virus for older people, not healthy-ish guys in their fifties. Towards the end of those eleven days, on March 19th or 20th, I was starting to realise I had a problem. On the day the government woke up and finally put the UK into lockdown, it was already too late for me. I was gasping for breath and (foolishly) resisting advice to go to hospital. The next day I was in an ambulance, back to King’s. A hospital now completely transformed in the interim since my scan visit. Eerily quiet, and apparently entirely given over to Covid. There seemed to be a massive dissonance between the government’s blasé, laissez-faire public stance, and the complete reorganization of an entire London teaching hospital, impressively ready for the likes of me to start arriving in great numbers. The hospitals knew. They did something. The government must also have known. They did nothing.
Back to those mathematicians and scientists. What did those eleven days of our government standing frozen in the headlights cost us? How many cases? How many lives lost? If I am guilty of spreading the deadly virus, however unwittingly, how about the government? They knew people like me would be going about their business without symptoms, and spreading the virus. They decided to do nothing. How many cases did they, with this knowledge, allow to happen in those eleven days? How many lives did they, with this knowledge, allow to be lost?
The folks who understand maths warn me of all manner of caveats and assumptions. Sure. It’s going to be a highly inexact science. But roughly? Ten per cent? Twenty? Fifty?
No. The answer is somewhere around two thirds. Maybe more. Maybe a lot more. Basically most of them. Basically most of the cases. Basically most of the deaths. Most of the horrible sickness and dread. Most of the loved ones lost.*
Incredible, isn’t it? Thousands of people suffering or dying or grieving because of those eleven arrogant, stupid, murderous days.
Of course we’d have had cases, come what may. My own included. But, had there been a lockdown, I wouldn’t have been out and about and unknowingly spreading. That’s the point.
So now what? First: be clear about the truth. Hold onto it. If anger ensues – and how could it not? – feel the anger. Direct the blame. Murderous, criminal decisions must be seen for what they are. Hold those responsible to account. If anyone tells you not to politicise, or that “now is not the time”, or that you are not an expert, so your opinion is not valid, ignore them. They are gaslighting you. This happened. It really happened. Retain your clarity. Focus your rage. Articulate it.
But of course, we can’t go back. So second: learn from this truth. Learn that our government is incompetent and dishonest. Learn that our government CAN cost us and our loved ones our lives. Demand, then, honesty. Clarity. And – now, right now – demand transparency about the plan (if there is one) for the future, for moving out of lock down. Insist, if and when that plan materialises, that it makes sense. Insist that it does not just take us back to where we were in those eleven days, waving a white flag at the virus and hoping it will be kind to us. Do not allow patently absurd policies to be defended by debate-stifling claims that they are based on “the” science. That can’t wash any more.
Because those eleven days show us that our government has form. Left to its own bewildering devices, it makes terrible decisions. Even now, it fails, daily, to deliver on its promises to the NHS. We’re approaching peak and we don’t have the tests. We don’t have the masks, we don’t have the gloves and we don’t have the gowns. The Treasury talks a big talk on the economy, but only a tiny fraction of its advertised bailout measures have actually been delivered. Parliament is not sitting and the daily Downing Street briefings have become a platform not for the dissemination of unadorned public health information, but for ministers to defend appalling records and then bat away the Skype-garbled questions of journalists, as if this were just everyday politics, and not the crisis – literally – of our lives..
So it is up to us all to challenge, to question, to argue, all day long. It is not “unhelpful” or unpatriotic or whatever else the gaslighters will want us to feel. It is our right. It is our duty. Our lives, our friends’ lives, our families’ lives may very well depend on it.
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*I’m not sharing the calculations. They’re so rough. I bet there will be researchers somewhere whose curiosity will have had them working on some harder numbers, based on data and good modelling. I guess it could take months for the data to be solid enough. Meanwhile, I encourage them to be brave and share their initial findings.
Why aren’t the British people furious? As we sit sheepishly indoors, in fear, for ourselves and our loved ones – and, increasingly, in mourning – with no realistic prospect of an end to lockdown, wondering just how sky-high these appalling death tolls will go, wondering how our economy will look if and when the new dawn comes, wondering how to earn money in the meantime, wondering how, safely, even to buy food, why aren’t we screaming blue murder at our embarrassing, disgraceful, criminally-negligent excuse for a government?
It’s not, I think, that the PM wound up in hospital and by some accounts nearly died – though that did give us pause. Even his detractors were shaky when he went into hospital, including, I’ll admit, me. But, human-story distraction though that was, it’s not the underlying story.
I suggest the real reason we are not, yet, furious is that we are being successfully played on two, related fronts. First, we’re being told “now is not the time” to challenge leaders and scrutinise their choices. [E.g. Lucy Allan MP’s tweet, pictured. And a number of other MPs tweeted along similar lines, in what was clearly an instruction from Conservative HQ.] We are not, for instance, to question their reliance on “the” science, even if that science might appear to be entirely at odds with the science of the World Health Organisation, other countries, and common sense. To express concern is to be unpatriotic, is to undermine the “Herculean” collective effort, even to undermine the NHS and our heroes on the front line, just when they need our support most.
Clever.
Scrutiny, then, is not for now, while we’re in the thick of crisis. The unspoken implication is that there’ll be a time for questions later, when the hurly-burly’s done; then (but only then) there can be investigations and inquiries. As if inquiries ever proved to be anything other than lost balls and long grass.
Second, we’re being invited to think of our country as being “at war” with the virus. [E.g. “We must act like any wartime government.” – Johnson, 17 Mar 20. “This national battle” – Johnson, Easter Sunday.] This language also inspires – and demands – unity, stifling healthy criticism and debate. After all, we are, surely, together in this. We must all play our part. Undermining leadership at a time of war is tantamount to treason. It takes a brave soul to speak up, to put his or her head above the parapet in such circumstances. But it’s a false notion of course. The virus doesn’t know who we are. It does not think it has “the UK” in its sights. There is no war. The language and metaphor of war is being deployed, not to make our situation clearer or easier to understand, but to insulate those responsible for serial failures from scrutiny and blame.
Clearly these are related tactics, deliberately designed simultaneously to deflect blame and silence the masses. And, so far, they are working. If surveys [e.g. by YouGov] are to be believed, a startling number of us feel the Government is doing a good job. Friends, let’s see this for what it is, expose it, and fight back. Thousands of us are dying every day. How many of those deaths are down to incredible paucity of leadership? If we are not to be angry now, then when?
This post brings together two twitter threads I wrote today:
1. Now is not the time.
Now is not the time to ask Where are the masks and the gowns?
Now is not the time to ask Where are the tests?
Now is not the time to ask Why don’t the tests work?
Now is not the time to ask why we’ve bought millions more tests – and they don’t work, either.
Now is not the time to ask Where are the Rolls Royce ventilators?
Now is not the time to ask Where are the Dysons?
Now is not the time to discuss pay rises for nurses.
Now is not the time to ask when the financial support – if it is real – will actually arrive?
Now is not the time to ask Why didn’t we act earlier, when we knew this was coming?
Now is not the time to challenge the government.
Now is not the time for Parliament to be recalled.
Now is not the time for journalists to challenge Ministers.
Now is not the time to ask why ‘herd immunity’ was a serious strategy.
Now is not the time to ask, lockdowns aside, whether ‘herd immunity’ is not still the strategy.
Now is not the time to ask How do we actually get out of this?
Now is not the time to ask Who’s actually in charge?
Now is not the time to depress people.
Now is not the time to frighten people.
Now is not the time.
Now is not the time to ask whether our loved ones, in their thousands, needed to die.
Now is not the time to ask How many more of our loved ones need to die?
Now is not the time.
2. I’d call it a war, too
I’d call it a war, too, if I wanted to characterise myself as Churchill. If I wanted people to look outwards, somewhere else, over there, to a conveniently invisible enemy, and rally blindly behind me.
If I wanted to deflect responsibility for my hollow words, my failure to deliver even basic testing, masks and gloves. If I wanted to divert attention away from my arrogant denial of the threat, even though it was clearly coming.
I’d call it a war, too, if I wanted to divert attention away from my murderous, eugenicist, early policy of “herd immunity”. From my lies about being “guided by the science” while ignoring the advice of the WHO and countries already in crisis.
I’d call it a war, too, if I wanted to divert attention away from the complete absence of an exit plan, from my failure to put in place the infrastructure of tracing, home testing and domestic monitoring so that lockdown could actually one day end.
From my ideological refusal to accept help from, or co-operate with, the EU, even if it costs British lives. From my party’s failure to back the NHS for a full decade, its decimation of the police, social care and so many front-line services we now know are literally vital.
I’d call it a war too, if I thought I might get (and deserve) the blame for leading a country towards the highest death rate in Europe. I’d call it a war, too, if I were playing any part in this murderous, inhuman government of spin, lies and criminal negligence.
I’d call it a war, too, if the language of a common, external, military enemy were my last shield, my only hope, the only remaining explanation for the blood of thousands of fellow citizens on my hands.
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Top image added 27/1/21 – sadly now is still not the time.
This article has also appeared in The Observer and The Daily Telegraph.
I Week of 9th March, 2020
My symptoms were almost non-existent at first. One night, I had a bout of chills. I thought I must have turned the heating down lower than I intended. I went to bed with the shivers, and didn’t think too much about it.
Of course, given the circumstances, I checked my temperature regularly in the next 48 hours. I was on the lookout for anything above 100F/37.8C. But I had nothing that high. No cough either. Paracetamol and carry on.
Three days in, I dropped my daughter at a party and got both time and venue wrong. But I was still thinking I was just ‘below par’. I walked with a friend and her dogs in the park near the kids’ party venue. (A third parent, hearing about my “low grade fever”, elected not to join us – wisely, as it turned out.)
Five days in, still no real fever or cough. But I was beginning to feel seriously tired. My eyes were closing at the dinner table. We decided to pull the kids from school, but mostly because we were worried about catching the virus – not because we thought I already had it.
A week in and it became clear. My temperature started hitting 102F. I was gulping down the paracetamol at exactly six hour intervals. A horrible metallic taste in my mouth. Didn’t want to eat anyway. Drinking but only because I knew I had to. Very weak – could barely hold a cup. Still no cough.
I wasn’t moving, but when I did, I began to realise that I was breathless. Climbing the stairs had become too hard, so I wasn’t going down in the first place. No cough, but I have a feeling I was suppressing it – if I didn’t have the cough, my subconscious reasoned, I didn’t have Covid. I didn’t want Covid. Not least because on the very day my symptoms began, my GP had called and warned me that, without a spleen (another story) I might be at greater risk of “complications”. I didn’t like the sound of that.
So I think I moved little, so as to require little breath. Same went for talking. Less talking, less breathlessness. However a GP returned my partner’s call on Day 10, and reached me. She said, “Sorry, but you sound breathless,” and recommended visiting A&E. I hated that idea and limped on for another day. Then we tried the 111.com symptom-checker. It quickly said, “Call 999.” We discussed changing some answers in order to get a less alarming result, but it was now Day 12 and we clearly weren’t managing at home. We called 999.
The ambulance crew thought I was okay. They couldn’t hear anything in my chest. But even with oxygen support, my “sats” (oxygen saturation in blood) were low. The crew took me to nearby King’s. King’s now seems to be wholly given over to Covid. There was a long wait. My crew were told all the other “blue call” patients were like me. And the ambulances just seemed to keep coming.
Inside, passing a bizarre welcoming committee of perhaps fifteen people (what were they for?), I was taken to A&E “resus”, where they put in lines, administered antibiotics, x-rayed my chest, wired me up to monitors, took blood (including arterial blood – ouch) and left pretty much no part of me unpoked. Not fun, but all pretty standard I expect.
The swabs for Covid involved a deep back-of-the-throat cotton bud swipe; I gagged, but whatever. And a nasal swipe which made me cry out – the thing is thrust right up your nose and seemingly (as a doctor later put it) into your mind. Whatever. You know you’re up shit creek. A little discomfort is neither here nor there, but still, you wouldn’t want that again in a hurry.
I was to be taken to a way-station ward, pending Covid test result, before heading onto a Covid ward suitable for my situation at the time. They had ventilators, I was reassured. At least, I think it was intended as reassurance. Meanwhile, a wait.
The noise was spectacular, like being in an episode of ER with full surround sound, with relentless bleeping and digital alarms, some from my own monitors, and some from others. Announcements on the PA. Staff shouting. Patients shouting. Night wore on, and the discomfort was spectacular too. I was on a trolley, not a bed, and I could not find a way to stop my lower back screaming with pain (I’d been suffering with this back for days already.) Eventually, many hours later, a wonderful nurse sensed my distress and ordered a bed to be brought in, and rolled me onto it. Soft and electrically adjustable, reclining onto this bed was like landing in the Ritz.
The abiding memory was the flow of patients: I could hear everything, and every arrival involved a handover from the ambulance crew. “Here is Robert, a 57 year-old male, complaining of breathlessness… sats… tenth day of possible Covid symptoms… etc etc.” So many guys – all men — and so many with stories like mine.
I was able to watch the staff at work. For the most part, it was deeply impressive. The professionalism and the sheer effort. Every time someone approached my bed, they had to put on fresh gloves and gown, then throw them away and wash, and put on fresh ones to work in the central area. Then all over again if they needed to approach you. Which was of course every few minutes. Exhausting just to watch.
There were some moments. One female staffmember seemed to have forgotten her mask and was wearing her cardigan in the ward. Her colleagues called her out very quickly. A couple of times I noticed staff chatting round a PC, and one just couldn’t keep her mask on any more. She lifted it off to chat. Maybe the heat or the pressure on the skin; couldn’t blame her, but what a risk to take.
My way-station ward bed seemed to have been forgotten about. Others came and went. After perhaps 12 hours I was wheeled out. I thanked a young nurse from Lancashire – she’d provided most of my care with diligence and compassion – from the bottom of my heart, and I knew I would remember her name for the rest of my days. To my deep shame, I lost my grip on her name in the next few hours, and now it’s gone.
I was wheeled with a lot of crashing upstairs to the holding ward. I joked that my porter might have had a drink. He did not laugh. Remember we were all masked up. I had seen two faces, very briefly, in all the time I’d been there – the staff who had momentarily been without masks. You can’t make a joke like that behind masks. No one can see you smile, and you can’t read reactions.
Moving through the hospital, which I know usually to be teeming, was so strange. Nobody anywhere. Every door locked. Obviously there were people, behind doors, somewhere, quietly trying to live, quietly monitoring the just-about living. A weird absent-presence.
The way-station ward was a commandeered private ward. I had privacy and quiet. After the tumult of A&E, it was luxury. Out of the window was scaffolding and a building site, with no sign of life, and no sky. I felt horribly cut off. At least in A&E there had been people. Masked people, whose personalities I could not read. But people nonetheless. I knew which I preferred: people. But I also knew I needed rest. I tried to get some.
But there were constant arrivals. A nurse came in and said she needed to swab me. I said I’d done that. She said, “This is different,” and did nasal, throat, groin and (charming) anus – “Why?” I asked. “MRSA,” she said. There were more tests, injections, God knows. I lost track and stopped caring, focusing only on the delicious oxygen hissing fast up my nose.
Then there was a doctor and a junior. They looked at me, if I read their eyes correctly, with pity. They stood tensely before me. Their body language spoke of tragedy. They explained that my Covid test would come back soon and then I would be moved to a ward for confirmed patients. I reached for some sort of comfort or hope: “The funny thing is, I feel like I could eat for the first time; in some ways I’m better.” “Yes, but you can have good days,” replied the doctor. There was, it seemed, no reason for hope – not even feeling better. This was surreal. I knew they were telling me my prognosis was bad, but they couldn’t even dress it up. Before he went, the doctor asked if I was related to Anthony Minghella. “Yes,” I said. “Your dad?” “No, brother.” “Oh. And now you’ve become the title of his film.” And they left.
So I was the eponymous English Patient. I’m sure it was generously intended, but the English Patient is dying. The English Patient has no hope. The English Patient has “this much lung” left, and eventually has to ask Hana to give him several capsules of morphine to send him on his way.
II
As the door closes I realise what has just happened. I’m determined to fight, to try to live for my kids and my partner and my family; I’m brave and I’m going to be braver. But they’ve just told me, in body language, in silences, in corrected optimism, in unfortunate metaphor, that I may not live. Right here, right now, I may not live. Presumably they’ve reviewed my chest x-ray? Have they seen the lungs of a man who has no chance? If the lungs had seemed okay, why no mention?
There is only one reasonable conclusion: assume the worst. I have to write my farewells to my children. Really. Now. With whatever energy might still remain. I am exhausted, but I disconnect myself from the oxygen mains, and find my laptop. There isn’t much power. I start with my youngest, Rosa, 11, and begin the lamest of loving celebrations of this fine young lady. Her talents, her faultless observations, her kindness and her modesty, the way she reminds me in some of her far-away looks of my much-adored Mum. I apologise for not being there to see the next steps in her journey. Every cheesy line tears at my heart and I am so so tired and so despondent. I know I won’t have the strength to manage letters to all four of the kids, let alone my amazing partner, Sarah, and my large and wonderful family. At best I will manage something for the two younger kids. It seems so pathetic. Is this the best I can do? Is this all that’s left in me, two short valedictions?
My phone is still working and I make reassuring calls. Everyone is kind! I’m feeling okay on the oxygen! I’m feeling better! I could even eat something! My temperature was low just now! What good is the truth, when your loved ones cannot visit you? You cannot dump despair down the line.
It wouldn’t be fair.
None of it is fair. To die without family close by. A hand to hold. Without comfort even from a nurse, from a person who can smile at you without a mask. The isolation seems so cruel. In the history of mankind, has death ever been so lonely and bleak? At least in times of plague, the dying could presumably see a whole face.
I have asked my niece, a lawyer, to investigate emergency marriage. Our assets are already jointly held, but why not make it as financially smooth as possible for Sarah? I should have done this long ago, but I wasn’t calculating on an untimely demise. The investigation is not very promising: it is possible to be married in hospital, but only if recovery is not expected, and in any case it is not clear whether practitioners can marry infectious patients; weddings generally are currently suspended; and of course Covid patients are denied visitors of any kind. Doesn’t seem likely to happen. Dammit.
A friend, Karen, gamely brings a bag from home and deposits it at reception. Chargers and cables. Lifelines. My electric toothbrush. Somehow a clean mouth seems critical. My “mouthguard” for apnea, which, if I could rest, would allow me to sleep more deeply. A hastily-drawn but nevertheless precious pencil drawing of me by my youngest, Rosa. And her fluffy lump of a toy, Pusheen, which she knows I love.
I put Pusheen on my table. Every time to the door opens I tense, ready to be moved to the ward of the weak, the open-plan coughers, the tragic losers. I have ear plugs from home. I don’t want to hear the coughing. I don’t want to overhear the nurses’ conversations. I’ll need to block out pity and demise. They won’t help me cling to life.
I am not moved. Two nurses come and swab me again. Gagging into the throat, then right up the nose and, again, into the mind. There’s no explanation, but I can only assume that it’s another Covid test, and the first one came back, as the doctor had warned it might, negative. I guess I will have another night in this room while the second test goes through the system. I start to think: I’m breathing here on this oxygen. I’m getting no worse here. Maybe I should try to stay here. Maybe limbo trumps purgatory. Apart from anything else, what if there’s no signal in this new ward? It’s already not great on the edge of the first floor. The phone feels like it’s all I have.
When the doctor comes in next day (although I’m losing track of the days now) he confirms the first test didn’t work. He repeats that when the new test confirms Covid, I’ll be moved, and we probably won’t see each other again. I point to Rosa’s Pusheen and say I have to come through this, because I have four children, two still young. I’m hoping the doctor will say don’t worry. He doesn’t. He wishes me a good day, turns stiffly and leaves, his entourage washing hands and exiting. The last of the juniors is washing his hands when I say again, “My daughter’s only eleven.” He turns to me and confides, “I wouldn’t worry if I were you.”
Thank God! Finally someone is going to tip me the wink – you’re going to be all right. Finally a crumb of comfort. “The worldwide data shows that hardly any patient under ten has died. If your daughter is eleven, she is not going to die.” I explain that it’s not my daughter dying I’m worried about; it’s her losing her father. “Oh I see,” he says, and leaves.
As the day wanes, I wait for the door to crash open and a team to take me to the Covid ward. I’m starting to dread it. I am still alive here. Don’t take me to the place where they die. The door crashes open and an excited lady shouts, “Dominic, come on!” She has a wheelchair. She’s taking me to have a CT scan. I don’t know what this is about, and nor, it transpires, does she. She’s just doing a favour. I don’t think she even works in this hospital; she has no idea where to go, but she heard I had scan slot and would miss it if nobody could take me. She’s volunteered. Off we go, a canister of oxygen tucked under my seat. It is amazing to see the hospital. Again, dead. But with that sense of life being clung to, somewhere just offscreen. Beating, hoping hearts. As invisible as the virus.
My volunteer eventually finds the CT scan office and quickly wheels me in. About fifteen people look up to see us coming and scream in unison, “Not in here!” I’m infectious and she is wheeling me directly into their office.
The scan is quick and I’m back in my room. I have no idea what’s going on. I’m waiting to be moved. Nobody comes. The nurses do my observations and drugs. I figure I should try to sleep while I have the peace of a room, and not dwell on what is to come. Easier said than done. But I do get some sleep. It might be the first sleep in several days. The dreams are spectacular and terrible.
In the morning, I’m still here. In all senses. A nurse enters and we discuss the flow of oxygen, which has been pleasingly fast. “Actually, you’re down to 3,” he says. I don’t know when that happened. Which I suppose is a good thing. A nadge less oxygen, and I didn’t notice. That is Good, right? More than Good.
“We’ll just titrate that down to 1 now” he says. I’m exhilarated. But 1 is the same as nothing. There is hardly any of the good stuff coming out now. I want to breathe unaided, but this is too far, too fast. He is unconcerned, and goes. I bring the call button close.
The doctor and his juniors appear again. I learn the second test also didn’t work, and the CT scan I suppose was a way to confirm diagnosis with a detailed look at the lungs. Apparently my lungs show all the signs associated with Covid, with an extra layer of “scrunched-upness” – “It’s as if you’ve been suppressing the cough.” “I think I have,” I confess, “on the basis that if I don’t cough, I don’t have Covid; and if I don’t have Covid, I can’t die.” Behind their masks, I’m pretty sure they think I’m nuts. Who can blame them?
“Anyway I’m feeling great,” I say. It’s kind of true. “I’ve had a full day without temperature spikes. I’m eating. Even the so-called risotto!” (I have posted jokingly on Facebook about the King’s kitchen’s idea of “risotto” being an offence to all Italy. In fact it’s pretty good, but I preferred the joke to the truth, which is itself a Good Sign, right?) “I’ve been having a bit of a sing,” I say. That’s a bit of a lie, but I want to communicate something – along the lines of I’m breathing, and this oxygen thing, now it’s on 1, is pretty much pointless – essentially I’m breathing unaided here, so maybe instead of waiting for yet more Covid results, can’t I go home?
He says it for me: “You’re singing? Really? How about we think about sending you home?”
“Sure,” I say, stunned. “That could work.” I try not to say any more; say more and I might say the wrong thing. Suppress the chat, mate. Scrunch up the lung. Home? No purgatory ward? No steady decline of the lungs, no progression from trickle oxygen to full-mask to ventilator? I’ll take that.
Several hours later, I’m released without fanfare. I want to thank the staff. I want to hug them. I want to bid them an emotional farewell. But they barely look up from their stations. I’m going. They most definitely are here for the long term. For the surge we all know is coming. There is no goodbye.
A nurse takes the time to walk me down to the main entrance. She wears no mask, and neither do I. I can see her face. I can’t quite believe it. I tell her. She probably thinks it’s a come-on. As we approach the entrance, all around there are faces. Not just eyes, and impossible-to-read expressions. Beautiful, beautiful, whole faces.
I want to hold and kiss every one of them. That was one of the very hardest things, I realise: not being able to see a face. The desperate and absolute lack of human camaraderie and comfort. The medics’ fears and yours, locked behind masks. The extraordinary isolation. In just days without a face to connect with, you lose your mind. I know because in just days I lost mine.
When my partner hugs me in the car, I cannot look at her. We drive past people queuing for a shop, standing too close to one another. I want to wind down the window and shout, “Get the fuck away from each other!” But I can’t – I don’t have the lung-power. When we arrive in our street, there is blossom. Magnolia. So beautiful. As we pull up outside our house, I realise I thought I might never see it again. Our house! We pile in, all four of us, and split the way all families do on returning home. I curl up on the sofa and I start to shudder and sob. It’s probably not the homecoming my loved ones were imagining. There is no dancing. Not even a smile. My lungs are on fire and – worse – my mind, it appears, is shot.
But I’m back. Dear God in heaven, I am back.
III
Thank you to Sarah for nursing me while I was at home, and holding the fort while I wasn’t. Partners suffer without being the focus of everyone’s concern. Thank you to my ambulance crew – two utterly gorgeous people. Thank you to the staff at King’s, for the extraordinary efforts to which they went for me, and for the same efforts they are going to now for others. It is truly heroic. If I did not get the reassurances I wanted, of course I understand that there were other calls – as it turned out, probably far more pressing – on your time. Special mention to my Lancastrian A&E nurse whose name I disgracefully forgot. Thank you to my kids, Dante, Louisa, Giorgio and Rosa. You are thoroughly, deeply and eternally loved and may you never have to receive a half-baked, beyond-the-grave letter from your Dad! Thank you to my immediate family who organised top-flight prayers and masses and Lord knows what to be said for me; every imaginable intercession was requested and, whether you have faith or not, you can’t argue with the outcome. Thanks especially to my sister, “Nurse” Edana, who remains calm, it has now been proven, through the roughest medical storms. Thanks to the wonderful friends who contacted me, sent love and crazy videos, photographs, playlists – anything and everything they could think of to amuse, distract and sustain me. I couldn’t really reply, but boy, did I feel the love. I will cherish that support for the rest of my precious days.
PS My daughter Louisa recorded this for me when I was taken into hospital. Not quite sure how she managed to do it when she must have been frightened out of her wits. It’s one of our favourites, Nanci Griffith’s Trouble in the Fields. I played it a lot in these difficult days; as much as it tore out my heart, it was also a balm for the heart. If this rain can fall, these wounds can heal.
