Health

This post is written by Letty

Moved by a personal episode, our observer considers human endurance in the face of disaster and the Doctor phobia of the male of the species.

I know I am attempting to take a wry look at this crisis but something happened the other day which removed any possibility of jollity. My husband, the undisputed love of my life, went into the hospital. He couldn’t breathe.

It is really strange how much we take our bodily functions for granted. That is, of course, until they cease to function. The older you get the more your body wears you instead of the other way round. I mean do you remember consciously thinking about your body when you were in your twenties and thirties? OK, you may not have liked the look of it but you never had to consider its competence.

Walking down the stairs now is like being followed by a mariachi band. Getting out of bed is accompanied by a lot of creaking and moaning. This is a design flaw. We should have sockets that open so that the limbs can be lubricated. Of course, if that were the case, Big Pharma would get involved and those, like myself, who are on the financial margins would be left creaking until COVID-19, or another virus, dispensed with us.

I watched without looking as my beloved man struggled to get even one breath. It was agonising. He is an asthmatic and uses a spray but this distress was in another league. He thought he might pass out and, in the event of that happening, I would have needed to keep calm and call 112.

My anxiety was reaching stellar proportions at the thought of having possibly to contend with a lot of Swedish options on an answering machine, none of which I would understand and as, in this scenario, my husband would be comatose, I couldn’t ask him! I made a mental note to do some research and be more prepared in the future if there was one. He had been ill for at least three weeks but men are difficult. I don’t understand their psyche. If you feel sick, call a doctor. Do not pretend, as you lie gasping, that everything is fine. His illness had been following a COVID-19 pattern with the exception of no fever.

But then again what is a COVID-19 pattern? You don’t have to have a fever, the coughing may be mild, you could have diarrhoea or a sore throat and so the list goes on. So after a lot of nagging, as he defines it, gentle persuasion as I define it, he calls 1177. In our case, with absolute honesty, my husband can trot out the well-worn line; ” my wife doesn’t understand me.”

My Swedish, despite my best efforts, remains at the level of a fairly inarticulate three years old. He emerges from the bedroom, wherein he had incarcerated himself in order to speak to the nurse out of earshot, wheezing that the nurse had given him the COVID-19 all clear. So that’s sorted then! No Corona, no need to worry.

WHAT ABOUT OTHER DISEASES?, I yelled internally. ‘It could be something else’, I ventured outwardly. I was rewarded with a warning look. The coughing, asthma attacks and general lack lo lustre continued unabated. The nurse had informed him that, as he had no fever, he could go into work. That Thursday he got tested for COVID-19.

He was told that the result would be sent to him in two or three days which seemed ridiculously long to me. At the time of writing, a week has already passed and no results. By the time they arrive, it will be time to get tested again! Miraculously, he then seemed back to normal and we had a great weekend.

Disaster struck on Monday. That was the day his breathing changed gear as he fought to control his panic and get some air into his lungs. I felt powerless because I was. The second 1177 call resulted in us taking a cab to the hospital without delay. We arrived at the emergency entrance and this is where things took an Orwellian turn. We went through the double doors following the clearly marked signage in Swedish and English. Ahead sat two men. One was a security guard and the other a nurse. There was a chair placed behind a yellow line onto which my husband was directed to sit. He must have been at least three metres from the men. I stood behind him.

The purpose of this was to determine whether or not he had COVID-10 – like symptoms so that he could be directed to the appropriate part of the building. We were sent to the COVID-19 tent. I was afraid. He was apprehensive. We walked together to a barrier beyond which I could not go. I hugged him and stood watching him as he disappeared into the tent. He had not looked back which was just as well or he would have seen a weeping woman. It had suddenly struck me that this separation could be final.

Back in pre-COVID times, I would have been with him, there to reassure or annoy but ‘there’ nevertheless. I would have waited with him while he got checked, waited with him while he was admitted, come back with pyjamas and toiletries. I would have made sure that he was in his ward and registered his surroundings, checking out his fellow inmates so that, when I thought of him, I could visualise him there. I would have gone to the hospital shop, purchased magazines which he would not read and grapes which I would eat myself. I would have stayed until he got tired or I was told to go and have left feeling that I had done everything I could to help him and knowing that I could come back the next day. I would have called our friends and, if he was going to be kept in, they would have come to visit him bringing more grapes which they would then consume as they chatted over his recumbent form.

What about now? You hug and say good-bye.

Thankfully he doesn’t have COVID. Yes, he is sick but he is home. I couldn’t help thinking about all those people whose relatives, partners, friends, children did not come home. We are all great at spouting statistics, using them to support our views on the relative successes or failures of other countries’ strategies but we should pause and consider. Every figure is a person who laughed, cried, loved and deserved to be given the best chance of life. Every figure is grief for some-one.

There are two episodes which stand out in my mind during this crisis and both of them happened in the UK. The first was a case of a thirteen-year-old boy who contracted COVID-19. His parents had to adhere to the lockdown rules and their son died of a cardiac arrest without a hand to hold. The last face he would have seen would have been that of a masked and shielded surgeon. How is this loss and the manner of it possible to cope with? I have no idea. I suspect that you don’t. It becomes life before and existence after. A gaping wound that is never healed. There are so many sorrow-crippled people as a result of this cruel virus.

The second image that haunts me is one of two nurses clad in their PPE holding one sign each against a hospital window for the excluded, anxious relatives and friends to see .

One read; ” HE IS AT PEACE”

The other read; ” WE ARE SORRY”

It says it all really doesn’t it?

Letty’s bio

New
Born in 1957 when dinosaurs roamed the earth and televisions were black and white.
Still New
Teenage years.  Counting pimples, writing valentine cards to myself, dodging bombs in war torn Belfast.  Waiting to be invited to the party.
Newish
Adulthood.  I am the party.  Developing a talent for addiction, unfortunate choices  and bad hairstyles.
Discovering that work is a necessary evil and that marriage is a life sentence without the satisfaction of murder.
Embracing contraception with enthusiasm until a dodgy diaphragm left me embracing my son.
Counting  wrinkles.
Renewed
No more work
No more husband
No more Belfast
Much more Stockholm
Much more love
Much more me.
SLUTET

A beginner’s guide to The New Normal. Focusing on Stockholm, this is the first of three blogs written from a bemused Irish woman, as she attempts to understand the Swedish reaction to COVID–19.There are no answers, only observations.  ” It’s a long road that has no turning. “

This blogpost was written by Letty.

It’s like being in a low budget, high risk, reality TV show. The players know the rules but there are unidentifiable enemy forces whose job it is to subvert them. The land is a mythical one of Norsemen and Vikings. The winner has to negotiate this perilous path of determined dwellers in order to emerge victoriously. The prize? Survival!

The leader of this band of recalcitrants is one Anders Adamant. Daily he patiently reminds the inhabitants of the risks and what they must do to stay safe. Ah but poor Anders is a trustworthy soul and he cannot conceive of a world in which his loyal countrymen, oft characterised by their integrity and belief in the welfare of others, have metamorphosed into a bunch of back-slapping, fun-loving, wine imbibing, gregarious dicks. Where he muses, as he is adorned in his colourful robes, is the surly Swede of yesteryear?

COVID-19, it seems,  has removed inhibitions. The rest of the world, except Brazil and parts of America, is in lockdown, removing themselves from unnecessary human contact. His People are abandoning their traditional reserve. Soon they will be kissing each other and , God forbid, dancing in the streets. Anders must be more Adamant and restrain his populace. A horrifying thought occurs to him. Maybe he got it wrong. Kanske.

There they all are obliviously chatting , drinking and eating in the cafe across the road. I stare at them, voluntarily imprisoned. I raise my fist and roar imprecations. They probably think I am dancing!

Anyway enough of that. I am not an ‘ologist’ but I don’t think lockdown is the solution. Eventually, you have to come out and, yes, the virus may appear to have been controlled but, without a vaccine, what has really changed except that people are even crazier than before they were incarcerated?

However, if people cannot stick to the recommendations then they have to be forced to do so. I know the Swedes do not like the force word but I am not suggesting welding people into their homes or shooting them. I simply mean that if restaurants and cafes, for example, are completely ignoring instructions, then they should be closed down. Otherwise, chaos reigns because, much to Anders’ chagrin I have no doubt, it would appear that the Swedes are as law averse as anyone else.

One thing is for sure the virus is spreading exponentially. Granted it appears to be wiping out those with impaired immune systems and the elderly in particular, but seemingly healthy people have also died and no-one is sure whether immunity exists or what the long term effects will be on those who have recovered from the disease. Why are children developing Kawasaki – like symptoms?

My head is melted.  I am sick of the phrase “the new normal.” Listen up, people. There is no new normal, there is “this” normal. However, if you live in countries such as Africa, South America or India, Corona is a mere bagatelle. What is a bit of COVID-19 when you already have AIDS, Cholera, War, Dengue Fever, poverty and starvation. How can you lock down in India or socially distance? Do you care if you have COVID-19 in The Congo? The thing is, nobody in our privileged countries gave a toss about the previous Coronaviruses because they didn’t affect us. Guess what? It’s our turn now so suck it up.

Here’s another ponder. Who wants to fly? If the God of Ryan Air, Michael O’Leary is saying that the only way to fly safely is to stay at home, then it is time to listen. Michael, don’t forget, is the guy who was thinking of making his poor unfortunate passengers pay to use the toilet.

Seriously, do you really want to pay to be on a plane where the air is contaminated, the toilet, if accessible, is full of all sorts of germs and your fellow travellers are breathing down your neck or lying on your lap? Don’t get me started on the cute super spreaders, yowling their way through the journey. Of course, if you are not Cattle Class then you might enjoy a less stressful experience but it will not be less hazardous.

Back to the window. The sun, the enemy of social distancing, continues to shine and the bar opposite is heaving. So I watched. A man and a woman,not in the first flush of youth, at a table together. Maybe they were from the same household, maybe married, maybe fed up with living. I don’t know. She seemed unsteady on her feet. With some difficulty, she managed to sit herself down and position her very large shopping bag on the ground beside her, handles on the pavement.

The man, meanwhile, was ignoring her which leads me to think that they were married. Suddenly he produces from his pocket what I originally thought was a rag but, as he affixed it to his face, I realised that it was a mask. He looped the article around his chin and seemed satisfied that he was protected from all ills. The waitress came out and positioned herself between them.

They gave their order but not before the woman had sneezed into her hand. She then put the germ infected hand onto the table as she attempted unsuccessfully to manoeuvre her bulk out of her coat. The waitress, being young and kind, assisted her.

Are you getting the viral load picture?

On returning with their beverages the waitress caught her foot in the handle of the big bag and a farcical interlude ensued wherein the unsteady woman tried to help the struggling waitress, resulting of course in detrimental spillage. The woman was covered with coffee, the waitress was covered in embarrassment and they were all covered in Corona. To compound the scenario, the waitress then took a cloth from her apron and proceeded to wipe down the customer who by this stage had her snot ridden hands everywhere. The man remained impervious throughout, sipping his coffee and wiping his lips with his mask. I had had enough!

Locked and loaded  I exited my apartment for a run. This is another COVID-19 anomaly. Prior to the global disaster, I had never run anywhere since I was seven and now sure I am like Usain Bolt’s Mother.  Mask away, sanitised gloves away, hand sanitiser away. It was like the COVID-19 striptease. Throwing caution to the winds, moving my limbs rapidly, I inhaled and exhaled deeply, focusing on the task ahead.

” I am a lethal weapon. Stay out of my way or I will smite you with my viral load”

No-one moves aside. They seem to deliberately push their babies in front of me.

I feel morally conflicted.

” F∗ck you” I shout joylessly as I take another route.

I hate having a social conscience. I am going to work hard on getting rid of it once I get my breath back.

Letty’s bio

New
Born in 1957 when dinosaurs roamed the earth and televisions were black and white.
Still New
Teenage years.  Counting pimples, writing valentine cards to myself, dodging bombs in war-torn Belfast.  Waiting to be invited to the party.
Newish
Adulthood.  I am the party.  Developing a talent for addiction, unfortunate choices and bad hairstyles.
Discovering that work is a necessary evil and that marriage is a life sentence without the satisfaction of murder.
Embracing contraception with enthusiasm until a dodgy diaphragm left me embracing my son.
Counting  wrinkles.
Renewed
No more work
No more husband
No more Belfast
Much more Stockholm
Much more love
Much more me.
SLUTET