Yesterday brought a hat-trick of happy happenings that made quite an impression on me, motivating me to share these in writing with my virtual, absent therapist.
I pondered these as I sat in my car this morning outside the GP surgery, waiting for the all-clear for my appointment to give blood samples. This was a huge event in my life, not because of the medical procedure or what the tests show, but because this was the first time in three weeks I would be encountering another human being.
My quarantine bubble means I am in isolation with my wife, Judith. We don’t see or meet anyone else, though she does have a weekly Covid test and has the responsibility of opening the door to delivery people. As for myself, other than Judith, I only encounter medical staff, once every three weeks at hospital and once every three weeks to have bloods taken.
The latter tends to be very brief. I have the first appointment of the day so as not to encounter others, the nurse is just a human form behind much PPE, and the whole procedure takes less than 10 minutes. Having a needle stuck in you early in the morning by someone you can barely see maybe doesn’t seem like a social highlight to most but, after four months’ isolation, believe me it is a major event. Though I must admit it does reinforce the feeling that there is a very thin psychological line between being a plague receiver and a plague carrier.
This week has seen much talk about the lockdown’s impact on mental health. Once again the politicians have been mouthing words about their concern and commitment, though every syllable is meaningless without action. Inner turmoil, desperation and desolation are so much easier to ignore than someone spurting blood; delaying psychological treatment is easier to conceal than permitting someone to bleed out in A&E.
Mental health merits little more than lip service from our governments. It is politically correct to make the right noises; it is politically expedient to then do nothing. The press and the public fall into line.
After so many weeks in my own isolation, albeit with one other person forced to endure this, I have an understanding of how many folk across the country must feel, especially those sealed away and dealing with health issues.
I am fortunate in that I do have another person for company, some room so we can hide from each other. We have a television, music and books. That is so much more than many but that weighs heavily as I can’t help but think of my mother’s last days in July, someone who desperately loved, and needed, company. She was quarantined, blind and deaf, in a single room, clutching her phone waiting for a call from family, and so frightened she would press the wrong button and miss it. Her loneliness must have been so terrifying.
And to make matters worse, on both sides of her nightmare, she didn’t see any of her family for the best part of three months. Not a hug or a hand to hold. That is the price thousands of people are paying during this pandemic. It is heartbreaking and it is happening every minute of every day. The psychological scars this will leave are immeasurable, and probably permanent.
So my isolation is nothing compared to what my mother must have felt. But yesterday that feeling of being socially and medically marooned was eased a little with my ‘hat-trick of happenings’.
The first came with an envelope dropped through my door. In it was a card with a touching message from neighbours I haven’t seen for weeks and weeks. That unexpected and rare personal contact was incredibly moving and made both of us feel that we were part of something brighter, bigger and better than the dark place we are confined to and forced to endure. A few words can make a massive impact.
Another envelope produced another high point, this time delivered by the postman. In it was a surprise gift - a painting of a puffin from my sister-in-law, who hoped it would cheer me up. It did. A lot of folk would probably say I prefer puffins to people, and it made me think again about the book I started to write and reckoned I’d never finish. Maybe, just maybe …
The final part of my trilogy was also touching but hammered home the impact this pandemic and the lockdown is having.
My mother was denied any contact with her son or daughter, her four grandchildren or her six great-grandchildren. That is a heavy price, and it probably adds to the likelihood that her great-grandchildren will barely remember her, if at all, and given she never even had the chance to hold the newborn twins, that is the sad truth. It is especially cruel, given she was abandoned by her own mother. Her story is horrible, but there are over 100,000 tales that will be as equally sad.
We are now into months since we were able to hold our own four grandchildren. If, and when, we get out of this, that absence and emotional gap, can be bridged and healed ... if we are lucky and stay healthy.
The youngest is three-year-old Georgia and before this coronavirus and personal health nightmare began, when I needed to entertain her, distract her, wake her up or try and get her to sleep, I’d put on Ray Charles singing ‘Georgia On My Mind’. I’d sing along, always giving Ray the lead as his voice is considerably better than mine.
Yesterday, my son messaged me and told she’d heard that song and asked, “Is that Papa singing?”
That hit me hard and made me think just how remote we must be becoming as grandparents. At this stage in life, particularly when it can seem so precarious, being isolated from your family is heart-breaking, especially when the little ones are so out of reach.
Of course it’s not just the distancing, we now have the ruling on unnecessary journeys, so even a drive and wave through windows can net you a fine. I understand that, and I accept that. I know the trauma this pandemic is continuing to cause and I abide by every ruling to ensure I play my part in bringing this misery to end and halt that horrific death toll.
So, a touching message, a personal piece of art made just for me, and my grand-daughter remembering me singing to her, that all added up to a good and emotional day.
Then I put on the television.
There was the man who makes the rules, podgy and puffed up, pontificating about the joys of the great British union, having travelled all the way from Downing Street to do so.
His 'necessary' journey to Glasgow and Livingston was supposedly to show off his leadership and his support for those tackling the pandemic. But really it was to say that the Scottish National Party in pushing for an independence referendum was a destructive force, when the focus should be on overcoming the pandemic. No acknowledgement that his performance throughout was probably fuelling the urge to break away from England and its continuing endorsement of Conservative rule.
This necessary journey by prime minister Alexander Boris de Pfeffel Johnson, endorsed by Labour leader Sir Keir Starmer, was a slap in the face to everyone isolated in a care home, separated from family, cut off from friends, furloughed, worried, weary or broken. It was an insult to the 100,000 dead he’d announced earlier in the week and the loved ones of those 100,000.
With his carefully tousled hair and Churchillian bluster, this is the man who would probably win applause from his followers for starting up Spitfire production lines.
This is one former Etonian whose irritating Latin quotes should be restricted to a fitting personal motto such as “Numquam mihi crede” (Never trust me).
I had some little joys yesterday and he took them away.
He has stopped me seeing my grandchildren yet wanders freely across Britain, wobbling in front of waiting and willing cameras and waffling distortions, half truths while displacing responsibility.
There are 100,000-plus reasons why de Pfeffel Johnson is not fit to hold office and if the Union means being led by him and his like, then it is time for a divorce.
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