The Times Magazine 7SPINAL COLUMN
MELANIE REID
f you want the perfect example of a
complacent Covid virgin, it was me.
After years of laborious shielding and
three vaccinations, I had started going
out regularly again – carefully, but
with increasing confidence and
a more relaxed attitude to risk.
Secretly, after living unscathed for
a week at new year with my son, who
had tested positive but was asymptomatic, I’d
begun to regard myself as fireproof.
Dave too. Every day he was shopping
and socialising, had had his fourth booster,
and was treating life very much as normal.
Which was another reason for me to think
we were untouchable.
After all, the consensus said Covid was now
just like a bad cold. The mask restrictions were
lifting; the pressure was off; free testing kits
were being withdrawn; the crisis had passed.
If we were going to get it, we’d surely have had
it by now. And like everyone else, we’d become
oblivious to the daily totals of hospitalisations
and deaths on the nightly news.
Well, never be complacent. On the
anniversary of my accident, already my
least favourite day of the year, disaster struck
again. This time I was run over by a 40-tonne
truck called Covid. It happened so fast.
A day after hugging friends who’d brought
me birthday presents, and shortly after close
contact with my carer, who’s rehabilitating
from something else, I was floored.
I managed to do my Friday morning sloton Times Radio with the sense that the person
speaking wasn’t actually me, and took a test.
Positive. Then the coughing and the fever
overwhelmed me.
The millions of you who’ve suffered a
serious bout know what it’s like.
All I can say is that some years ago, as
a first line of defence against sepsis in my
bladder, I invested in an oximeter and a
thermometer, and thank God I did. Because
by Friday night I was almost too weak to
transfer into bed, where I lay for the whole
weekend, ravaged by the damn thing. Covid
has the honour of being the one thing that’s
forced me, post-paralysis, not to be in my
chair, “up as able” as they say in spinal units,
every single day.
Like a lot of stubborn disabled people,
I prefer to ignore my vulnerability. It’s a
game; a way of tackling life. Almost as if, by
pretending there’s nothing wrong with you,
it makes you as sturdy as the next person.
When Covid first broke, I was categorised
in need of shielding, but after I’d had my
vaccines I kidded myself I was in the same
boat as normal healthy people. But you don’t
feel quite so certain at 4am when your resting
heart rate is 85, your oxygen saturation is
89 per cent (below 95 is dodgy) and your
temperature, after taking as many different
analgesics as it is possible to take and then
more, is hovering just below 40C.
That’s when the grim expression “multiple
comorbidities” comes back to haunt you,because that’s you, and you google the NHS
website to check at what point to phone 111.
For two nights, like thousands of others, I had
my finger poised to dial; I told myself to get
a grip, brave the terrors and hold on until
morning because things seem better in daylight.
Besides, Dave had a chest infection and
I didn’t want to disturb his sleep. He had
originally tested negative, received antibiotics,
then tested positive. A day after me. Which
meant, strictly, I couldn’t blame him, a packed
pub and Rangers FC’s midweek Europa League
game for the infection, although I’m sure that
was the source. He denies it hotly.
The other worry was my various visitors
and carer, all Covid virgins, all vulnerable
in one way or another. At time of writing
I’m still texting them daily; all thankfully
remain uninfected.
And we’ve survived too. Dave is much
better. I’m up in my chair, my vital signs back
to normal, though with zero energy to push
up the ramps in the house. Lifting my arms
above my shoulders exhausts me. Infectious,
cut off from our usual support network, we’re
creeping around in a revoltingly messy home
eating porridge and just about coping. Friends
bring newspapers and soup, take away the bins.
The dog is disgusted by our lack of activity.
Be warned. Covid can still be very scary. n@Mel_ReidTimes
Melanie Reid is tetraplegic after breaking her
MURDO MACLEOD neck and back in a riding accident in April 2010
I
I’ve been run over
by a 40 -tonne truck
called Covid. And
Dave has it too. I’m
just about coping