Pandemic

One of the striking events at the beginning of the pandemic was walking into Sainsbury’s, helping my mom, an NHS nurse, with the weekly shop - something I’d soon realise I’d taken for granted. A week before ‘Lockdown’, it was becoming apparent that the situation was dire, particularly as we circumnavigated an aisle, shoes squeaking, and stopped in surprise. Seemed people had got there long before us and drained the supplies of toilet roll, disinfectant, Marigold gloves: not rumours. Mom regarded me nervously, saying, “This is ridiculous. What’s with these people?”.

I should’ve expected this, social media abounding with pictures of empty aisles. The sense of disbelief I felt was alien. Was life changing and society reverting to the days of man eat man and the devil take the hindmost? Seeing people scrabbling for the last bottle of sanitiser or maybe even a Twix or Snickers, surfing the dark web for sanitary towels – the end of endless ‘luxury’ items.

It didn’t quite come to that. I can’t recall if people did in fact scrabble in supermarkets (though it wouldn’t surprise me) but what we can all recall is that the situation got worse. That was the last time I went out on a weekly shop with mom for months: 16th March 2020. The British lockdown began on March 23rd. Too little, too late. No masks yet.

It was about this time that the government allotted certain time slots to those most vulnerable as well as frontline workers for their shopping. Many others took advantage and healthcare workers were spat on, stared down, challenged, frequently appearing on the news, crying, absolutely exhausted. Each week, mom braved the queues that wound around the block and tried to make it in time to the designated slots (7-7:30am, three days a week). My dad, a healthcare worker, avoided these scenes by frequenting the local corner shop which, thankfully, didn’t take advantage of the situation by raising its prices. Thanks, Ash’s.

Life became more distorted as arguments surrounding masks and their effectiveness began surfacing in mainstream media. It was just before the scientists started telling us, “wear a mask, they will protect others”, that dad and I laughed as we saw a woman driving wearing a mask. Not malicious, more terrified!

The day following a suspenseful Mothers’ Day, March 23rd came and we heard the words we’d been expecting, I’d been dreading. Thursday, the week prior to this announcement, places of education were closed in the wake of exponentially rising Covid-19 cases and deaths. A college student, I was unsure of what would happen next, but I’d be lying if I said I was upset. To me, this meant time to relax. I was wrong. Well, right actually, but it wasn’t as straightforward as that, little did my naïve mind realise. Mothers’ Day was quite lonely: mom and me, no sister since her partner was at the time receiving medical treatment. We didn’t want to risk anything. It was Monday, when mom was working on the ward all day and I was alone, walking through to the kitchen and listening to Radio 2, that I heard the government had declared lockdown that day. Essential travel only. “Stay home, save lives, protect the NHS” was the slogan we would hear Johnson and his minions repeat ad nauseam. The “It’ll be over soon” began.

During this time, I wished for the sun, a garden and a cat. I didn’t realise how much I would miss sitting in a pub garden with a cheese and onion cob. That day, I phoned dad, panicking because, as my folks co-parent, I thought I might not be allowed to see him and his girlfriend, Joan, during lockdown. Dad reassured me that wasn’t the case. During the coming months, I spent more time with my parents than I had for a long time. Exploring nature, exercising more, getting to know the areas in which I live enabled me to get to know my parents more. I did, however, have to surgically detach my phone.

26th March: Clap for Carers. One Thursday, when dad and I drove mom to work in the evening, we saw people standing in the streets clapping furiously. Naturally, we waved ‘back’ as we drove past. Best way to help careworkers would be to end an austerity policy that had denuded the NHS and care homes of funding and resources.

5th May, the UK’s Covid death toll rise to 32,000. The highest in Europe. Mom hadn’t been tested once at that point. Thankfully, nobody I care for fell ill with coronavirus at that stage.

Early May, it was hard not to be more frightened of Americans than of the virus. Angry misogynistic white men stood with guns in protest at mask-wearing because they believed that pieces of fabric were threats to individual freedom. May 25th, George Floyd’s killing: more sadness and outrage. Witnessing that video, I was reminded of how cruel people still could be. Continually let down by people in power, I mourned, too, the death of accountability. George Orwell said England is a family, albeit a dysfunctional one.

Those lockdown days weren’t all doom and gloom. Nearing the end, the year 3000 – sorry, late May – I was quite contemplative. I realised that if I had the chance to be eleven again, sharing a room with my sister, annoying her to death, I would take it. I knew that wasn’t reality. But I did promise myself that the next time I saw my sister, my brother, every time I saw my parents from then on, I would be present. That’s all. Loving and present.