I awoke on Monday morning from uneasy dreams to find myself transformed in my bed into a monstrous vermin. My sore throat, slight cough and temperature rendered me socially lower than a bug; a source of horror to both strangers and to friends and family. Like Gregor Samsa, I decided to withdraw from the world but found the reaction of those closest to me most distressing.
I was most worried about the reaction of my flatmate, Claire*, who, despite spending the past five years immersed in the cool logic of law school, has been gripped by such a morbid fear of the coronavirus that she insists any guest who enters our flat must immediately take a shower. I was comforted by the realisation that her fear of infection would prevent her getting close enough to me to do any bodily harm.
I called my mother, who promptly ordered me enough Norwegian Formula hand cream to de-chap all of Scandinavia and promised I would be fine. Increasingly delirious, I fell into a digital world of deranged messages from various relatives and friends, their claims that Prince Philip was dead and warnings against ibuprofen swirling through my head.
Claire decided to do a last shop before we self-isolated and asked me to text her what we needed. My feverish list meant we ended up with four tins of anchovies, vac-packed chestnuts and no toilet paper. I drifted between sleeping and waking as she loomed into my bedroom, eyes overly bright above her mask, carrying cups of tea and ranting against the government’s apathy.
With all panicking delegated to Claire, I was able to relax into the heightened sensations of my fever and enjoy Madonna’s back catalogue like I never had before. That evening Cyril*, my boyfriend of one month and a junior doctor, appeared and fed me a large number of painkillers and then patiently answered all of Claire’s questions.
I woke up the next morning feeling dizzy and pathetic. I managed almost seven minutes of playing it cool, before begging Cyril not to let me die before I got tickets to Glastonbury. Mid-hysterical flow my bedroom door burst open, and Claire demanded Cyril come look at her phlegm, which was grey. Somehow all three of us got through the weekend, using a combination of Magic FM and increasingly humourless chess matches to distract from our looming dread.
I had turned a corner by Monday and was able to wave Cyril off to work for a week of treating the physically ill, surely a relief after his weekend with the mentally unwell. As my fever receded, I experienced something akin to a hangover, and felt something very embarrassed about my behaviour when I had been sick. The biggest danger, during this pandemic, is surely the reaction of ordinary people, unused to terror. Thank God for those who work for the NHS, always calm, always patient. We should all seek to be more like them.
*names have been changed to protect those who did, and did not, lose their cool.
