I wrote this piece on my first-hand experience of corona infection on 25th May 2021, but couldn’t bring myself to publish it. There was so much of sadness and trauma all around me that I did not want to add my bit to it. But I wanted to put it out in front of you before the year passed by. So here it is – my tryst with coronavirus.

It is the middle of the night. Someone is calling out to me. Even in that groggy state I am surprised someone is calling out my name to wake me up in the dead of the night. 

Because everyone in the family knows that when I go to bed at night, I am dead to the world. Shaking me up is a more efficient option. But probably people don’t believe in being efficient in the dead of night.

Couple seconds later I realise it is my husband, sleeping just a few inches away from me. 

I turn my head towards him and he says, “I am having a fever. You go sleep with the kids.” 

Automatically I raise my hand to feel his forehead. He waves off my hands quickly and if looks could drive you out of a room, at that moment, my husband’s did. 

So ingrained is the Covid-19 protocol in my mind that I don’t say anything. It is three in the morning. 

I get up, pick my mobile and go to the kids room. A protocol set up by us, especially for our family, has to be followed. I realise that if my hubby indeed has Covid-19, I could also be infected. I sleep on a mattress on the floor. 

I cannot go back to sleep immediately. Who would, with Covid knocking at the door, waiting to come in. I am sure in my heart that it is COVID-19 infection but still hope against hope for it to be a normal viral fever. 

In the morning, around 5 o’clock, I wear my mask and give my hubby a paracetamol. 

Still later, I move some of my clothes, cosmetics and digital devices with their chargers out of our bedroom, where he is isolated. And the iron and books and blankets. Very clinically. I am aware that if I am infected, these things I am carrying to the kids’ room would carry the virus too. But I do not know what else to do. 

Because every protocol talks of how the infected person should be taken care of, not how the family members should cope. With the practicality of not having an extra room where the first infected person can be sent. 

Even in our own operating procedure we had outlined where the infected person would be isolated and which washroom they would use. Not what others would do. Except wear mask and not interact with the infected person. 

Couple of hours later we talked to my husband’s cousin who is a doctor. She asked us to wait for 12 hours before reaching any conclusion. 

Come evening and the fever persists. We all talk about everything except what is foremost on our minds.

To keep a local doctor in the loop in case of emergency, I call up the helpline number set up by the local IMA chapter.

The doctor turns out to be an acquaintance, which is a huge relief. Because fear of what might go wrong is more than anything else. And the thought that I might have to speak to another doctor the next time I call is scary. 

All of us are put on medication. Yes, even though only my husband is showing symptoms, all of us are put on antibiotics and vitamins. I don’t know, to this day, if I should thank the doctor for that. 

I don’t know what havoc the medicines wreaked on my kids’ developing immune system. 

Or my 70+ father-in-law’s disintegrating immune system. 

Over the next one week I and both the daughters show symptoms and need to be isolated. I was the first one to go, as the doctor had predicted. When I call him to say I was showing symptoms, he says he was expecting it much earlier!

I do not tell him that I had been suppressing the symptoms under the guise of tiredness over the past two days. Because I worry about who will take care of my husband. Who would cook, clean, get medicines or buy groceries. Who would brave the near-lockdown conditions and intense summer heat to get medicines? Because medicines are in short supply and I must go out everyday to get enough for the day. 

And what if the maid refuses to come after I go into isolation as well. She wouldn’t be wrong in thinking of her own safety first. 

But finally my body gives in and I can’t take it any longer. I don’t think of my kids or husband or the umpteen daily household chores. I am aware only of the dull ache sweeping through every pore of my body. 

An ache that threatens to force my body to stop moving. My mind to stop working. And force me into an oblivion where I do not know anything or anyone. Just a fire raging through the body and swallowing up everything. 

Though after the two of us get isolated into bedrooms, it takes a lot of ingenuity on our part to ensure everyone is safely apart from each other. 

I repeatedly feel grateful  for a large house and a garden but I keep thinking about those who are not lucky to live in such large houses. With enough space to isolate everyone as per regulations. 

A friend’s neighbour, whose family of four live in a 500 sq ft space with one bedroom and a living room. 

A family of eight living in 900 sq ft of space, with just two bedrooms and a living room.

No wonder families are falling sick in droves. 

Fever ravages my body and coughing rocks it continuously. I get nightmares. I stand alone on a vast barren land with rocks and cacti and nothing else. The stillness broken by the distant shrill cry of birds. I wait and scan the horizon, despite the darkness, hoping to catch the birds’ silhouette against the dark sky. My eyes get tired, my ears ache with concentration and heart pumps in anticipation but nothing comes in view.

My husband and I try to put up a brave face when the elder daughter shows symptoms. She is 14. 

We break down when our younger daughter says she is showing symptoms. She is 9.

Life stands still. Nothing moves except the virus plundering through our bodies. And mind thinking of all the things that could go wrong.

It’s been more than a month now. We all are out of isolation but the long term effects persist. Every voice reaches the ears as if muffled. Something keeps choking the air out of my lungs and brain. I cannot lift anything heavier than a glass of water in my right hand.

I want to sleep after speaking a few lines or walking a few steps. My stomach is on fire, but the body shivers from the cold. 

The bittergourd tastes better than the paneer tikka my husband orders for me. 

I can’t smell the milk burning behind me on the stove. And I sleep through the day. Something I have not done since chickenpox hit me four years ago.

I don’t care if everyone is following the nutritious diet the doctor prescribed. 

I don’t care if the house is clean and kids are cared for. 

I just want to close my mind and sink into oblivion. 

I don’t want to think about the physical strength I have lost. Because I have no mental strength left either.

The doctor congratulates us that we managed Corona without needing hospitalisation or extra medical support. I nod and say thank you into the phone. 

What the doctor calls our efficient management of the disease, I call sheer good luck. 

If something had gone wrong we would have been just mute spectators. 

We tend to have an inherently negative bent of mind when it comes to illnesses. The moment we or our loved ones get sick, the first train of thought goes in the negative direction. And I am no exception.

My husband is asthmatic. The fear of his condition deteriorating in case of infection has plagued me since the first wave. 

But asthma medication is actually a boon as it keeps the breathing apparatus functioning well. I wish someone had told me last year and saved me months of trauma.

We are negative. At least my husband and I are. We never got a second test done. The doctor  says if we are asymptomatic for 10 days then it means the virus is gone, leaving behind the antibodies that will protect me for some months to come. How many months is unclear, like everything else about this virus.

I assume my kids are negative too. We never got them tested even the first time so there is no question of whether they were positive or not. 

We were not comfortable with them being exposed to an environment that definitely had so much virus floating around. When we get tested, we open our mouth so that the sample can be collected and release the virus into the air. I am scared for the person taking our samples. Then I realise it’s his work and he is contributing his bit to the fight against that Coronavirus.

I have been negative for almost a month now – three weeks to be precise. But still there is no strength, physical, mental or financial. And the financial ill-health has taken a toll on physical and mental health too.

The two new projects I was due to start last month have gone for a toss; they hired someone else. The regular projects have fizzled out because I am in no physical condition to start doing rigourous work.

As I stare at the bills that keep dropping in my inbox, I file them away but I do not know how they will be paid.

My daughter wants new books and stationery supplies to keep herself busy during the lockdown. I avoid the conversation because I do not want to tell her I do not have the budget for it.

I am thankful there is a complete lockdown and hence no birthday parties to attend because I do not want to waste money on buying gifts.

I am used to lean periods as a freelancer and hence have a system in place. But it’s affecting more this time. May be due to the trauma associated with the pandemic situation and the long-term effects.

I have shut down, or rather try to shut down, all information channels. But still some news of a new fungal strain infecting people three or four weeks after the coronavirus infection seeps into my feed and I start counting the number of days since I got infected.

I have always talked of being creative when stressed out. But I find it difficult to implement. The mind is no more the fountain of ideas it used to be. The body is no more as strong and agile and excited as it always was, to execute the ideas.

And then there is the family to cope with. People who are themselves stressed out and look upon me to be tolerant of their behaviour. But my mind refuses. I do not want to acknowledge. I don’t want to take the responsibility of helping them cope.

I sometimes feel that more than the body, my mind has weakened. The virus probably feasted more on my mental strength than anything else.

I hear something unpleasant and I tune out. Or tears start streaming down my eyes involuntarily. Or is it in frustration? I don’t even feel like retaliating as it threatens to sap whatever strength I have left.

My survival mode switch is turned on. I am preserving whatever is left of my mind and body. Waiting for it to re-gain enough strength to get back to life as usual.

If there is an “as usual” life to return to.