I belonged to none of the demographic groups that suffered most in the Covid pandemic. I was no longer young, struggling to home-educate children while working from home, housed in cramped accommodation, or forced to isolate myself from loved ones because I was working on the NHS front line. I was privileged, and I didn’t lose any close friends or family.
But there is one demographic we don’t seem to hear a lot about, perhaps because, like me, they regard themselves as having got off relatively lightly, and feel it would be morally wrong to claim sympathy for the losses they did suffer at that time. I’m referring to the 60-75 age group, those who, depending on their general health, are right on the fault line between active life and the onset of chronic health problems that might well define their remaining years. We aren’t prone to complaining, and may feel that our suffering was relatively trivial.
That doesn’t mean there wasn’t suffering; for all of us there were losses, and I think I am beginning to see some of their aftershocks play out in my friendship group.
At one end of the spectrum there were the people like the lady who lived next door to us, found it impossible to navigate the triage system by phone and became too anxious to leave the house, or seek medical help. She didn’t need to actually catch Covid for it to destroy her life. At the other are the friends who don’t go out much in the evenings now, who take weeks or even months to recover from a bad cold, who find themselves prone to episodes of shaky cognitive function, spiking blood pressure or depressive episodes. Nothing to bother a busy GP about, nothing that serious, and anyway we’re all getting on a bit, what can you expect?
But is it because we’re getting on a bit, or are we traumatised? Some of us wince at the very mention of the word, feeling it suggests weakness and victimhood. The last thing we want is to be a bother to anybody. Especially when we can’t easily put a finger on what might be wrong.
My husband took up running in the pandemic. He now spends most weekends out at half-marathons. He says he did it because he wanted to keep fit and we couldn’t do things together any more. I should add that I went into the pandemic recovering from a hip replacement, and came out of it with a breast cancer diagnosis. Just when we’d begun to plan a catch-up year of travel plans, I was faced with a year of treatment.
We don’t hike much together any more. He’s still working hard at a job he loves, and when he’s not working he’s usually running. We cancelled quite a few hiking trips between 2022 and 2024. Others we didn’t cancel because I felt I should be getting over chemotherapy by now, and then I was ill and exhausted while we were away. On one memorable occasion, I collapsed before clearing immigration at Manchester Airport and it took hours for the paramedics to get clearance to take me to hospital. It sounds very dramatic, but really it was just undignified and a bit of a bummer. I’d really had enough of hospitals by then.
So the months ticked by, and I had good days and bad days, until the second outnumbered the first, I pulled out of a West Highland Way expedition and started therapy. That was when I realised my pandemic hadn’t been as easy as I thought.
For starters, my first grand-child was born right at the beginning of it, in another country. We finally managed to grab a window of opportunity to meet her when she was several months old. To do that, we had to stay in Denmark for a week (they were scared of people sneaking off to Sweden via Copenhagen). That meant making hurried, non-ideal arrangements with an unfamiliar sitter for our elderly cat. When we got home she was in a bad way, and I took her to the vet. I was not allowed to say goodbye, and had to wait in the car park as she was put to sleep.
I didn’t even think about that for a long time. At a time when people were unable to be at the deathbed of their loved ones, or organise funerals, to grieve for a pet seemed borderline obscene. But the thought of letting Silkie down has never quite left me.
Everyone will have similar stories, some told, many untold for fear of seeming to overshadow deeper tragedies. They leave their mark - on relationships, on self-esteem, on identity. I don’t quite know who I am any more. I tried to climb a big hill in the Lake District with my husband recently, got crag-bound and had a full-on panic attack. It wasn’t so much getting hurt that bothered me, it was the prospect of lying on a trolley with a student nurse struggling to get a cannula in once again. It looks like I am no longer the same person, the person who used to be able to climb mountains. That kind of redefines my marriage
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I’m haunted by the thought, is this the new normal? Will I ever be the same again? Will my super-fit partner be able to adjust to the gentle holidays I would rather have now? In my darkest moments, am I just waiting for the end-game, my best years behind me? Where to now, Guv?
I’m one of the lucky ones, but I find every cancer story affects me more than it used to. So does every unexplained symptom. I want to live life to the full - one thing I know for certain now is that it is finite, and every day is a gift. I interact with people online who manage lives limited by chronic health conditions with courage and grace - is that a possible future? Or should I just man up and get back to the gym?
Basically, I muddle through just fine most days. But occasionally the thought hits me, when does someone get old? Has it happened to me yet? Milestones matter. Holding your newborn grandchild, graduating, choosing a dress for the school prom, wondering if that person you met just before the lockdown would have turned out to be The One, but life got in the way and he didn’t make it into your support bubble. All of us just getting on, mustn’t-grumbling. And knowing, deep down, that if we do get ill again, and we don’t have serious money, there’s a good chance we’re screwed. It’s the trust that’s gone. Maybe that’s why I felt much more relaxed when I went to visit my family in Sweden.
Still, mustn’t grumble.
But it’s all right, it’s all right,
We can’t be forever blessed
And I know tomorrow’s another working day
And I’m trying to get some rest,
Yes, I’m just trying to get some rest
PAUL SIMON - “AMERICAN TUNE”