We are on holidays near this beautiful water in late January when my doctor husband, Murray becomes increasingly concerned about reports of a new killer virus emerging from Wuhan in China. I dig my head further into a nice deep sunny hole in the beach and determine not to worry about this distant threat on the other side of the world.
Fast forward to the long weekend in early March when Geraldton hosts a large gathering of swimmers for a Country Pennants competition. Murray remarks in his closing speech that this could well be the last public gathering of this size for some time. I don’t want to believe it, but something tells me that he could be right on this one. A few days later we are back at the pool again, this time for our kids’ swimming carnival. Things haven’t got too serious yet, but there are some joking elbow bumps and foot taps in place of handshakes. The carnival runs late, with no time left to present medals. This doesn’t seem too concerning at the time, as they are to be presented at the next assembly. Little do we know that in a few short days, public gatherings such as assemblies will be outlawed and will remain so for a considerable time to come. They are still not possible at the time of writing. The medals are given out in the classrooms at school instead. This is a poor substitute, but only the beginning of having to accept a lot of new realities.
Two days later on Friday 13 March the virus becomes real as public events, school sporting trips and pretty much everything is cancelled left, right and centre. The diary is clear for weeks to come! The prime minister tells people to avoid all non essential travel overseas. Our pastor’s trip to Africa the next day is suddenly not happening. It all feels very apocalyptic. In the midst of this crazy day the only wall clock we have in the house stops. I roll my eyes as doomsday bells clang in my head. The flies which cannot be killed with fly spray swarming around my kitchen and the smell of the dead rats mouldering under the floorboards of our bedroom only add to the oppressive atmosphere of decay.
The next day my husband puts new batteries in the clock and it starts again at exactly the right time (even the five minutes fast we always run it). Being a person of faith who is always on the lookout for God’s input in my life, I don’t see this as a coincidence. Instead, I interpret this as God’s assurance to me that time will indeed stop in a sense, everything will be strange and shaken up, but after a time, life will commence again and everything and everyone will be all correct and present. At a time when we are all wondering which of us will die from this virus, this is an immense comfort and something I will need to turn to again and again in the days to come.
Being the chairperson of two organisations, I attend crisis meetings to urgently make decisions to navigate through these unprecedented times. The decisions largely feel like overreactions, but collectively we decide that it is better to overreact rather than underreact in this situation.
Murray comes home from work one day during this time with tears in his eyes, after facing the terrible thought that he may not see some of his elderly patients again. I see elderly people shuffling around the grocery store and am flooded with feelings of warmth and love towards them, that I’ve not felt before. I want to wrap them in cotton wool and put them somewhere safe until this is all over.
Murray becomes locked in meeting after meeting about the medical profession’s response to the pandemic. He is so exhausted that he regularly falls asleep wherever he is, within minutes of entering the house. Personal protective equipment is pretty much non existent at this point, so he is jubilant when he secures the last two N-95 masks from Bunnings. After watching footage of Italian medics wearing hazmat suits I’m not quite so jubilant. I am also quite rattled by the sight of the masks lying about the house, ready to be grabbed at a moments notice in an emergency. As Murray signs contracts to be an on-call anaesthetist to intubate Covid patients, I consider trying to prevent him signing up. However, deep down we both know this is something he has to do.
As I realise what I stand to lose and what is at stake for my family, fear starts to take hold. I lose my appetite for the first time in my life and I awake each morning with a sense of dread that today may be the day when Murray is called to the hospital to intubate a coronavirus patient in his inadequate personal protective equipment. The only way I can successfully combat the fear is to pray that a miracle occurs and no one in our region will require ventilation. I also hold fast to the clock prophecy, although it is a daily battle to let faith win out over fear. I also find comfort from reading what the Christian prophets are saying – some of the only positive voices in a dark news time.
I consume far more social media than is helpful. It’s like a train wreck, I cannot look away. Reading post after post only serves to add to my fear and alarm. Finding good news is like finding a needle in a haystack. It’s the alarmist voices which shout the loudest and seem to have the most influence. Never being a person to closely follow the news, I become an absolute news junkie, devouring every skerrick I can get my hands on. My husband thinks I’m still an ignoramus as far as news is concerned, (and my comment that I hope Boris Yeltsin doesn’t die, doesn’t help), but little does he know of my overnight transformation. The debate rages on social media over closing the schools. I decide to follow government advice (and in an attempt to preserve normality as much as possible) keep my kids at school as long as I’m able. They’re happy to be there, but it takes nerve (or some would say stupidity) to keep them there against prevailing medical opinion.
I take my kids to scheduled school dentist appointments. I’m in awe of these professionals, keen to work and provide services through this period when most people don’t even want to stand next to you, let alone look in your mouth. It’s business as usual with a smile and compassion here, although at one of the appointments news comes through that they can no longer do treatments (only checkups) as the masks are needed for the Covid fight. The dentists are genuinely disappointed.
Around the same time I take my boys for haircuts, as I can’t stand the thought of looking at long haired louts in a confined space for an extended period of time. The hairdresser is so relieved to see me (people were staying away at this point), that she offers me a very large glass of champagne. I gladly accept, although I feel I should somehow disinfect the glass first. Champagne at the hairdressers when I’m not even getting my own hair cut is the perfect antidote for these times. I feel elated!
A trip to do the weekly grocery shopping becomes an ordeal as I try to remain the required distance away from others in the cramped aisles. I never know which items from my list I will be successful in obtaining, or which ones I will need to surrender at the checkout where you now have to pack your own bags, necessitating standing even closer than usual to the cashier. It seems that as long as you’re doing something different, you must be doing something positive. By contrast, Americans who are usually required to pack their own groceries aren’t able to do this throughout the pandemic.
Whilst out shopping I see a local cafe owner from a distance. The stoop in her shoulders tells it all, the pain both economic and emotional evident in her body stance. On my way home I stop at another cafe, which that day will close it’s doors. I ask about staying open for takeaways, but the chairs are already stacked and the owner has a sad and distant look in his eyes – he doesn’t think it’s worth it and will ride out the pandemic at home.
On Friday 27th March I find out that I will be cut off from my family living in another region. This is one of the hardest restrictions to cope with and particularly difficult for the kids who are looking forward to travelling to the farm in the holidays. I go to the post office to collect a parcel and feel like I’ve tumbled down the rabbit hole into a strange dystopian world, which would have been at home in the Third Reich. The staff are still very pleasant, but the atmosphere is not. Back at home I struggle on. Cooking dinner and normal chores seem like an imposition in these dark times.
On 30 March we begin online school, which is very different from its cousin, home schooling. Some of my children take to this very well, but others end up sobbing on the couch. With the prospect of this situation lasting for a considerable length of time, I shed a few tears too.
Sometime in the next few weeks my faith starts to gain traction over my fear. I gain some perspective and decide that the truth about the situation lies somewhere between the very loud voices of panic and alarm and the laissez-faire approach. I feel incredibly blessed to live in Australia and to have the leaders that we do. We’re not out of the woods yet, but there’s light at the end of the tunnel and I decide to forge my path ever onwards towards the light that shineth in the darkness.
