Love in the Time of Coronavirus

It’s a funny thing, being stuck in a house with just one person to talk to every day. It’s a little bit harder still when one of you starts social distancing in February, concerned by what she is hearing on the news, but the other continues to travel abroad and to go to London (and travel by tube). On the basis of the advice given by the government as this stage, one wants friends to come and stay, and to go to supper with other friends. One wonders why their social life can’t be curtailed a little given a genuine fear of what catching Covid-19 might mean when she is considered to be ‘extremely high risk’. Eventually, as it becomes apparent that this really is a problem, and not the overreaction of one partner, the other one agrees to self isolate, in fairness significantly before the PM orders a total lockdown. Harmony, it seems, is restored until it becomes apparent that the more sociable of the two must have unknowingly been infected just before agreeing to stay at home. Now the cautious one, who adores the sociable one, tends to him and cooks for him and looks after everything else whilst answering all the messages asking after him. She is exhausted but reminds herself continually that he is a wonderful man and that she would be devastated if anything happened to him. But when she finds he also given her Coronavirus and her GP explains that, given her situation, she needs to be prepared to dial 999 without hesitation the moment things get worse, well... how does she feel then? Neither of them can go out to walk the dogs, or to shop for basic things like food, and now they are trapped in a house together for the foreseeable future, in a potential hotbed of hunger and resentment…

My saggy old cloth cat and constant companion

Image by Claire Bowen

Gabriel Marcia Marquez’s book about Love in the Time of Cholera has long been one of my favourite books, but it is at least partly based on the premise that love is actually like suffering from a disease like cholera, whereas the reality of now, is that we are finding ways to love in the time of a very real pandemic..

There were reports of deaths from Coronavirus in China as far back as December last year. and on January 30th, the death tolls said to stand at 213, with infections at 9,096. I’m not going to speculate, as many have done, on whether China were reporting fairly or accurately by then, my point is that just two months ago it didn’t feel like we were on the verge of global pandemic. Nevertheless, as the disease spread outside of China and numbers began to rise, I started to feel uneasy. My husband had been to Switzerland in late January and the by the time of his trip to Spain in mid February, I was starting to express concerns. I knew that if this did spread to the UK, in the highly unlikely event that I caught it, I would would not fare very well. By the time Charles returned home from his second trip, I was actively voicing these concerns. My husband is well known for his caution, and he had after all spent many decades working in risk management … he is affectionately known as Mr Brown in our family, on account of his similarity with the character played by Hugh Bonneville in the Paddington films. He told me that he had done some analysis and number crunching and the chances of him catching Coronavirus were around a million to one. I bit my lip for a while. When he went up to London to meet several friends in different locations, travelling by tube, at the end of February, I raised some mild objections… figures for infection were on the rise and I was feeling more anxious on both our behalves. We were still nowhere near the stage being advised not to travel, let alone lock down. However, sensing my concern, and admitting he had been away a lot, my husband said he would like to go and see his Mother in Jersey for just a few days as she had been poorly. I could hardly deny him his access to his 80 something year old Mother, but still I was unhappy. When he returned, a few days later he complained of feeling exhausted. I assumed he’d travelled too much, and he’s not as young as he once was. He agreed to stay at home with me, to spend some time together and wait and see how the situation with Coronavirus unravelled.

Flowers and image by Claire Bowen

By this stage, however, his exhaustion was kicking in. I found myself realising how many things he did at home once I found myself doing all of them as well as gardening, flowering and negotiating my first book deal. I took Honeysuckle and Hilda for long walks every day, and made sure there was plenty of freshly cooked food, as this exhaustion seemed not to be appetite limiting in any way. But soon this tiredness was accompanied by a persistent cough… but 111 put it down to a normal flu’ type virus. But the exhaustion got worse and worse, and anti biotics were not helping his cough. After a chat with his GP, an inhaler was issued and I went to collect it for him, thinking to myself that his illness was forcing me out of isolation. I felt anxious as the queue at reception was long… the following day, Charles used his inhaler and exclaimed loudly. he said he had very extreme stinging pains in his chest. We phoned to check if this was normal, we were told that it was a very specific symptom of Coronavirus… it turns out my husband really is one in a million!

I carried on looking after Charles, but now completely from within the house. I felt more and more tired to the point I could barely function, but I reminded myself of the great care my husband had taken of me after a lengthy recovery following extensive lung surgery. I tell myself it hadn’t been for him insisting on paying for an x ray after five months’ of coughing which doctors put down to post viral irritation, that tumour would almost certainly have been found too late. And it was one gesture -that he used to arrive at St Thomas’s before 7 am every morning, knowing that I could not move my arms due to nerve damage, to sit and wait with me for my breakfast to arrive, so that he could butter my toast, before heading off to his 12-14 hour working day - that made me realise that he was the man I wanted to spend the rest of my life with. And so I persisted, but grumpily so, answering so many texts about his health every day. “What about me?” I wanted to cry, “I’m exhausted”. Bloody hell.

And then it happened, one morning a day or two later. I went to get up to go and check on Charles, but instead found myself on the floor as my legs refused to cooperate. It had happened before, 12 years ago, and a few times since. I looked at my legs and sure enough there were the tale tale signs of black bumpy nodules on my legs pointing to Erythema Nodosum. This time it was my turn to call the surgery. I explained what had happened and heard what I didn’t want to hear, that the auto immune disease in my system was reacting to the fact that I had caught a very unpleasant virus. And now we were surely stuffed. My husband said that if we both had it, then it was quite possible that I had infected him. Thank goodness for a sister in lockdown who had all the time in the world to listen to what I thought of that suggestion rather than my telling him to his face. Better still the prescription of Tramadol to relieve the pain in my legs, is a drug which also brings with it a much needed injection of good humour.

Flowers and image by Claire Bowen

And there we were, two people with Coronavirus, one resentful of the other, but also not really able to walk and so now dependent on the person she was cross with, and with no obvious means of getting any food, now that online delivery slots were rarer than Charles’s so called chances of catching Covid 19. And this is where a different kind of love - let’s call it community spirit - kicked in. We live in a village of 200 people. An email was sent by an enterprising member of our village asking if anyone needed help or indeed could offer help. By the following day 49 names and numbers were on a What’s App group. There were, to all extents and purposes, a lead coordinator, three regional coordinators for the lower, middle and upper parts of the village and 15 volunteers.

Soon messages are going back and forth on the What’s App group. To start with, the messages are mainly practical ones, offers of help with shopping and items being requested. Likewise people take it in turns to collect prescriptions from the GP surgeries nearby for those self isolating. But soon, jokes, memes and village news begins to circulate. And some of the requests become more niche. The Instagrammers amongst us were on the hunt for sourdough starter - ironically I have enough for the entire village, but I don’t dare to offer my contaminated raising agent to anyone - perhaps they too have discovered that Martha de Lacey’s sourdough classes have gone on line…? A neighbour asks if they can cook something for us and leave it on our doorstep. I am touched, but also aware that they too should be isolating. My husband, however, has less compunction about it and replies saying that he feels it would be difficult for him to regain his strength whilst living with a vegan…they are incredibly kind and drop off a stew for him. He begins to see there is some advantage to the novelty of being the only one in the village to have the virus. A few days later, when another friend drops off fresh bread, I find she has left a casserole for Charles. I draw the line, however, when I discover he is considering asking someone to go shopping for oranges, fresh chills and some thai basil for his favourite Nam Jim Aubergine recipe. I explain that to go to the supermarket means queuing outside for approximately 45mins to an hour before entry, in addition to a drive to and from the nearest town. I also add that he is clearly feeling better if he feels up to cooking. He quickly abandons this plan. The following day, we receive a text from Sainsburys telling us that I am on the extremely vulnerable list and have priority access to delivery slots, thus ensuring steadier supply of food for both of us, and less embarrassment for me at the thought of what Charles might get up to next. Nevertheless, we still enjoy the other news and inspiration being shared by our neighbours - a beautiful painting of one neighbour’s chickens by another, video clips of a therapy horse visiting patients in hospital…it all helps to brighten the day. I suggest to Charles that he shares his recipe for ant infused honey, that he first tried out on me a few days before (I suspect he forgot to put the lid on earlier, as it’s the best explanation I have for what I thought were loose tea leaves but in fact turned out to be insects at the bottom of my mug). Soon church services are online and parish matters are discussed virtually. The new vicar suggest a Zoom meeting for the PCC “I’m going nowhere” comes one reply “no matter how quick the meeting!”. Chris, the postman who has covered our house since we moved here, delivers the post to the side gate, so that Honeysuckle and Hilda, his biggest fans,can greet him and receive a treat through the gate with his gloved hands. As with NHS workers, postmen have been heroes of the hour, continuing to deliver much needed items whilst the rest of us are safe at home.

We were never more grateful for our village friends than the day we discovered that the dripping sound I’d vaguely mentioned one evening was in fact a leaking pipe that had soaked our brand new carpet in the sitting room, causing damp and rot in the floor and walls. We couldn’t ring a plumber and not tell him that we had the virus but neither could we leave things as they were. one plumber talked my husband through finding the correct stop cock and how to rip off the skirting boards and plaster to get to the leak. But still we needed to stem the flow inside. Charles sent a cry for help on the What’s App group. It turned out we had an engineer in the village…a few minutes later, some chewing gum was dropped off at our porch… and it worked. It took a lot of chewing and few packets of gum, but it eventually stemmed the flow. Then another neighbour, who is an estate agent, found a plumber who was prepared to come round wearing PPE as the pipe concerned was just two feet from the back door and we had circulated plenty of air. After three days without running water, I was thankful that I had lost my sense of smell, and the joy of running a warm bath that day was tremendous.

The kindness of locals extended beyond our small village - a bouquet of flowers was left on our porch by Green and Gorgeous, a telephone call to Tia at The Goring Grocer meant we were able to order food to keep us going that first week and to have soup and bread and essential supplies which she delivered in her car. A friend from the village we used to live in dropped off bread and homemade soup. We still haven’t worked out how we can repay so much kindness -will it be one enormous party or several rounds of hospitality, or something else entirely?

I was also in awe of the generosity of spirit from people on Instagram, the very platform that I had so recently been in a quandary over. One friend sent a card shortly after I posted news of Charles’s health, a lovely gesture and so appreciated. As well as all the messages left on Instagram posts, there were texts and phone calls.When our GP confirmed her belief that I too had the virus, I decided to hold off saying anything until after a friend’s birthday. Alas, she has a sixth sense and rang that day anyway. “Do you have the Coronavirus too?” she asked “I was hoping you wouldn’t ask that question” came my reply. She was upset, but I made as light of it as I could, saying I’d been through worse before and there was very little to be done but wait. I couldn’t tell her how terrified was, it would hardly help either of us. There were cheery posts too that kept us going - a post of a cat playing a ring tone on a xylophone amused us many times over. And reading posts as people came together, sharing what they were learning about themselves during a pandemic once follower numbers, trips to teach in Korea and book launches were no longer the priorities they had once been. I mean it in a kind way when I say that some of the bluster and bravado was replaced by a coming together and even greater sense of community than ever, and I was full of admiration for the raw honesty and humanity that replaced it.

Flowers grown and kindly gifted by Green and Gorgeous

image by Claire Bowen

I had to hit pause on Instagram for a little while, though, as things took a turn for the worse for both of us. Charles’s breathing had begun to deteriorate noticeably, and I found myself sitting awake, listening from the room next door, and checking in from time to time. I could tell he was really worried. In the morning, as it was a weekend, he dialled 111. After answering a long series of questions, he was later called back by an on call doctor. He was told to sit tight for now, but I knew that he might need help, and soon, and that I would be the one who would have to get him to wherever he needed to go. We have talked about writing wills since we got married, but with everything else that has gone on, it’s always gone on a back burner. Charles now dragged himself down to his computer to send an email to his siblings, and me, explaining what he would want to happen in the event of his death. It’s obviously not a legally binding document, but nevertheless we all knew what he wanted. He then added a paragraph about what should happen if we were both to die of Coronavirus. I made a list of wishes too, not so much a financial document as notes relating to who I would like to have certain books and trinkets, remembering the florist friend to whom I had jokingly promised my black floral taffeta Cabbages and Roses dress, (interestingly one of the most valuable single items that I own). I even planned some details of my funeral too, noting which passage from The Gentle Author I would like to be read, and a favourite piece by Mary Oliver - and then realising that if the worst were to happen, we would die alone and there would be no funeral, just a quiet burial. We told each other which five people we would like to be there if that were to happen. Just ten days later it seems dramatic, but at the time the fear was very real and we were scared. We’d seen what had happened to others and had no reason to suppose we might not find ourselves in the same boat. I decided to have a bath and get clean in case the next round of advice was to go somewhere to seek help for Charles. But as I went to step out of the bath, I fainted and fell backwards. It was momentary, but I found I then couldn’t get back to the bedroom as I was unsteady on my feet. I now had to phone Charles on his mobile and confess. I lay on the bed and the room started to spin, a feeling I’ve never had before. Charles sat beside me and suggested I should also call 111. For once I complied straight away. I too answered the same set of questions, but with a different outcome, the person on the other end of the phone said he had no choice but to send an ambulance. It wasn’t supposed to happen this way around. Luckily, after an ECG was normal, but a blood pressure test showed very low pressure, my “turn” was put down to hypotension and I was told to rest at home, rather than go to hospital which would really not be a good place to be.

When just one wrong letter changes the entire meaning of text message…

And so we stayed home, tucked up for a few more days. Charles seemed to improve, only to get worse again, and I stayed in bed whilst the room spun around like a Dorothy’s house in The Wizard of Oz. I wondered if Hilda would change colour and look more like Toto when I woke up. (I was still aware enough to overhear Charles, just a few days after the incident, reassuring a concerned neighbour who’d seen the ambulance in our drive, that I had just been “a little bit dizzy”, making me sound like a complete lunatic). It was four days until we spoke to our GP again. We received a joint call and relayed our concerns, and after five weeks of illness, it was decided we should be checked again. I was told that it seemed likely that I had labyrinthitis as well as low blood pressure and so a prescription would be made up for me. We were invited to drive to the GP surgery (with Charles behind the wheel) and stay inside the car in the car park, and a doctor would come out to see us. We were greeted by a GP in woefully inadequate PPE - a plastic visor that had been made by the local school, an out of date paper face mask that had been intended for decorating and a flimsy plastic apron from a party supplies shop. He took our temperatures through the car window and likewise checked our oxygen levels, both of which were more or less okay. This doctor concurred with the others that he shared his colleagues view that he felt as sure as he could without having us tested (not possible) that we had been through a bout of Coronavirus. He explained that they now know it can also attack the nervous system, which would account for pains in my chest where my lung had once been - which to me had made no sense - and said it made labyrinthitis as a secondary infection a very plausible result. We thanked him profusely,so grateful that he and others putting themselves on the line to help people like us. For all that has happened, this must never be forgotten.

These few days, the ones with the paramedics and the GP visit, were definitely the worst for us…the thing had been dragging on for weeks and , just as we thought we couldn’t possibly be any more exhausted, our health deteriorated, and both at the same time. My Instagram posts at this time - when I was able to see straight - were correspondingly at their most miserable. I had hoped that they would have been informative for those wondering about the bug, tempered with messages of hope and resilience. But it seems that not everybody read them that way. When I asked her for advice, one friend suggested that perhaps I was not myself at the time and should perhaps maybe it would be better to stop posting until I felt better. I conceded that I was not at all myself and was also adjusting to the new drugs which are sometimes prescribed for schizophrenia as well as vertigo and labyrinthitis - “in that case’ , she replied, “one of you should keep doing flowers, but the other should stop writing”. She was almost certainly right.

And so we stayed at home and rested for a few days more. Charles’s breathing is easier and his energy levels are slowly on the rise. I have small periods of feeling not too bad now I’m on the new drugs…. it looks though we have at last turned a corner. I managed to pull up a few hundred tulips that I had grown for what was to be my Masterclass at Daylesford farm.. I might have fallen into the flower beds a couple of times, as the world began to spin again, but there was no one around to witness this indignity..The following day I placed them all in glass jars and photographed them. And the day after that, I used some to make a small arrangement. Little steps, with plenty of rest in between.

Flowers and image by Claire Bowen

Four nights ago, Charles sat on the edge of the bed. “I really am very sorry” he said. And that was enough. (To be fair, could he really have known? Our own Prime Minister managed to contract it long after he did, after all). The following night I woke with bad breathing... I went to get up but found him lying on the carpet beside the bed, no bedding, just curled up on the floor. “I could hear your breathing from next door and was worried so I wanted to be close, just in case”. This morning he brought me a cup of tea (this time without ants) and I can see, though still weak, he has made it to the cutting garden and is quietly planting those sweet pea seedlings I’ve been fretting about. He’s going to plant the lily bulbs tomorrow and he’s worried that the chrysanthemums that have been overwintering in the studio are about to dry up and asks whether to water them. He doesn’t know how to divide dahlia tubers, but he’s watched a video by Floret. He doesn’t even like gardening. I love him even more now than I did that time he buttered my toast. Difficult times, but always love x