Could be, Should be, Would Be. The Year that was – 2020

–the long and short of it. This is my retrospective on annus horribilis – the year that was 2020. To approach it, I wriggle my fingers into kid gloves and swallow heaped spoonfuls of political correctness. I have kindness and empathy, but I also have a liberal sprinkling of anger, disappointment and regret. How many times must we be reminded that life throws curveballs? A million. 2020 taught us our hardest life lesson. Our planet, it seems, is rejecting us, and not even the fittest may survive.

At first, the lockdown seemed like an unexpected gift—an undeserved holiday. In April, I started a Writing Course; being forced into semi-quarantine suited me. I could devote all my energy and time to writing. I spent early mornings on daily chores, then retreated to my study, surrounded by books, photographs, and knick-knacks collected over the years. I thought they would inspire me. How wrong I was. I needed a thesaurus and dictionaries, books of clever quotes, words, and stories to inspire me. 

The course proved far more challenging and taxing on my creativity. But I persevered and submitted my stories. Criticism is a bitter pill to swallow, and the twist of the thin, sharp blade in my heart often left me in tears of frustration, melancholy and heartache. I was inconsolable every time I received my papers back. Butch doggedly insists I was mistaken. I think he has a thick skin.

We were advised to start a diary, recording interesting conversations, our moods, and general observations, and to track the landscapes of our minds, to memorise our experiences. This is what writers do. Stories are based on people's experiences.

My entries became horrid, critical of everyone around me. Days dragged into weeks. I found fault with the unemployed, sullen young man smoking his vile, illegal cigarettes as I doggedly marched around our building. His moroseness twisted my stomach into a cantankerous knot as I sped up or slowed my strides to avoid him. Like my father's diary, mine may be read only a year after my demise. Some days I was insufferable to myself.

I pummeled bread dough into submission and rolled and folded pastries with light, feathery fingers. I turned buttery crumbs into scones, rolled, twisted, and folded sticky, messy dough into swirls for Pasteis de Nata, and whipped up cakes and puddings. All were presented to Butch to savour and nibble, and he'd give an honest opinion. He's never disappointed—a Covid feast. While the wine flowed copiously and then trickled as restrictions increased, our scales reached new heights.

Conversations with friends resumed. We hooked up on Zoom. We had lovely coffee dates, tea parties, and sundowners with friends and family from all over the world. Initially, all we talked about was Covid19; we'd debate the pros and cons of lockdown, the economy, and what our Government was doing right and wrong. We lamented our loss of freedom, criticised the cigarette and booze bans, and hailed everyone, including the judiciary, as idiots, crooks and thieves. I did not sink so low as to think this was a plot by the Illuminati, Bill Gates or the Chinese (maybe I can blame the Chinese a little, I must confess).

Nothing could prepare me for the web of lies that conspiracy theorists came up with, but, more importantly, for who believed the bollocks being brandished about. My life turned into a war of words. Butch, diplomatically, advised me to ignore the deluge engulfing us. My mouth and my good sense aren't synchronised.

There were, of course, joys and celebrations too. Anna and Bertus, Butch’s daughter and lovely son-in-law, gave birth to a beautiful, healthy, bouncing baby boy. His name is Liam. He looks just like his Grandpa, even with his dimple.

The days rolled on relentlessly, and hospitals filled up. Doctors were swamped, with 60% of their patients diagnosed with COVID; many were deteriorating swiftly. We were told consultations took place in car parks. Long queues snaked up to the Lab's doors for tests; field hospitals filled up. Ambulance sirens sounded more frequently. Receptionists, exhausted nurses and doctors were being infected, and one lady was dispatched to the ICTCC. Yet we went about our day nonchalantly, as if nothing had changed. Why? Because COVID had not touched our skin. 

To emphasise the severity of COVID and my anxiety about it, I will tell you about my brother Mark's ordeal. It's a long saga. I hope you will read it. This is a personal account, transcribed via messaging.

A young, extremely handsome, fit, single man. Mark lives a quiet life. He loves to travel and has a favourite spot on a secret beach; he exercises regularly; his exquisite home, his garden, and the flocks of birds he feeds are his passion. He has no comorbidities—mom's favourite child.

 

---oOo---

On 14th May, in a text, I asked Mark, a pharmacist, who was becoming extremely anxious as he saw increasing numbers of Covid19 patients and colleagues. "Mark, how're you doing? How's your sidekick? Holding thumbs. You're going to be just fine. Xxx"

"Morning, Maricha. I'm in lockdown until I get results. Hopefully, back to work tomorrow. It's been extremely stressful lately, with uncertainty across all aspects of work. A rudderless ship sailing into uncharted waters."

---oOo---

3rd July,  instead of a birthday greeting, I received this note from Mark. "Things are getting worse by the day, but the business wheel must turn relentlessly.  We are here to serve, listen and console.   Somehow, have a blessed birthday."

I can't remember what we did to celebrate the day, though I'm sure we did. 

---oOo---

Winter sets in.

20th July, "I have been diagnosed with Covid19." Mark writes. I remind him to inform his friend Lana. He says, "I tried phoning and wrote her a letter. She won't take this well in all respects." Lana is currently undergoing chemotherapy and is a high-risk patient.

"I must follow my doctor's orders, and hopefully tomorrow I will have a scan and X-rays of my chest and organs. My chest is the biggest concern, and that's the main priority now. There are protocols to follow, and I must be patient and trust my doctor at this stage."

I have no words but to wish him a good rest. I also wish to say that I love him very much.

"Thanks. Thankfully, my mind is blank at this stage, and I'm just concentrating on breathing! Have you ever? xx."

Later, I ask him how he's feeling. I know it's going to be a long night. 

"Shortness of breath, but not laboured at this stage. Bit of wheezing, like an old diesel tractor…xx."

"Just breathe," is all I manage to say.

"I am. Trust me."

"Good boy! You could always rewrite Grey's Anatomy. Mark's anatomy."

"It will be one page long… The End… Not much to write about."   

"I think it could be a bestseller."

---oOo---

Tues 21st July, a sliver of faint pink light enters my bedroom, and for a few seconds the world feels normal. Then reality hits me. Nothing is normal. We are spinning off our axis.

At 07h47, my phone lights up and pings. "Hi, Maricha. Didn't sleep much, but got 3 hours and another 2 in. I'm fragile today; my eyes are sore, and I have terrible headaches, fever and general body pains. My breathing is ok. Shallow but steady. No wheezing. Thanks for the support, and I'll keep you posted. Today I really don't know how I'm going to manage to go for X-rays and scans. My body isn't my own at present. Lol."

My stomach clenches every time I receive a message. Trying to stay upbeat, I assure him it's good that he slept. I ask him to keep breathing and hope an ambulance can transport him to the hospital for tests.

Winter has set in, and our mountains are covered in icing-sugar dustings of snow. On the other side of the Du Toits Kloof mountains, Mark is feverishly burning up.

8h07  In a voicemail, a friend asks me, "Can Mark test his saturation, as it's an indication of how far the virus has gone and the damage to the lungs? His oxygen saturation should be in the high 80s and '90s; if it goes below that, he must get to a hospital.  TIME NOT TO BE WASTED.  Shallow breathing is a bad sign.  He must get an oximeter." 

I relay the message and emphasise the need to test oxygen levels.

08H26 "I'm off to the hospital. Gardens Medi Clinic. Will keep you posted. Must shower and pack an overnight bag, etc."

10h09 "All sorted, thanks. En route now."

11h48 "Had X-rays taken. Blood has been drawn. The doctor examined me thoroughly."

11h50, I ask him, "Is it your 60th birthday in September?" "Think so! Big celebrations this year."

11h51 "No!!! Only 59 this year!!! Got good news. No need for oxygen, according to blood tests. They're really jacked up here."

11h52 "I never celebrate birthdays, by the way!"

15h59 "Discovery phoned me today about the oximeter, and I will most likely get one, as it's a particular benefit for me being COVID-positive. We also sell them at work. A friend did my groceries, and now I'm ready for bed. I have extreme fatigue syndrome!!! Love Mark"

---oOo---

Wednesday 22nd July 08h52 "I suppose each day will have its challenges, and today I really feel vrot to the max, but breathing is fine at least. Going to lie in bed and listen to the radio. Thanks for the air vibes!"

I try not to panic and ask about his oxygen levels, insisting he gets the oximeter. He assures me his breathing is fine. He does admit, "I wish I could have those drips again. Those really perked me up quickly. Take care, enjoy the lovely sunshine. I'll stay in bed today. I have weird feelings. My body dictates my actions. Love, Mark. PS: I have wonderful white noise CDs; I've been playing them for years—Google binaural sounds.

Being an avid reader, I suggest he listen to audiobooks. He doesn't have the energy or the ability to concentrate on them. He slips in and out of sleep.

Thursday 23rd 09H40 "Hi M, had a bad night and feel vrot to the max. Going to get hold of Discovery now for an oximeter. Thanks for your support. Mark"

I tell him about Alan Winde and his use of aspirin (Ecotrin) to thin his blood. There's evidence of blood clots. Telling him that I love him seems so inconsequential; I want to help him. Be there with him. But I can't.

09h52 "I will get what's necessary today. Just scared of putting an extra strain on my liver with more meds."

16h34 "Maricha, I don't know what to say. I'm weak, fatigued, with a headache from hell, strange sensations over my body, and fevers of note. Really not pleasant, and no improvement as yet. Going to sit in a hot bath now, as I'm cold despite the Eskimo outfit, etc. Time will tell. Thanks for your concern."

16h40 "Oximeters are completely unavailable because of high demand."

Friday 24th "Hi M, It's with regret that I'm feeling worse each day. I was in contact with my doctor, and I'm starting antibiotics again, along with cortisone and pain meds. I slept possibly 2 hours. Take care, and enjoy the glorious day. Love, Mark."

Panic wells up inside me, and I beg him to let me help. I ask whether Dr has seen him.

09h07 "Maricha, no doctor is allowed in my home. It's protocol. If I get worse, I'm going to the hospital, and that's it. I'll never put your life or anyone else's at risk. I'm now highly contagious."

09h36 "Going to hospital."

Alfred, Mark’s good friend, the one he calls “His brother from another mother,” offers to drive Mark to the hospital again. He painstakingly lines the entire back of his car with black plastic to prevent the spread of Covid19 to him. 30 minutes later, he drops Mark off at the hospital. Only patients are admitted.

---oOo---

Saturday 25th July. 08h30. "Morning, Dad, Mum, Maricha and Percy – well, firstly, my fever has broken. From 39֠ to 37֠, that alone has made a huge difference. The weird conversations in my head have gone! So, on admission, it turned out I was completely dehydrated and undernourished. I have been on bags (IVs) of rehydration fluids and nutrition, and I'm still on them. I have had so many injections for various things… nausea, anti-inflammatories, pain, blood thinners (to stop any clots in my lungs), to name a few." 

When my doctor comes on duty today, I'm sure I will be informed of what's going on.

My oxygen levels have not dropped again, and that’s the best news ever. I'm experiencing lower abdominal pain and backache, and it seems it's my kidneys and bladder.  But today, they'll address that.  They also took urine samples.

I had intermittent sleep between being regularly checked, blood being drawn, and meds being injected at 5 am. I'm still knackered. The severe headaches are under control and bearable. I feel so sorry for the staff attending to me, as every time they enter my room, they must remove all their clothes, etc., and sanitise. The doctor yesterday had 3 showers!! I have a large bedroom all to myself with a spectacular view of Table Mountain. I can thank God my Dr Ismail made the call that I must get here, as I don't know what would've happened if I stayed another day at home. He has phoned me twice already, and he knows my present doctor, Govender. Please pass this message on to family, as I haven't got the strength. Love Mark

Ironically, Anna and Bertus stayed in a similar room with the same view only a few months ago. Their stay was joyful, and we all celebrated the birth of their son, Liam, Butch's first grandson. How quickly the worms turn.

---oOo---

Although we're all relieved that Mark has been admitted to hospital, we're anxious. My parents have to come to terms with not being able to visit him. My Mum, who has dementia, does not fully grasp the magnitude of the situation, though at times she has moments of clarity. 

At 15h48, he writes, "I do have moments of fear. It's not easy when no one can tell me where I'm going with this disease, and there's no cure. Love you too, and thanks for the prayers. It's all I can wish for."

I try to encourage him to stay positive: "You’ve done everything possible to ensure you’re healthy and to prevent COVID-19. There’s nothing more you could’ve done. You’re strong in mind and spirit; no COVID can destroy that. You have a strong will to recover. You’re our inspiration and hero. So breathe and @#$% the virus.” It is my message of encouragement.

15h56 “It’s easier said than done, unfortunately, and I wish I had a living will in place if it becomes unbearable. Being this ill is daunting, trust me, and with what’s happening globally, imagine Maricha. But time will tell.”

I have learned that it’s better to confront one’s fears than to sugarcoat them. As difficult as it is, I respond by acknowledging Mark’s fears. “Things will probably get worse before they get better. Yes, it’s always challenging to stay positive. If you’re worried about being kept on life support with no possibility of recovery, speak to your doctor about your wishes. I have a living will for the same reasons.”

A little later, I add, “Must say you still look very peachy with the tubes up your nose. Still a hunk.”

18h38 “You are so funny, Maricha.”

“True words.  Plus you have the three-day stubble…. Nurses will swoon!”

He responds at 18h54, “I’m in a mask the entire time. I look terrible, and my body feels not my own at all.  I don’t care how I look at this stage!”

---oOo---

Saturday 25th July – 19h18 – He suffers severe bouts of nausea. “Maricha, depending on how long I stay, I might need a few Pick ‘n Pay undies, a few basic long tees, and a tracksuit pant or two. I will reimburse you gladly. My tummy is messed up, etc., etc. I will keep you informed when I get some direction. Thank you.”

19h21 “I’m on a smorgasbord of meds for everything at this stage. Zofer in drip every 8 hours for nausea, pain meds and fever. Doc says, “Unfortunately, it’s part of COVID.” Everyone reacts differently, so there are no clear answers. Very anxious tonight, and I can’t take tranquillisers, as they could suppress my breathing and heart. Love you, Sister, and I’m pooped to the max.”

At last, I can do something for him. I grab a pen and paper and make a list of his requirements; we discuss sizes and preferences. We arrange delivery. Anna, without missing a beat, offers to be the delivery person. I Google and find a 24-hour laundry service. 

Cape Laundry Online immediately agrees to wash, iron, and return his laundry within 24 hours. The hospital will bag the laundry and clearly mark the bag with warnings: “Covid19. Danger. Contaminated.” 

20h49 “All Medium, please. Boxers, please. Oh Maricha, my oxygen levels have dropped by 3 points over the last few hours! They’ve got hold of a physician now. Extremely anxious and feeling my life draining out of me fast. I don’t expect miracles, as I am a realist. Thank you.”

20h57 “They put ice packs around me while increasing the oxygen. Fuck it.”

---oOo---

Sunday 26th July 08h04

“Dad and family,

Not going to write long. Extremely fatigued and weak. I had ice packs around me last night, which helped slightly. This fever is beyond imagining, and I’m told it can still be with me for a while as the virus wreaks havoc in my body. My oxygen levels dropped by 5 points last night, but thank God they have gone up again this morning. The oxygen helps me. I haven’t eaten solids in days and can’t bear the thought of eating yet. The nausea is indescribable. I sip protein shakes and manage 3 a day. My clothes are soaked. I lie in one position and don’t move except to go to the loo. With all the pipes and drips in me, even that is extremely tiring, and I must compose myself to think about what I’m doing, as I’m confused. My thoughts are numb, and I have little emotion. It’s too draining to try to focus on a subject.

Please pass the message on to Maricha and Percival.

Thank you for your prayers and well wishes.

I have no idea where this COVID is taking me, and no one can say. 

Love to all

Mark”

08h06  I ask whether there’s anything else he needs, e.g. lip ice or a moisturiser.  Helplessness overcomes us.

08h18 “Marich. Please get me 2 fleecy track pants. I only have one.  Medium. I’ll reimburse you in due time. Boxers, please, and fleecy track pants.  I’m so cold.”

He starts hallucinating and writes 08h31: “Diarrhoea. It only happened once since day one, and now I have constipation from pain meds. I don’t eat, so I don’t go to the loo at all.”

08h56 “Everything is contaminated, so I just leave my soiled laundry in my cupboard here. When I start feeling perkier, I will wash a few things. I have a big bathroom and will leave them to dry. Oh, Maricha, I forgot something. A body wash and a sponge.”

In an attempt to cheer him up, I say, “Sending prayers on angels' wings to you, my precious xxx. Everyone sends love and prayers (even the atheists are praying! Shows you what you’re capable of.) PS, you sound perkier.”

09h27 he responds, “Thanks, Maricha. It’s baby steps, I suppose. My oxygen levels are nice and high today, so it does give me hope. I’m pumped full of meds for all kinds of things, and I suppose it also makes me drowsy. After taking Zofran half an hour ago for nausea, I was staring at breakfast, but I can’t eat. It’s so weird. But I’m reassured it’s normal and that I mustn’t force myself, as long as I drink water. I am on constant drips 24 hours for nutrition and rehydration.”

Please be extra cautious when Mum and Dad visit today. Sterilise any foodstuffs from shops, etc. Love Mark”

12h07 “Dearest Maricha,

Wow. Thank you ever so much. A clean set of clothes is exactly what I need. Please convey my deepest thanks to Anna, Bertus and little Liam. You’re a lady of your word, and I’m extremely proud to have such a wonderful family.

Love you,

Mark.”

His gratitude overwhelms me even now as I read these texts. I try to be encouraging: “They say it takes a village to raise a child. We’re putting the theory to the test! It’s a huge pleasure. Wish we could do more. At least a little bit of us is there with you now. Even if it’s only a boxer.”

12h13 “I’m so thin already. I might have to get suspenders!”

“Suspenders sound good. One wears them with a bow tie for added appeal. I’m sure it’s nice to slip into something fresh. Waiting for the folks. Butch made some lovely mulled wine for Mum. Keeping spirits up here.” I quip to cheer him up.

12h20 “Give Mum a stiff gin beforehand. She loves it. Enjoy, and thank you sincerely.”

13h14 I send him photographs of our parents. He writes, “Gosh, I miss them. I am crying now.”

17h28 We’re all terribly emotional, prompting Butch to write a short message of encouragement. “Hi Mark, Maricha has been keeping me in the loop about your battle with COVID, and I don’t know what I can say to lighten your burden, other than that I’m extremely sorry you’ve been struck by it and that you’re facing it alone. Know that we all wish you the strength to win this fight. If there’s anything I can do to help lessen your distress, don’t hesitate to call on me. Take care, Mark, and keep up the fight. WE ARE ALL ROOTING FOR YOU.”

I load more data onto his phone, afraid he will run out. Modern technology is our lifeline to him.

18h34 “Thank you, Butch. It truly means a lot to me. Unfortunately, no one can see or visit me at this stage, and isolation is essential. The poor staff have to undress every time they enter my room and be sanitised head to toe. Butch, please convey my thanks to Anna and Bertus. I have had a bath now, and what a pleasure it is to have clean clothes.”

My bed has just been made, and I’m staring at my supper. I can’t stomach any solids. I get an instant gag. The soup smells so alien that I wouldn’t even attempt it!

Glad you had a lovely day with Mum and Dad. I know they love being there.

I will ask Dad to reimburse you for passing it on to Anna and Bertus.

My fever has dropped to 38.7, and my oxygen levels have fallen by only 3 points today.

Love to all,

Mark”

---oOo---

Monday 27th July 08h27

“I slept on and off, and today I just want to sleep—chronic fatigue and headaches. But the fever was lower through the night. Only 37.8. Oxygen levels fluctuate but are not critical. Chest killing me and body sore. I want to nap all day if possible.”

Will keep you posted.

Love, Mark.”

My Dad sends this message: “Baab and Butch, thank you for the kind words, especially for your fabulous support. I’m sorry I have to lean so heavily on you. Mum forgets and wonders, knowing something is desperately wrong, and then we have to go through it all over again from the start. But ever the optimist, I press on with faith. Sorry, pushed the wrong button again! Sleep tight, night night, Dad.”

---oOo---

Tuesday 28th July 09h28

“There are only 6 of us here.  Interesting.”

Messages are becoming shorter and less frequent.  All I can think of is this quote: “ For you today from me. “If I were blood, I’d live in your heart.” I send.

08h22 “That’s lovely, M.”

09h03  “Dad and family,

A dreadful evening. The temperature is the highest it’s been: 39.1 at midnight, and oxygen levels have dropped by 10 points! They immediately increased my oxygen intake. Meds keep my fever at bay for up to 1.5 hours, then it spikes again. I’m extremely exhausted and despondent now. It’s really not easy when your body isn’t your own anymore. Let’s hope the blood cultures and CT scans reveal something and that the Physician can get some direction. I feel in a daze, look around me, and for a second think about where I am. The nausea is terrible, and even water makes me bilious. But I sip a little and force my protein drinks down. I have a smoothie for breakfast, and it’s my challenge to finish it. My sugar levels are perfect, showing the virus hasn’t damaged my pancreas. 

I need to lie down again as I’m weak to the core today after last night’s episode.

Dad, please forward this to all. I don’t have the energy to repeat myself. Love to everyone worldwide, and thank you for your love and prayers. Mark.

10h35 “Hi, Mark has just phoned. He said his CT scan showed his lungs were riddled with Covid. The Dr said that, out of 6 Covid patients in hospital, he was the worst case. They have increased his oxygen intake. All the other pain lower down in his body is caused by the virus. He said he was frail; it’s not looking good. Have a good day, Dad.”

12h40 “I can’t stress.  My fever spikes like clockwork and consumes me completely.”

12h52 “I listen to music 24 hours with earphones.  Going to sleep now.”

I send brief messages asking how he is.

18h54 “Ag, under the circumstances, not bad, Maricha. The fevers are terrible, but it’s one of those things I have to work through. Hopefully, by the end of the week, there could be a shift. Sleep tight, and thank you for just being freaking awesome. Thank you, sleep tight, Mark.”

---oOo---

Wednesday 29th July 09h17

“I will write to Dad and forward it.”

I wait impatiently to hear from my Dad.  We don’t know what to expect. 

09h54 “Just had a message from Mark.  It seems as if he’s turned a corner, even though ever so slightly.  Love Dad”

“Hi, Dad.

Intermittent sleep bouts. Fever didn’t spike above 39, at least. Oxygen this morning was in the 80s, and now I'm told to sit at 45֠ all the time, which raised it into the 90s. My chest is very sore when coughing, and I try to suppress it as much as I can. Body aches and headaches are a mystery. I feel I have a little taste returning. I'm already so tired and want to rest again. I have someone else in my room now, at least at the far end from me. Both he and his mother are here.

Hope all goes smoothly today, and don’t forget the masks at all times. I had a smoothie for breakfast, and the protein drink is staring at me!! I felt very bilious last night for no reason, and the meds helped quickly. How will I ever work again if these pains in my hands and joints don’t go away?

Please pass this on to family, Dad.

Love to Mummy and get home asap today.

I’ll phone later this afternoon.

Love, Mark.”

Some positive news. Our euphoria was short-lived.

10h33 “Physician just checked me over. He is concerned that my chest is getting worse. Had 8 vials of blood taken. Thinks I could be developing a secondary bacterial chest infection. Will start on antibiotics and S6 pain meds immediately. Have no energy to resist what comes my way and am going with the flow. Out of everyone here, of course, I’m the worst. My wonderful draw in life.”

The following quotes are verbatim.

12h55 “A colleague’s wife at work will drop off clean clothes. Maricha is not doing well. Oxygen dropped into the 80s, and it is on a full mouth and nose ventilator. It does push it up. Feeling worse by the day so far, to be honest. On Temgesic S6 for pain, which zonks me completely.”

13h34 “Dad. Taken a turn again. Oxygen fell into the low 80s. Now on full mouth and nose ventilator. It helps. Feeling quite spaced out. Room spinning! Hope you're home and safe.”

Mark sends me a selfie, and waves of shock and grief wash over me. I gasp. Seeing his face, covered by a brushed acrylic baby-blue beanie and an oxygen mask, brings the reality home. I’m sucker-punched. Thank goodness his noggin’ is warm, I tell him. Although thoughts and prayers are immaterial to him at this stage, I assure him we’re all praying for him and rooting for him.

13:00 he writes “Much appreciated.  I’m just taking whatever comes now.  No expectations and high hopes.”

17h39, fevers rack his emaciated body. “By Thursday, I can have a good load to wash. I only have wet sweats. Just put on an unknown antibiotic, called PIPTAZ, which is administered through a fancy contraption. Must be closely controlled and monitored.”

---oOo---

Thursday 30th July, he writes to Dad, “I’m writing at this ungodly hour because it’s impossible to sleep. Just after midnight, all hell broke loose and my oxygen dropped by 12 points. They rallied around me, and I phoned the physician immediately for advice. A new oxygen machine was sent from ICU, and it blows really hard. If I close my mouth, my cheeks blow up like a trumpet player’s. Tomorrow, the physician will decide whether I should be placed in the ICU. If so, I will be placed under an induced coma.” 

I'm not allowed to walk any more, and my skin is crawling and itchy all over. I am wet throughout again. 

I am in God’s hands and will take what comes. I don’t know how I feel anymore. All this blowing oxygen is noisy and could inflate balloons in no time! My oxygen levels are back in the 90s. Talking brings on terrible coughing spells. What’s in store for me next? With these machines beeping away, it sounds like an airport terminal.

Hold thumbs, please, Dad.

PS: At least the temperature kept at bay.” Mark.

15h30 “I don’t wish this upon anyone.”

16h38 “Feeling terrible. Fever climbing again.”

By now he’s got pipes in almost every orifice. Although disturbing, he knows they’re keeping him alive.

---oOo---

Friday 31st July, 07h16 “I have two people round the clock watching me. Bad night. Told I must not talk any more to reserve all oxygen. Chest very sore and headaches. Weaker by the day still. More blood is drawn. Drip came out of my arm, and the entire bed was soaked in blood. Ice packs and cold wash-downs help. Not much else to report.”

He’s still alive. That’s the only thing that counts. I ask him whether he needs anything and learn that he’s in ICU now.

07h52 “The ICU has a controlled environment, and I just need a sheet, tee and boxers.

13h00 “I’ve just had a small operation to install a CVA line in my neck. All medication will now go straight into my lungs. Pass this on to Dad, please.”

---oOo---

We decide to get out and camp not far from home, on a farm in the Rawsonville district. My brother Percy, sister-in-law Sue, and mutual friends join us. We all wait. Our conversations centre on Mark, our childhood, our adulthood, and our interwoven relationships with him. Of course, we have many regrets; life is so very short, and we come to terms with the possibility that we might lose him. 

The thought of him being alone, afraid and uncertain while his life is in the hands of strangers, who, although kind and highly qualified professionals, are doing a job in the most stressful, unprecedented times, is frightening. To reassure ourselves, we send him photographs.

18h24 “Looks wonderful. It’s the first time I’ve seen Percy’s set up. Wow!! Envious of the green grass!” he cheerfully responds.

That is the last time I speak to my brother Mark.

---oOo---

Saturday 01st August.  Worried, I ask my Dad whether he’d had news from Mark.

09h14 “Hi Baab, I’m sorry I missed our call.  Just too slow!  I’ve heard nothing from Mark this morning.  I will send him a message now.  Enjoy your breakfast.  Love, Dad.”

09h15 “Hi Dad, I’ve just phoned the hospital. Mark is on a ventilator now. The staff can’t give any more information. We can send him voice messages to listen to. He is probably in an induced coma. We must be strong for him; he needs our support. He is courageous and strong-willed. He is fighting bravely, but his enemy is unpredictable. M”

12h56 My parents have had no news from the hospital. It’s as if Mark has vanished. “Hi Baab, Mum had a little wobble at breakfast; otherwise, we are managing. We pray for Mark; it must be pretty unpleasant and uncomfortable for him. Love, Dad”

My Mum has dementia, and my father is the primary carer. His struggle is very real, but he soldiers on without complaint. He writes, “Hi Baab, we are managing it. Mum and I have fully discussed Mark’s position, fortunately or not; the conversation doesn’t last long in Mum’s memory. I’m handling it in my way! Love, Dad.”

Mark doesn’t need clean laundry anymore; he’s dressed in hospital garb and wearing adult diapers, the sister on duty tells me kindly.

---oOo---

Sunday 02 August, 07h46. We all slept badly, worried about Mark, and we're fretting about my parents, who’re as confused as we are. We’re all muddling along, trying to make sense of this new development.

“Morning. I’m not up yet; Mum and I never really slept last night. Mum is sleeping now. I’ll leave her to sleep for as long as she likes. I hope we’ll hear from the doctor during the day. Love, Dad.”

I receive a message from my father at 13h50. It’s unusual for him to write, especially since he knows we’re out of town. The seriousness of the situation must be getting to him. I can feel his anxiety and uncertainty.

“Dear Baab, the reality of Mark’s illness, that he is on life support at the moment and that he could die, has hit Mum very badly since lunchtime. I hope Mum can get her composure back; it’s affecting me too. I hope the Doctor phones this afternoon; I’m now a bit better prepared for him than I was last evening. What worries us is that we can’t be with Mark when he dies. As a mother, you will understand; you carried for 9 months and brought children into the world. Get home safely. Love, Dad.”

A little later, he writes. “At 4 o’clock we’re off on our walk. We’ve had our rest. Mum seems much more relaxed. The strange thing about memory loss: literally, within a minute, Mum will lose the thread of an incident. Heard nothing from the doctor yet. No news, good news? Dad.”

---oOo---

On 4 August, a devastating explosion in a warehouse in Beirut killed at least 200 people and injured around 5000 others. But our immediate thoughts are constantly with Mark.

Although my Dad was Mark’s next of kin and the person to contact, the hospital staff were not at liberty to share any news about Mark’s progress. We had to reassure ourselves that “no news was good news.” All we could do was wait. We left messages for the doctor. We all sent regular voice messages to Mark. I sent short video clips from nieces, nephews, and grandchildren who regularly wished him well. Messages poured in from friends, acquaintances, and family; even forgotten friends heard about Mark and called in. Prayer chains and prayer groups prayed fervently. The days dragged on.

---oOo---

On Thursday 06th August at 12h45, Dad sent a message. “Hi Baab, just spoken to the doctor. He said he is regulating the oxygen very carefully and that Mark is being turned regularly to prevent bedsores. Since yesterday morning, he has not had any fevers. He sounded more optimistic but warned, “This virus is very unpredictable”. He also said there is still a very long way to go before Mark is better. It appears Mark is still fighting the good fight against the virus; I think he was saying not to be too complacent. Love, Dad.”

And so, life goes on relentlessly. Dr Govender, in conversation with my father, promised he'd treat Mark as his own son. All decisions would be based on that premise. Although Mark was very sick, he still thought there was a sliver of hope. Mark has COVID pneumonia. Bedsores develop.

---oOo---

11th August, 14h18. Dr Govender checks in with my father, who writes a general note to everyone: “I’ve just had a call from Dr Govender. He said he lowered the oxygen rate to 40%; the starting rate the previous Saturday was 100%. He had a secondary infection late last Saturday but seemed to be improving on the antibiotics being administered. He also said he hopes to have Mark off oxygen by the weekend. The doctor’s entire attitude on the phone sounded quite positive. As I understand it, we have a good chance of seeing Mark much better in two or three weeks. Your prayers and thoughts are a great help to us at this extremely anxious time. Love to all, Ilse and Tim K”

---oOo---

Thursday, 13th August, 12h52 – “Hi Baab, just back from the traffic dept to renew my disc. I got some muti for Mum from the GP to ease the stress; hope it helps. Otherwise, all fine. Heard nothing new. I’m a machine. I keep charging along. Love Dad”

---oOo---

On Monday, 17th August – “Good news! After 17 days, Mark has been brought around and is conscious but very confused. The anaesthetist is with him. She’ll administer a mild sedative until this afternoon, when he’ll be able to talk to Dad. She says he’s looking good. We’re thrilled and excited. Mom is in tears. All good. Thanks for your continued messages, thoughts and prayers. We will keep you posted. Maricha, I’m sending this message far and wide. We are all overjoyed.”

---oOo---

Tuesday 18 August. I receive 7 missed calls from Mark. I call back, but he doesn’t respond. His phone is switched off. I assume the battery’s flat.

August 20th: Again, I receive a missed call. I can’t return it. We’re off the grid. We’re taking an impromptu trip to Namaqualand to see the daisies in bloom. It’s a spectacular year, not one to be missed.

I switch on my phone once we’re settled in Kamieskroon and receive these desperate messages from Mark.

19h45 “Please phone!”

19h47 “Maricha, phone me, please.”

20h42 “So I made it, please phone me, please.”

I call but receive no answer. We are desperate.

---oOo---

On Friday 21 August at 10h50, another message: “Please phone Maricha.”

I call Mark. He is bewildered. He tells me he’s being kept in hospital against his wishes and under duress. He has no memory of events, only of being dropped off at the hospital door. He’s frail, can’t walk, and, giggling, says, “I'm in adult diapers!” He has difficulty concentrating, has no strength to type, and is extremely tired. I realise he has no idea what day it is or how long he’s been in hospital.

He insists on informing me of his last will. He’s paranoid and hysterical. Exhaustion engulfs him as we end the conversation.

---oOo---

Sunday 23rd August 18h25. I hear from him again. “It was a better day mentally, and I realise I have a tough road ahead; learning to walk is going to be difficult. I had two physio sessions and managed about 10 metres with a walker. My feet are less floppy but still ridiculously weak. I sweat and must rest for 5 minutes after each little attempt. My calves look terrible. Sleep tight.”

I know he’s on the mend when he starts complaining about how hard it is to sleep because of all the protocols that have to be followed. “They check my BP, then it’s oxygen levels and its beeps and buzzes, and then at 5 am they come to wash me, and so it goes. Noise all the time, and they switch the lights on when they enter, whatever time.” 

I get terribly emotional. To think of what I put my family through and how you all rallied around me without me even knowing. Love you, sister, and love to Butch.

19h10 “Bawling my eyes out… but you, my family, are all I have, and I will never take life for granted, nor have I in the past. I will fight this and overcome it somehow.”

I remind him that it’s good to cry. I believe he has to mourn his life, because life as he knew it will never be the same again. This time around, it’s going to be better. He’s lost so much, and there are stages of loss he needs to come to terms with, such as anger, anxiety, denial, acceptance and sadness.

This consoles him, and he tells me, “The entire hospital thinks I’m a miracle for making it through my COVID and then that chest infection. Doctors and nurses I don’t even know come to congratulate me. So yes… God was with me all the way.”

He ends his message by saying, “I’m just an old man, but they (the staff) have been tremendous… I’m trying not to wear adult diapers and am learning to control my bowels and bladder through sheer determination. I need my life back. I miss my flat and my birds. I don’t expect to run a marathon soon, but I want to walk as I did before. Basics… to live a simple, private life like Dad, and thank goodness for that.”

---oOo---

On August 27th at 08h33, after a botched attempt the previous day to secure an ambulance, Mark was rewarded with a bath. “Morning, Maricha. It seems all will hopefully go to plan. Eating breakfast. Have a shower today. To think I haven’t had a decent shower for 5 weeks. My scalp and ears were filthy. Got clean clothes on and ready for the next part of the journey. Just wish I could walk properly, but it will happen. In one week, through sheer determination, I pushed myself. I am stiff, similar to after a workout. I must get my independence back asap. I pray nothing like this happens to anyone.”

Eleven days after coming out of an induced coma, Mark was transferred by ambulance to Oasis, a step-down clinic. Still weak and confused, unable to walk independently, his body is emaciated. He suffers partial paralysis on his left side; the doctor confirmed his suspicions: he had suffered a stroke. His breathing is laboured and shallow, and he wheezes easily after the slightest exertion.  

On Friday, he says things are going well. “Pushing it hard. My confidence is improving. I can slowly see the light at the end of the tunnel. I had a haircut and look a lot better. Eating all my food. I'm determined. I want to forget about this and move on. I have been through some traumatic events before.”

His recuperation was slow, though he was determined. During his time at Oasis, he received daily physiotherapy, could walk short distances unaided, completed a series of light exercises, and walked 100 lengths of his bedroom. Determined to regain the 12 kg he had lost, he ate lustily. He continued to feel fatigued and suffered from severe nightmares and symptoms of PTSD. To regain his fine motor skills, Mark went back to the drawing board and taught himself to draw again.

An unsightly black scar on his cheek, where a feeding tube had been attached, was successfully removed by a plastic surgeon, while the tracheotomy slash faded rapidly. When I saw him, it was barely visible.

After one of his check-ups, he was told he has mild fibrosis and scarring of the lungs. They prescribed high-dose cortisone tablets and a corticosteroid inhaler. He takes Melatonin (to induce sleep) and experiences the effects of anaesthesia and prolonged doses of morphine.

In November he went camping—two days of bliss.

 

---oOo---

Mark returned to work at the beginning of December, having regained much of his strength. He continues to suffer from bouts of anxiety, nightmares and depression, all of which require medication. He has regained the use of his left side, but at times his memory fails him and simple tasks seem impossible. During that first week, four pharmacists died in George. No one mentioned them or fussed over them.

In his last message to me, he says, “Write your blog, Maricha. If I tell you the last few weeks have been a nightmare, it’s an understatement. The long-term effects of Covid are dreadful, and I feel I’m losing it some days.” He then issues a warning: "You’ve no idea. The worst is yet to come. This is the beginning.”

This morning he wrote, “My colleague, standing next to me at work, tested positive. Sad.”

---oOo---

For a few weeks now, Butch and I have heard of close friends, neighbours, immediate family, acquaintances, and famous and infamous people being diagnosed with COVID-19; the worst of it is that every day we hear of at least two people we know who've succumbed to this dreaded disease.

I hate being an alarmist, but I brace myself and ask, “Will we still be around by the time there’s a vaccine?” You see, I’m done with platitudes and empty promises.

Note: some names have been changed to protect Mark's friends.

It would be amiss of me not to thank all our friends, family, acquaintances and colleagues who prayed, sent messages, phoned and thought of Mark. Thank you; your support meant the world to us and lifted our flagging spirits. I know the universe and Mark worked in unison to fight for his life, and he continues to do battle. Every day I hear from someone asking after him. Thank you.

If someone had said, "Next year at this time you'll be wearing masks, facing curfews, entering lockdown, quarantining, and travel might be impossible", I'd have laughed at them—photo taken on 12/12/2019 at Butch's 70th Birthday party. Four people in the family portrait have survived Covid19. 

Mark returns to work and joins his colleagues for their year-end function. 

The show must and will go on.