Diary Entries

I had a spontaneous cry this morning. Sitting at my kitchen table come home office I overheard a snippet on the morning news about bodies being stacked up outside a funeral home in the US. COVID has caused so many deaths in such a short time they have been overwhelmed. I just lost it. Tears poured down my face for a few minutes, and then as quickly as it started it stopped. I wiped a few stray drops off my laptop and got back to work. Because what else can I do? I wonder if this has happened to anyone else.

ICU. [pt.2] Doctors like Dr Rita Almohty, who I’d met a week earlier at her medical centre, where one of the early positive diagnoses was made. I’d seen articles quoting healthcare workers speaking out anonymously, but Rita bravely took the leap and sat down to share the grim reality of her working life… ‘Every day is a battle, it’s a challenge, every day I actually think, I don’t want to die.’ She opens up about how she feels for those doctors in Italy. How like them she just wants to help people, so I ask… ‘Do you feel you're putting your life at risk by going to work every day?’ Her response blows up my ability to hold back emotion. ’Yeah, I do, she says. I've got a two-and a half year old. I'm a single mum and I'm also six months pregnant, so I've got to worry about the unborn baby as well.’ I didn’t expect that. Sadness starts to seep through. Imagine having to make that decision every day… ‘do I put my family at risk and my unborn child or do I go to work and try to save lives?’ The conflict between my head and my heart fighting to comprehend the scale of that wave the doctors in ICU fear will hit. I’m defeated, tears exploding inside, still trying to shield Dr Almohty from dealing with my grief. Instead, siphoning that emotion into words for my story that start scribing themselves under my skin. Dr Almohty’s descriptors paint the same solemn images I pictured on the walls in the ICU corridors while speaking with Doctor Katherine Pearce. We stood 1.5metres apart. The distance between us, a protection, not only against the spread of the virus, but the emotion I can see she too is holding back. More tomorrow...

Last month ended differently to what I thought it would. It started with a short break with a friend in the middle of nowhere. Instead of being the breather we both needed, we spent the time worrying about what was going on in the world. We both got home to the news that yes we are working from home for the forseeable future. A few days later the news that a relative was not mentally coping, hadn't for a while and had checked themselves into a mental health facility. I was asked to visit them. Take them outside and get some fresh air. And shock horror, hug them. That hug was by then illegal, and so badly needed by both of us. Those 2 weeks were hard. They had to do the hard work of getting better, and will be ongoing. Watching someone you love more than your own life in such pain and being unable to do anything but hold each others sanitised hands. I want this to be over soon, I need another hug. And for them to reach their 18th birthday.

Sleep is no longer a friend. I have always been blessed with the ability to sleep. Waking in the night used to be for me a vaguely pleasant moment. I would realise I was awake and think that this was just a reminder that I was free to go back to sleep again, and so enjoy the feeling of drifting off again. But in this world gone awry, waking in the night is a time to be reminded that my family's safety is no longer in my control. Worrying about your children's safety and happiness comes with the umbilical cord and can never be severed. It's just part of the package of parenting. I lie in the blackness and worry about my girls; The one who has worked with all her heart and soul to build a business and follow her dream, only to have it smashed by events out of her control just as it was beginning to get solid; The one who is looking after pangolins and other assorted wild creatures in Malawi – who even knew what they were before they were being blamed for this plague - my comments to her about my being ok with her living in third world countries as long as she has first world medical care is haunting me; The one who is working in a NICU in Galway University Hospital, close to the front line in this dreadful battle – and for the first time in their lives I am helpless to keep them safe And so I lie awake and struggle to breathe and wait for dawn when the crazy world of working from home provides a few moments of distraction

It's my grandmother I worry about most during this situation. My grandfather passed six months ago, not long before this all began to unravel. Seventy years of marriage and living in the same house in Fairfield, watching acres of fields transform into acres of housing development. In a wheelchair, unable to fully care for herself, and still mourning the loss of her husband, she isolated at home for two weeks knowing it could be the last time she's in that house. Her body may be failing her, but her mind is still sharp. Linda, Nan to me, and Nan Nan to my kids, is a resilient woman, always has been. Newmarch House Nursing Home had a great reputation and the family was thrilled she had been accepted into a place that would bring her closer to the rest of her family and provide great care. We moved her into the facility where she was to isolate in her new room for a further two weeks. On just her second day allowed to meet the other residents and participate in the daily activities, the COVID 19 outbreak within the facility began. Back to isolation. For the foreseeable future. Her daily interactions as positive notices surround her, as does the death toll, include meals being placed on a table by staff in full protective gear, and having her temperature and vitals observed four times daily. Still ok, still negative, its a daily anxiety-filled sigh of relief. The family talks to her daily. But it must be lonely. And foreign-feeling. I can't stand looking at social media any more and its sudden plethora of keyboard pandemic experts every time there's a new story on Newmarch House. It's that or people complaining of boredom. Bullshit. You have no idea. But she's a resilient woman.

SHUT DOWN WEEK FIVE: I can't actually believe how fast the time's going. Working or studying full-time for over 50 years now, this extended time at home has been a first in my adult life, and I’m taking it as a rare gift. But I know I’m very fortunate. The world is anxious. Many have lost their lives or are doing it really tough while I have a secure salary, no debt, a long-term partner &; a nice place to live. In fact, we’d just de-cluttered the house & garden for a big party we’d planned before social gathering restrictions took effect so we don’t even have household chores to do unless we want to. As I type, the rain is falling, giving the garden a good soak for us. I’m lucky to be able to work at home, enjoying the quiet with time spare to explore the world of online learning. Social isolation has encouraged our technology-averse tribe to engage in Facetime. We've set up online chats &; dinner parties with friends &; family - what joy it’s been for my 90-year-old Mother to see her Perth-based grand-daughter after 5 years and keep in visual communication with my disabled sister. Libby is hearing-impaired &; autistic, living in a care home in the community but unable to make a home visit since the shutdown. Other experiences are not so uplifting – I’ll never forget the intense fear I felt when a dry cough and 38+° temp led to a CV-19 test in Week Three, nor the stressful 24 hrs that followed, waiting for the delivery of my 'negative' result. I can't describe the sense of relief when I realised how close I’d come to this truly terrifying infection. These are the worst of times and the most extraordinary of times…

It started raining today. I’ve been hoping for rain, for hours of solid downpour, for weeks. To break the monotony mostly. To prove that this day really is different from yesterday, from six weeks ago. The rain has been heavy enough to irritate the birds and noisy enough to cover the fact that the city is so quiet. Most importantly, the rain was an excuse to stay inside. I could avoid essential errands and essential exercise; I could avoid all the joggers and the runners and the idlers who don’t think that social distancing is important. So, I stayed home. I had breakfast. I read the newspapers. I interacted with people on social media. I responded to some emails. I worked. I drank too much coffee. I checked social media again. I had lunch. I thought about looking at data visualisations of COVID-19 – red plumes on a map indicating concentrations of coronavirus nestled alongside a list estimating the number of deaths – and decided not to. I kept working. I drank more coffee. I looked at social media one more time. I tried not to be jealous of all the people with cats. Small, furry alarm clocks insisting on being fed and petted and then fed again (because, well, that first feeding didn’t really count). A purring cat is the most delightful thing. Especially when the world is upside down. I had dinner. I sat and listened to the rain.

ICU. [pt.1] Today, I spent the morning in ICU. Intensive. Care. Unit. I’m not sick, but rather sick of the deniers, ignoring the reality of this new world that we all find ourselves in. Let me share with you why. It’s the first-time doctors are allowing cameras inside an ICU in Australia as they prepare for what they’re calling the COVID-19 peak. 3 hours into our shoot, in a single moment, the reality of how coronavirus has changed our lives forever hits me like a tsunami. In my mind, I find myself drowning in the waves of worst-case scenarios the doctors, nurses and support staff so vividly describe. Doctors like Katherine, a trainee GP I’m stealing time with. She never planned in her residency she’d be working in a pandemic. Telling me she’s already been in ICU for 10 weeks with no end in sight, I can see she’s somewhat anxious so I ask… ‘Do you feel like you have to put on a brave face?’ She explains that many critically ill coronavirus patients won’t be allowed visitors. Describing what sounds like a very lonely death, her fears start to ricochet off the sterile corridors we’re standing in. She spit fires descriptions of what the virus can do, the nightmare unfolding in Spain and Italy. In my mind, a series of numbers go off like cannons. 20,000 coronavirus patients now dead in Italy, 100 of those doctors. 15,000 Spanish medical workers now sick. And many of them have described the battle against this disease as war. In my heart, I feel for Katherine and the rising number of her fellow medics here in Australia now self-isolating with symptoms many testing positive. I can’t help but worry for these brave soldiers on our frontlines. More tomorrow….

5 April A fortnight after shutdown, on the first night after daylight savings, the household is on video calls. Kiddo is hand-standing with his trapeze troupe. Partner is meeting the new golden retriever puppy of a friend. I wander between the two. They are here but not hearing. It’s the absent presence we now live. By 5.40 the sun is glowing apricot between the box trees at the end of the lane. It feels right that we should now be eased into an earlier darkness each day. As if winter is collapsing us more and more into this grand internal life. 10 April Out walking, my lines of sight have become telescopic. I notice things in ones. The tiny gumleaf embossed in what was once drying concrete. A flower defying two adjacent fence palings. A sentinel cat on a low brick wall. How quickly the mind obeys the isolation order. 23 April Adaptation has made unfathomable things regular now. Our bodies align automatically on footpaths, in aisles and doorways. We shift single file, wait and pass, reluctant to co-exist within the distance of breath. We look for each other in windows decked with teddy bears, in front rooms that have become offices, in dining rooms that are gyms, through open doors that provide signs of life. A woman sits on a household wall talking to friends through their living room window. The graffiti below her reads ‘Revolution is a Process’. 30 April Just after breakfast as I head to my home desk, I hear a guy in the lane call out: ‘Thank you, stay safe.’ I hear it and read it often now – ‘Stay safe!’ Safety is now the imperative of choice. And staying. It’s another phrase for our new vocabulary. Isolation, social distance, quarantine, confinement, stay safe, zoom.

Since early March I’ve been working from home. With most of my family self – isolating down the South Coast that has meant time alone in an apartment in inner-west Sydney. There have been the usual nbn teething problems, scandi noir binge watching and daily walks but no change to work! Still just as busy with the complexity of online meetings and moving deadlines. What’s missing – laughter! Last Friday night I had a virtual drink with a group of my oldest friends – seriously – I have known two since I was four years old. The drinks were supposed to be with the girls, but the husbands started appearing in the background, refreshing drinks or just butting in with comments. There we were online exchanging witty one-liners, sharing absurd memories from almost fifty years of friendship. One of them has bought a gin still and has been testing the latest batch with his family to mixed reviews. Another was trying to find the planets that were supposed to be appearing in the night sky. Laughed ‘til I cried – that’s what I needed. It’s the incidental conversations with family that you miss – the arguments about what you will watch together, the inability to agree on take away, the exclamations about another trip needed to the recycle bin! It’s the incidental conversations at work that you miss – the shared laughs and gossip, the outrage at the latest misstep from a colleague, the complaints about the coffee, the illicit eating of chocolate at your desk. It’s the incidental conversations with friends that you miss – when they are leaving for their next overseas trip (groan), what’s on sale at Aldi this week and what was the book we were reading for Book club – I’ve forgotten!