Today, 22 April, is Earth Day, which reminded me that I haven't written a green blog in a while. In the last few years, we all seemed to be abandoning blogs and focusing on other online platforms for sharing news and ideas. But then Man-Baby from Pretoria bought Twitter and promptly broke his new toy, Substack gave Nazis a megaphone, Meta hasn't been much better, Google has gone to the dogs* (not really fair to dogs), and now we have AI content scrapers to contend with as well. So back to blogging. (Plus where else can I put the weird and wonderful stuff I find? Such as: the item of clothing you need to keep mending for as long as possible? Your BRA. Almost unrecyclable, and also hard to repurpose or donate. Topic for another day.)

I’ve indeed been keeping an alarmed eye on environmental news, especially the slow-moving but catastrophic implosion of Gauteng's water services. I suspect it might be time to update my water book (can you believe it's exactly six years since it was first published?) and tune it to the context up north: the Rand is running dry, and its citizens are going to need every trick in the Capetonian book (ha) in the very near future. Let me know if you think this is a good idea, and I might do a new e-book edition of the original, which is available online through that jungle place.

The research is once again the stuff of dystopian nightmare, but for all the bad news, there’s this: in future projections by Spain and other dry Mediterannean countries, it’s estimated that 20% of water savings can be made through “behavorial changes by citizens”, i.e., individuals. And that would be US. Twenty per cent is NOT insignificant.

And then I remembered an adventure I had over Christmas: to mark World Water Day, Brita (the water filter people) sent a documentary film-maker out from Germany, and together with a most delightful local crew, they made a little video about me and my book. So I thought I’d share it to give you a few ideas about how to be among those saving up to 20% of our stressed water reserves.

Water Warrior

Coriander (dhanya) and fennel seedlings. Good scattered on almost anything. (Maybe not ice-cream.)

Whole dried green peas (marrowfat peas) — about R25 for a kilogram; sunflower seeds in shells — about R60 for a kilo from the petfood aisle in the supermarket; black-eyed beans (about R25 for a kilo). A continuous production line of these lasted me (and the neighbours) for almost a year. So, salad (and vitamins) for a year for under a hundred bucks.

Whole dried peas come to life as sprouts. Note high-tech sprouting jar.

Three days ago, I marked my 27th month of Long Covid, and I am NOT going to write about it because I am so beyond bored to screams with the whole thing, and with being sick. I’ve been thinking of practicalities instead, and FOOD. Cooking with LoCo (if you have the kind that’s affected your sense of smell and taste) is a kind of suduko of the kitchen: finding out what takes the least effort with the maximum nutritional wallop AND please dear goddesses, SOME flavour and scent, or at least not distorted or unpleasant flavours.

Then there’s the problem of shortage of energy, money, foodstuffs themselves. Very early on in my Covid journey (at the pneumonia stage), I discovered I could generate greens (crunchy, tasty stuff) for free and with almost no effort right at home, even while almost too limp to move. It meant going back to the sprout habits of my hippy youth, but with some interesting new twists. No boring lentils, mung beans with slippy skins or expensive alfalfa. Instead, I discovered that those pea shoots and sunflower sprout posh restaurants scatter about, and which cost a fortune in delis and health shops, can be grown for almost nothing on any sunny windowsill.

This is a potential boon for the homebound, those frail, households experiencing shortages (as seen across the world as food costs go ape) or suffering infrastructural collapse and even rioting (right here at home: thinking of KZN, devastated by floods, and last year, by anarchy and looting). Seeing the queues to get into shops for basics made me realise that while sprouts and a pot of spinach on the balcony aren’t going to keep hunger at bay, they CAN keep greens (nutrients, vitamins, fibre) on the table during rough times. Plus they make meals a lot more interesting for vegetarians and vegans. For everyone, in fact.

This time, I started with the contents of my pantry. Yes, you can go online and buy gorgeous seeds for sprouting from half a dozen tempting sites, but look in your cupboards first. I had lobia beans and black-eyed beans, which make good sprouts, but the real treasure was green marrowfat peas (basically whole instead of split green peas — available from any shop selling Indian foods and spices, for pennies). My next discovery was that a fifty-ront sack of sunflower seeds (parrot food) from the pet-food aisle lasted a YEAR (with a continuous production line running). Then I managed to grow fennel, methi (fenugreek), mustard and dhanya (coriander/cilantro) directly from the stuff in my spice drawer. The coriander was a bit tricky: the seeds benefit from being soaked, then bashed with a bottle or rolling pin, then wrapped in a damp cloth and put in the sun for a day or two before scattering in a pot.

But let’s start with the easy stuff. For sprouts, get some wide-mouthed clean glass jars (start with small to medium sizes). Soak about two tablespoons of legumes overnight (note that not all beans will sprout, but black-eyed beans seem to be foolproof). Try whole peas for starters. Make a lid from those plastic mesh bags that onions come in and a rubber band (see pic). Twice a day, rinse the peas/beans thoroughly. After two to three days, you’ll see signs of life as the legumes grow little white whiskers. Congratulations: you have produced sprouts. Once the sprouts have reached a size and crunch factor you enjoy, keep them in the fridge, and wash once a day. They’ll last about a week before getting a bit slimy, in which case, chuck them into the veg garden and hope.

Sunflower sprouts getting going. True magic.

For sunflower sprouts, a staple in my kitchen, get out two shallow plastic trays (I recycle the kind that food or sushi comes in). Use a wooden skewer or the tip of a sharp knife or scissors to make about half a dozen small holes in one tray (take care not to stab your hand like Muggins here keeps doing). Put this tray inside/on top of the second one, resting on a few flat pebbles or bits of bark or wooden skewers, so there’s a little bit of room for liquid to trickle through from the top tray into the bottom one. In the holey tray, spread a thin layer of soil (I scoop mine off the molehills). Now sprinkle a single layer of sunflower seeds over the top. I soak mine overnight — about half a cup, and I pour the lot, water and all onto the soil in the tray, then cover it with another black plastic food tray (this apparently makes the germination more feisty). Put this somewhere safe and wet the soil and seeds once a day. By Day Three, you should see signs of life (it’s miraculous if you think about it, and your children will be enthralled — I hope).

Remove the covering tray (you won’t need it again) and put the bottom stack on a sunny window ledge where the cats won’t knock it over. I use a spray bottle/mister to soak the lot once a day, and I turn the tray every two days as the little sunflower seedlings lean yearningly towards the sun (they start young). These just keep growing and going. You’ll need to knock off the seed husks by fluffing the tops of the baby plants or just picking them off, but otherwise, start cutting them to sprinkle on your soups, salads, sandwiches and stews (or as a snack) as soon as you see green leaves. BTW, YouTube will present you with dozens of professional videos showing you how to do this Properly, with grow lights, etc. But my hit-and-miss methods mostly hit.

Back to the whole salad in pots vibe: If you have even a small balcony or a wide windowsill and access to a little soil, you can fill flowerpots or trays with soil (fill pots two-third full, and trays at least two inches deep). Scatter seeds quite thinly across the top and cover very loosely with a bit more soil. Water gently or use that mister, so the seeds don’t all rush into one clump. The foolproof and quick ones for me are fennel, fenugreek and mustard. Coriander takes much longer, but it’s very satisfying when you see its lacy little leaves unfolding. I transplant a few of these to the main veg bed and shake my fist at the snails. Who sometimes leave them alone.

Fennel was one of the few flavours I could taste during my first year of LoCo, so easy to see why fennel sprouts/seedlings became a favourite (I also ate truckloads of liquorice). I could taste food with a burn, so I ate a lot of hot dishes cooked with chilies. Fenugreek sprouts “match” the flavours of curry, and scattering them over my dhal meant I could tell myself I was sort of adding a fresh green veg. It took another year before I could taste coriander again, but once again, it was a good way to add raw green to curries and Asian dishes.

But my absolute favourite means going back to those whole peas: after soaking, instead of starting the sprouting regime, I’d plant them out into a tray of soil, poking them gently into the earth with a finger, and scattering a thin layer of soil on top, then misting once a day. One week later, gorgeous pea shoots for salads, omelettes, etc. Sometimes I’d leave a few uncut, and to my delight they’d produce flowers and tiny crisp juicy pea-pods. I couldn’t taste them, but the crunch and juice in my mouth, for someone taste-deprived, was very heartening.

Good luck with your efforts to pep up your menus and meals with El Cheapo Hedgewitch Greens. Don’t be discouraged if at first things go a bit pear-shaped — failed experiments can just go into the compost heap.

Sunflower sprouts ready for harvesting. Just keep cutting them and sprinkling them on your meals. Remember to start the next batch a day or two before you finish the current crop.

The other day a friend came up with a great identifying moniker for me: Hedge Witch (here’s one link that describes the HW phenomenon, although I bear no resemblance to the ethereal gal in the pic). I like it because even as Long Covid strips my life to the bone (I’m heading into my 23rd month and am beyond beyond words), I keep thinking about how to feed people well (the only thing I seem able to create at the moment is new dishes and pickles). Dreaming up recipes that tick my magic four boxes (must be delicious, inexpensive, healthy, and easy to make) is a good response to insomnia. Oh, and it helps if they’re light on planetary resources and encourage locavore habits (growing food, shopping locally, supporting small local businesses).

My most popular recipe is this one, but I've been wanting to dream up a lighter, brighter version that's also suitable for those with peanut allergies. So, here's my equally crudely and broadly named Asian Coconut soup, based on very similar principles. It's not quite as cheap as the peanut variety (although I buy tinned coconut cream every time I see it on special), but it's a good soup to make with gluts of baby marrows, carrots, cauliflower and sweetcorn, none of which are bank-breakers.

You'll need half a tin (at least — you can chuck in the entire tin, but then double up other quantities as well) of coconut cream. You can use tinned coconut milk as a substitute, but it won't have quite the same feel. Put a small dollop of seed oil (not olive, and definitely not butter or marge or any animal fat) in a heavy-bottomed pan, and in it, fry two big crushed cloves of garlic and a chunk of fresh finely chopped ginger on medium heat for a minute or two (it should be fragrant, but not yet turning brown). You can use more garlic, or a tablespoon each of commercially prepared crushed garlic and ginger, but not ginger powder. If you want to be very fancy, chop/crush a stick of lemongrass and add at this stage.

Now add the coconut cream. This is NB: melt it down and stir it around and fry it. It will start to bubble at the edges. Do this for at least five minutes, then add a bunch of chopped spring onions (I add the white bits first, and save the green stems to add two minutes before serving, but not essential) and stir around for another minute or two. Next, add half a tin of chopped tomatoes or half a cup of tomato puree (NOT the flavoured kinds with herbs etc added). Now add a peeled sweet potato cut into smallish chunks. Unlike its heartier cousin, this soup does not rely on sweet potato, so don't add too much — just enough to thicken it. Bubble away until the coconut-tomato mix looks silky and the sweet potato is softening. Now add fresh sweetcorn (at least two cobs, more if you have them) — stand the cobs on their end and cut off the kernels with a sharp knife. After a minute, add plenty of baby marrows — I like to cut them into biggish matchsticks (and also to add carrots cut into slightly smaller matchsticks at the same time). Feel free to cut both into rounds, though. Something else you can add now is cauliflower broken into small florets — broccoli would also work, also chopped bok choi. I also add half a cup of frozen peas. Add enough water to cover all the veg — at least three cups. Now add: tablespoon of soy sauce, teaspoon of red chilli flakes OR fresh chopped green or red chillies (your choice of quantity entirely), juice and zest of one big lemon (a teaspoon of lime juice is also nice, but not essential -- bottled is fine). Bring to the boil and bubble for a few minutes — don't overcook, the green veggies should still be slightly crunchy — and garnish lavishly with fresh coriander (leave this out if you have unfortunates in your life who can't tolerate coriander — it's a Real Thing).

To turn this into a full one-pot meal, add your favourite Asian noodles at the cauliflower/pea stage (depending on the cooking instructions on the packet) and extra water. If this dilutes the flavour a bit, add a heaping tablespoon of miso paste or another tablespoon of soy sauce. You can add sprouts, sunflower shoots and Thai basil at the coriander stage too.

When first making this, I found half a packet of prawns in the freezer, so I added those along with a splash of fish sauce in the last five minutes to turn this into a very jolly dish indeed. Obviously leave this out for vegetarians/vegans, but it should be clear that this is another lovely dish you can safely serve the gluten-intolerant (minus the noodles), the lactose-intolerant, and vegans. It's a little trickier and less flexible than the peanut stew above (some veggies just won't work here -- brinjals, for one, and beans/lentils make it way too heavy, although a few thinly sliced green beans are fine), but the good news is that it's very quick to make. Twenty minutes, including prep (basically chopping all the veg and opening the tins). Let me know if you come up with interesting tweaks.

Therapeutic sunrise.

The other day, a friend reached the end of the end of her tether. Yes, this is happening a lot these days. It wasn’t even that anything monumentally bad had happened to her — just a string of lousy incidents (80% of which were patriarchal bullshit). But the last straw (lots of those, too) was yet another delay in vaccine delivery. “This is unbearable,” she wept. “I can’t stand the way this pandemic is just going on and on and on, and there’s no end in sight, while my friends in the US and the UK are all posting pics of their vaccination shots. And my friends here want to go back to normal, and they act like I’m the crazy one when I won’t hang out with them. I’m just as lonely and frustrated as they are, but I’m also really scared. I saw what you went through, your life blown apart by this virus, your sister on a ventilator for a month. Don’t people realise how serious this is?”

What resonated was the word “unbearable”. Because I have had Covid (the long-haul variety) for thirteen months now. Three days ago, I could not get out of bed. Again. The day after that, my joints hurt so much, I had to take painkillers that made my wool-brain unravel even further. Again. Yesterday, I woke myself up scratching my rash-mottled arms until they were bleeding. Again. And I had to write to a client to say “So sorry, can’t deliver, having another run of bad days.” AGAIN. There are times when I am so sick of being sick, I’d throw a tantrum if I had the energy.

But none of this comes close to the 65 days (12 Dec — 16 Feb) that my sister was in ICU with Covid.* That was when I found out what unbearable really was.

During those endless minutes and hours and days and weeks and months, I kept thrashing around for anything, something, a secret code or trick, that would mitigate the ongoing agony. There was nothing. And that was the first and hardest lesson I learned about what to do when things are unbearable. There is no way of unlocking the iron jaws of the beartrap around your leg, no release from the worst kind of powerlessness, until the universe decides which way the coin is going to fall. (I didn't think it was possible, but fearing my sister's death was worse than the dreadful weeks early in my illness when I feared my own.)

The next thing I learned was that when a human is in this kind of agony, the brute physiology of terror, which keeps the cortisol and the adrenaline pumping, is not sustainable. Mercifully, every now and again, mind and body go numb for several hours. So one cycles through the following three stages: stretches when things are indeed unbearable; numbness; and then a few blessed hours in which the psychic wind drops, the nerves don’t rub against broken glass quite so relentlessly. When the kindness on offer, the comfort of cups of tea and whiskers on kittens actually penetrate the blur. They don’t help, but what does help is that the knowledge that they are THERE, and there are tiny bits, not of pleasure exactly, but appreciation to be felt. And then the cycle starts again.

There are no solutions, but there are indeed some options — and I say this NOT as a doctor or a mental health advisor, but simply as someone who has been in the seventh circle of hell, and who knows that many of you are there too — or at least in the fifth or sixth circles. So here’s my take on what to do when things are truly, utterly, bloody unbearable.**

First, line up every single thing that has ever helped in any crisis or grief in the past (bearing in mind that this VILE virus has stripped away many of our support systems, isolated us from those we love, confined us, and disrupted our usual comforts). Hopefully you can still go for walks, or do some sort of gentle or fun exercise. Work in the garden, if you have one. Brush your animals. Set your favourite hot drinks out on a tray with your nicest mug. Bookmark every cute pet site on the interwebz, if that’s what floats your boat — or scroll through the most beautiful photos and artworks you can find. Figure out what you can and can’t read or watch or listen to (your concentration will be maggots, but by trial and error, you’ll discover what distracts without making things more acute — you’re likely to find yourself more easily triggered than usual).

It helps if you’ve read all your life, because a lot of stories tell of frail humans up against unbearable fate, and there are bits of wisdom to be gleaned: Rumer Godden was entirely correct when she said sunsets hurt too much, but sunrises helped — a bit. My own discovery was that I couldn’t stand the full moon, all that boastful silver glory — but the thin wisp of the new moon matched my equally thin sliver of hope.

Find a tiny niche somewhere in the world (probably online) where you can be yourself/not yourself. Where you’re not a person in crisis, but someone who can give advice about how best to grow coriander from seed. Or learn or teach how to restore furniture, or mend china, or sew a dart (whatever it is, it helps if it’s constructive, but anything that takes your mind away from the bite of the trap for a few minutes is good). On some of the worst days, I’d write book reviews for my favourite Facebook group, the Good Book Appreciation Society. I have no idea why this worked as a distraction, but it did. I still do this on especially grim days.

The old standbys are still the best: the most reliable treatment for shock is a strong sweet cup of tea, preferably made for you; and a hot-water bottle or warm blanket/soft jersey. An antidote to grief and misery (if you can afford it): adopt a rescue animal. Especially if it's KITTENZES, and you can spend hours watching them disemboweling a feather.

Work can be a terrible burden or a blessing at such times. If you can work on autopilot, go for it: it will fill the hours. You may in any case have no choice. My work involves intense concentration, so I simply dropped every job I had, figuring I’d sort out the rubble of my finances and my career later. Not everyone has that luxury, plus I’ve worked with the same clients long enough that they cut me all the slack I needed, and were often very supportive. I know how lucky this makes me; I am SO grateful to them.

Religion: already Catholic with a big c, I turned catholic with a small c, and prayed to every god I could think of, and a few I made up. For some, the experience of hell on earth sorely tries their faith. This is NO time for existential questioning or crises of faith or philosophy: rely on the faith of others, if necessary, or simply the sheer kindness of (some) people. Remember those comforting words in times of trouble (and this goes for everyone, from Pastafarians to atheists): “Look for the people who are helping.” The incredible thing is that they are always to be found.

Lean on your friends (and you will find out who these are). The best at the worst times are the ones who don't ask “What can I do?”, but act: sending food, books, games, showing up to walk the dog, babysit the children, wash the dishes, change the lightbulbs. The kindness of local friends who came and sat with me (outdoors, masked, at a safe distance) as I waited each day for the hospital report didn’t make those hours less difficult: but they saved me the extra weight of being alone during them. It’s a matter of context, however; for some, lack of privacy, or the need to be brave for one’s nearest and dearest, can be excruciating. So try to make a few spaces where you can fall apart and howl and cry until your face melts, alone or with someone you trust; Skype with a friend or professional, if necessary.

Then there are the usual basics: keep hydrated, try to eat regularly (snacky nourishing things are good — this is no time for low blood sugar), stay clean (I remember the morale-boost of washing my hair after forgetting to shower for a week), and — this is critical — get some sleep/rest. I am laughing mirthlessly as I write this because sleep was a joke during the worst weeks; but without it, you will fall apart. I did take lots of little rests; I always had a little lie-down after the hospital report, and could sometimes even nap. Talk to your doctor if you needs the drugzes.

And speaking of drugs: once again, this is not medical advice, BUT: when you’re in the desperate part of the cycle above, I am in favour of tranquillisers. Sometimes it’s inhumane not to expand the numb stage. I hesitate to say take whatEVER gives you relief; mainlining heroin, chugging down bottles of vodka, or becoming a Valium addict will complicate your life. But there are such things as lesser evils. Talk to someone non-judgemental about the options: OTC remedies, prescription benzos/anti-anxiety meds, dagga/CBD in various forms, alcohol. I was mostly teetotal in case things went yet more pear-shaped and I needed a clear head, but there were evenings when the daily hospital report came in late in the evening with “no change” and I simply couldn’t unclench my brain without a dose of ethanol (aka glass of wine).

During the numb stages, you’ll probably be able to get things done, so make lists and chug through those — it helps if you can keep on top of basic chores and admin. Because things are so unspeakable, there’s a tendency to general entropy, but you don’t need the extra stress of running out of electricity or petrol or milk or medications. Ask for help if necessary.

And then will come the moments when you’ll be able to taste the homemade curry your kind neighbour has dropped off, when your heart will lift, even if only a millimetre, when a heron flies into your garden and stalks around like a headmaster, or a friend brings a telescope to show you the rings of Saturn. There will be times when someone sends a really thoughtful gift, and you’ll feel genuine gratitude, when you will find it fractionally easier to be strong and even optimistic.

What I learned, finally, although only in hindsight: you’re already doing much better than you think you are. You’re holding it together for your family (dear Goddess, the courage of parents keeping things going for their kids), strengthening bonds, encouraging each other, passing around small tealights of hope and optimism. You’re continuing to feed the children and the pets (meals become very helpful staging-posts in getting through the day). You deserve a bloody medal.

And then, whether you’re in a state of terror or bereavement or heartbreak or just so very over this pandemic, the cycle will start again. Know this: the whole kaboodle will eventually come to an end. It may not be the ending we want; it may tear us to pieces; but we will not be stuck in this particular purgatory forever. Good luck.

* She survived and is making excellent progress with her recovery. There are indeed happy endings.
** Mine are middle-class solutions. Many suffer unbearable circumstances because of war, systemic poverty, climate collapse and other ugly elements we’ve hardwired into our “civilisations”. But I have a hunch those in these ghastly scenarios are both testament and witness to human resilience and the kindness of strangers.

Therapy cat.

Me in March 2020, about two weeks before hell broke loose. Photo taken by Cara-Lee Gevers.

One year ago almost to the hour, I went for a jog ahead of the strict lockdown that was about to begin in South Africa. As I trotted along, I became aware of a sensation that would become all too familiar in the weeks and months to come — that of an invisible strap tightening around my chest. I remember thinking “Funny, I don’t usually get exercise-induced asthma.”

I've written about what followed in an essay included in The Lockdown Collection and on social media. I had contracted what, with hindsight, was judged to be fairly severe Covid-19 pneumonia at a time when there were no narratives, no understanding, little shared knowledge about the disease — and in which no standard response to serious illness applied any longer. No, I could not go see a doctor — it was months before I could drive a car again. For the same reason, I couldn’t get tested (in those early months, public health services flatly refused to test me on the basis that I lived alone and therefore didn’t pose an infection threat — so much for all the chatter about test and trace). The night I needed an ambulance was also the night I could no longer decipher the hieroglyphics on either my cellphone or my landline. This was just the beginning.

I ran a fever for six or seven weeks: the acute stage of the illness, during which my GP tried anxiously to manage me from a distance. Nebulising with powerful steroids quite possibly saved my life. Maybe it was the vibrations from Boychik, my rescue tripod, who purred like a tractor alongside me all through the worst nights. Meanwhile, clients and authors, still sold on the Before narrative, where even severe illness was something done and dusted within a matter of weeks, repeatedly asked when I would be able to pick up the projects I had abandoned. I struggled on with some for a few weeks — with hindsight, I have no idea how I managed this. My overriding emotion was not fear: it was bewilderment. When was I going to be well again? I had taken six weeks to recover from a radical hysterectomy that involved major abdominal surgery and repair, and they had felt like six months. How was it that I couldn’t get over whatever it was that ailed me?

I never got tested: by the time I lost my sense of smell and taste, Covid was a foregone conclusion. The infectious diseases specialist I saw nearly five months down the line made the official diagnosis: post-acute or long-haul Covid.

One year later, and I’m still suffering the effects of long Covid. There are days I feel nearly normal — rare but treasured — and days, in the words of a fellow sufferer, when I feel as if I’ve been hit by a freight train. (To see her, and me, interviewed for Carte Blanche, click here.)

As the pandemic swallowed the launch of my first novel (and the accompanying UK book tour), and as I watched my income dwindle, forced to abandon prized projects and cancel writing commitments, it was hard not to feel self-pity. I had no idea much, much worse was to come. Covid was not done with my family.

Early in December, my sister contracted the beta strain of the virus, just as the second wave got underway in South Africa. Within days, she was in ICU. Within a week, she was on a ventilator. She remained on it (and in a coma) for almost a month. Then came the slooooooow process of weaning her off it (it was by no means a foregone conclusion that this would even be possible) as she fought off one deadly HAI after another. A video clip of her emergence from the Underworld (65 days in ICU, a record for the hospital), with all the staff cheering her on, went viral.

I had been doing fairly well up until she got ill. I had gotten past the breathless stage, the sense of a drill bit in my chest, the constant shivering, icy extremities, the crushing weakness and fatigue, and into what I think of as the third tier of LoCo symptoms: a steady cycle of rashes and blisters, itching (I’d wake myself scratching until I drew blood), the trots, extreme pain at old injury sites (every broken bone and surgical scar rose zombie-like from the grave of my body), and blurred/double vision. But my sense of taste and smell were improving; I could taste coriander and orange again, after eight very boring months of tasting only salt, sugar, chilli and ginger (and smelling nothing — helpful when my lady cat Lily piddled on the seat of my car). My specialist had told me in August 2020 that he thought it would take me about a year to make a full recovery. “March 2021,” I told myself. “Just hold on till then.” I did my breathing exercises and Pilates on my bed, made my own kombucha and ginger brew, ate raw sprouts and swallowed handfuls of Vitamin C. I was making progress. I practiced patience and hoped.

Well. It will come as a surprise to no one to learn that stress makes long Covid worse. That acute stress makes it much worse. That acute prolonged stress (SIXTY-FIVE DAYS worth) makes it much, MUCH worse.

So I’m back to where I was about six months ago. I can drive a car, but it exhausts me, and I creep around the backroads. I can work for a few hours most days, but I never know when a “flat battery” day will occur. These start with me trying to pep-talk just one foot onto the floor and end with me still in bed at 5pm. I ignore the attacks of breathlessness, ascribing them to the panic attacks my body started downloading once my sister was out of danger. (Falling apart before then was not an option.) The itching has been so bad my skin is scarred with scratch-marks. An ophthalmologist has pronounced my tear reservoirs to be permanently damaged. Okay, eye-drops and gels forever, but not the end of the world. Until I discovered that the first month’s supply (I have to use them for the rest of my life) cost R450. (That’s another thing about long Covid: it’s a bloody expensive condition because other possible reasons for symptoms keep having to be excluded, hence lots of tests.)

Why write about this? I use this blog mostly to share tips and ideas on how to be a greener citizen, and how to cope with life’s roadblocks (although when I started, I had things like loadshedding in mind, not a global pandemic that would change everything, most probably forever).

The truth is that the experience of Long Covid is unbelievably lonely. Yet there were first dozens, then hundreds, and now thousands of us, hundreds of thousands worldwide. The second wave will swell our numbers. We’re all still feeling our way. Those who got it early feel especially misunderstood, unheard, brushed aside. Sufferers find the denialism of covidiots particularly insufferable, as we wonder if we will ever get our lives and health back. But there are practical tips; online groups; management techniques, and it’s worth sharing these, and I have good intentions about doing so.

One thing is far more terrible than long Covid, and that’s having someone you love in Covid ICU. Trial by terror and daily two-minute phone call from the hospital: the worst trauma my family has suffered by far. And nothing — NOTHING — can prepare one for this. I did learn, the hard way, what did and didn’t help. My two top rules:
1) DO NOT DO NOT DO NOT PHONE IMMEDIATE FAMILY MEMBERS, or message them asking for news, explanations, reports. Do not communicate in ANY way that requires them to be responsive or to perform the emotional labour of reassuring you. Call a close family friend or more distant relative for information instead. If you have to phone the family, do so only during “business” hours. A phone ringing late at night or early in the morning makes the heart stagger with horror. (It seems extraordinary that this needs spelling out, but one person woke me at 7 on a Sunday morning to ask how my sister was.)

2) Send food.

This is a very short list when I could write a book (and probably will) on the correct etiquette (aka plain commonsense) for life-and-death scenarios — which we will all eventually face. I will keep you posted. In the meantime, this is how I look after the past year. Nothing about any of this is pretty. But being alive, no matter how battered and creaky, is preferable to the alternative, a truth I’ve had my nose well and truly rubbed in.