My summer began well - with a trip to London, arriving just before the ‘Platty Joobs’ (translate Platinum Jubilee) celebrations took off, over a long weekend in June.
I hadn’t been back in London in two years so the trip was not just welcome but long overdue. Rather than socialise endlessly, I spent much of my time just wandering ‘aimlessly’ around the city - strolling in neighbourhoods that I’d never before explored, stopping in independent coffee houses, taking photographs, rummaging in charity shops and savouring the all-too familiar atmosphere of the city of my birth.
From Shoreditch to Stoke Newington and from Spitafields to Shadwell, I pounded the pavements of East London, before catching up with friends across the city for drinks, dinners, exhibitions and a lot of gossip. Save for some dramatically hot weather that knocked the capital for six, in mid June, the skies were blue and clear and humidity low.
At the end of the trip, I caught the train down to Kent and the pretty little beach town of Margate, to see my father. I was shocked when I saw him (though struggled to keep my face straight) since he seemed in far worse shape than I’d ever remembered.
Whilst he could still walk, it was with a stick and only for short periods before he became completely breathless. His legs were swollen like tree trunks, and he was having heart problems (probably due to failing circulation) but his mind was as sharp - and his mood as stubborn - as ever!
Nevertheless, I was glad that I’d made the effort - because, after the pandemic, it seemed foolish to take anything (or anyone) for granted.
Six weeks later, I was ready to fly home to Tel Aviv. On my penultimate evening, longing for some British pub grub I met up with two old friends in a local tavern, where we ordered fish and chips and pints of beer and enjoyed what was a perfect summer English evening. Hugging them goodbye, I said I hoped it wouldn’t be as long before my next visit.
What little did I know was in store for me.
Half way through my flight back to Israel, I began feeling incredibly unwell. It came over me - literally - in an instant; sore throat, pounding headache, aching limbs, and a terrible fatigue. All morning and up until two hours onboard, I’d never felt better but by the time we disembarked, I could barely stand up.
Staggering through the airport, I hailed a cab, wound down the window and stared - feverishly - out of the window, as my city’s lights came into view. It took me less than 5 minutes, on walking through the door, to locate a home Covid test and - as strange as it sounds - I knew before I’d even swabbed the inside of my mouth what the result was going to say.
For more than two years, I’d successfully dodged the Corona virus and, at this point, had become almost convinced that I was invincible. But no - my number had come up.
Photo by Waldemar Brandt
I spent the first week more ill than I can describe - a fever that hit almost 40 degrees one day, limbs so weak I could not hold a book, nor stand up without clinging to the bedframe. My head pounded as if someone had brought a mallet down on it and I was so awfully breathless that even staggering to the bathroom or kitchen required extreme effort. I wept tears of loneliness and tears of rage.
By week two, I was eating small amounts, but still testing positive and - in any event - in no state to leave the house. Friends on holiday from NYC and San Francisco, that I’d been dying to meet up with, had had to fly home without seeing me, since I was still infectious. Friends dropped off food outside the door - not that I could eat much. On a diet of black tea, yoghurt and crackers, I guessed I’d lost at least two kilos.
By week three, I’d progressed to standing up independently, drinking coffee again and lying listlessly on the sofa, with the air con blasting (the heat outside was brutal) whilst watching ‘light’ tv. I managed to do a little work, but my brain fog had only just cleared and it was still a huge effort to write the articles that usually come so easily to me.
By week four, I was taking walks outside at night, not far mind you but far enough to get me to a gelateria, a falafel stand or my local beach, just 6 minutes away on foot.
Friends were visiting me and telling me to take it easy but I knew I was finally on the up and up when I was able to join some for a Friday night dinner. Corona had knocked me out but I was back on my feet and ready for a summer of fun.
And then came the call - the call that would change everything. My father, I learned, had suffered a huge stroke and brain hemorrhage and, as yet, his prognosis was unclear.
Within minutes, I was hunting for my passport and throwing clothes back into the same trolley bag I’d only just finished unpacking. I was heading back to London far sooner than I’d envisaged, and to what exactly I had no idea.
To be continued…