My 12 days of Christmas ... isolation

MEATHMAN'S DIARY: JOHN DONOHOE

It’s Sunday night, and I’m taking down the Christmas decorations.

I know most took theirs down on Thursday, Little Christmas, or Women’s Christmas, when the 12 days of Christmas traditionally end, but I had a different 12 days … of isolation.

So, I decided to leave them up an extra few days, as my Little Christmas was spent with a trip to Athlone, the nearest place I could get a HSE PCR test.

But the thing was that it was day nine of my isolation, and therefore, almost an exercise in futility. As we are advised to isolate for 10 days, my isolation period would be over by the time the result arrives.

The dreaded cough had arrived on the Tuesday night after Christmas, along with a sore throat.

I took HSE boss Paul Reid’s word for it when he said the following morning on Morning Ireland: “If you think that you have Covid, it’s most likely that you have it.”

The antigen test agreed with him, and there was nothing for it but to go into post-Christmas hibernation. There would be no New Year’s celebrations. (Unless you count watching the illumination of Navan from my bedroom - I thought I had woken up in Beirut!)

But his other line on the radio that morning wasn’t exactly true. He said the “vast majority” of people needing a PCR test are being offered one the same day or the next day.

Who are you codding? Unfortunately, I happened to pick up the virus the same day as the World Health Organisation announced the highest figures worldwide since it declared a pandemic in March 2020, and as Irish figures jumped to the ten and twenty thousands per day, thanks to Omicron.

As I was listening to Gavin Jennings (himself a med grad) on RTE Radio’s New at One each day telling us that there were no PCR appointments available in the country, all I could do was agree with him – 'Step 7 of 13' in the booking process was the one I couldn’t get by, as the portal declared ‘0 appts’ anywhere. But the radio ads were telling us to isolate immediately and book an appointment!

Kindly sisters and friends dropped supplies outside as I worked away behind closed doors. While the symptoms were the mildest and practically non existent (thank heavens for the pre-Christmas booster), the antigen tests kept showing positive results – then we discovered that the brand was dodgy and providing lots of false positives.

Luckily, I had used a different brand as well, which was also showing positive. There wasn’t much point in even looking for a PCR appointment given the numbers of cases (how were they getting tests?!), and then by the weekend, the Government decided to take the under 40s out of the PCR net for initial tests – I might now have a chance!

I eventually gave up bothering, until somebody said to try book at 12 midnight when the portal was refreshed. Seriously?!

By now, I had caught up on the first series of Stuart Carolan’s ‘Love/Hate’ and Dylan Moran’s ‘Black Books’ (neither of which I had seen first time around); finished books I had started ages ago; counted and bagged my loose change coin hoard; and was generally getting fed up.

A week after the symptoms first appeared, I went online at the midnight hour, and bingo, there were still 17 appointments left for a PCR at Navan Racecourse, five minutes out the road. Well there were, until I went to book one, and they suddenly vanished. Just like that. Gone. Everyone on the country must have been playing Cinderella, with a midnight deadline.

And there were none in Louth, or Cavan, and then I tried Westmeath, and got a slot in Athlone for two days later.

The day dawned, and coincided with the opening of the court case of Donie Cassidy, former Westmeath TD and senator, and his cronies, for the infamous Oireachtas Golf Society outing in Clifden during a past lockdown, so at least there would be some radio entertainment on the day trip down. I could even nearly go on to Galway for the celebrity court show - sure I was half way there.

Athlone GAA club was very well organised for the tests – you just drove in and were directed through a large tent where you rolled down your car window and stuck out your tongue for a swab, followed by a poke in the nose, and off with you.

The following evening, day 10 of isolation, the positive result comes through, and the HSE wants a list of my contacts. My only contacts at that stage were the three wise women who were in the testing tent in Athlone – and they were so well wrapped up in PPE equipment that I wouldn’t recognise them again. Other than that, I hadn’t seen a soul for over a week.

So apart from being added to the statistics, I’m not sure of the value of the exercise, only to confirm something I had already known. Thankfully, it looks like I’ll be out of the woods by this weekend, and free from house arrest.

As one of my friends commented, it’s like living in a Beckett play!