It’s such a strange virus. I’ll admit, over summer I was struggling with my mental health so much that I didn’t care if I got it or not because I thought whatever it’s like it’ll be nothing compared to how I’m feeling now.
But when I did get it in December, well I wouldn’t want to catch it again. I was mostly fine but the taste and smell business messed with my head. Obviously nothing compared to being seriously ill but I kept thinking what if it never comes back or takes years? What if I’ve smelled my 3 year old’s head for the last time and didn’t know it? My senses came back in less than a week, but DH still doesn’t have his properly. He can smell my strong perfume and similar smells but very little else. Which is handy, as he can’t smell when the wee one’s done a big shite. More than anything though, I was petrified for my parents. Both very healthy, mid-60s, no hospitalisation but my poor dad couldn’t get out of bed. He wasn’t himself at all on Christmas Day, he could barely stay awake. And I was terrified that this was the start of it getting worse or he’d be stuck with long Covid and his life as he knew it was over. And the tremendous guilt that they got it through looking after DS, because we found out too late that FIL had tested positive and DH had been spending days and nights with him in hospital as he wasn’t expected to last more than a few days (he lasted two weeks more).
The fact that you just don’t know how it’s going to pan out, that’s the scary thing.