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[title]Remember that time – for the vast majority of the pandemic, in fact – when it was incredibly unusual to know anyone in Australia who had been infected with Covid? Well, that time is gone, my friends. Long gone. Now, my social feeds are a litany of double red lines and ‘spicy cough’ confessionals. Which isn’t all that surprising, given that Australia pivoted in pretty short order from having some of the staunchest restrictions in the world to going full YOLO on pretty much every precaution we’d been diligently following for almost two years.
This about-face on our once entrenched stance towards even the smallest amount of spread has brought with it a similar backflip in the public consciousness. It’s not that we’re no longer worried about getting Covid, but rather that we’ve collectively surrendered to the reality that we’re all more than likely going to get it no matter what we do. And thus began the great sickening – the slow domino topple as one by one, each and every person I know, work with and follow on the ‘gram has lost the RAT race and been caught by Covid. Some 5 million Australians have tested positive to date. But not me.
I am now amongst a dwindling number of confused Aussies who are yet to catch the virus – but not for lack of trying. It’s not that I’ve stuck dutifully to the health protocols the rest of society has said ‘fuck it’ to or that I’ve been hiding out in a self-imposed lockdown too afraid to venture back to the pub. My life has returned to near pre-pandemic levels of normality, and yet for reasons that seem entirely mysterious, I am yet to get sick.
And thus began the great sickening – the slow domino topple as one by one, each and every person I know, work with and follow on the ‘gram has lost the RAT race and been caught by Covid.
As we emerged first from the Delta lockdown and then from the more choose-your-own-adventure shadow lockdown of the Omicron surge, I went through phases of hypervigilance, as I attempted to leapfrog a positive swab ahead of various activities and trips I didn’t want upended. But as the weeks have rolled by and I have become not exactly complacent but at least less preoccupied with exposure, the spectre of Covid lurking around every corner has faded to an afterthought.
This should surely be cause for celebration, right? After so many months of sustained anxiety over the abstract concept of Covid in the community, the new c’est la vie status quo and my own apparent inability to catch the damn virus should be an ideal outcome? I’m certainly happy not to have gone through the coughing, shivering and crushing exhaustion that so many people have now suffered, but I still have questions. Am I the Matt Damon of this movie, a genetic unicorn who is just naturally immune to Covid? Am I merely unconsciously dodging the viral raindrops, destined sooner or later to get wet? Or is it that I’ve already had Covid, with symptoms so mild or unnoticeable that I dismissed it as a hangover? You never forget your first time, so the saying goes, but maybe that isn’t the case for the lucky asymptomatic few?
My quest for answers is in part driven by the fact I've been spoiled by the avalanche of data and statistics that we’ve all had access to since the pandemic began. From daily cases to vaccination percentages, knowing in such intimate detail every aspect of each surge and lockdown, nicely collated and easily digestible, has made the new unknowns of ‘living with Covid’ all the more inscrutable, especially since the Omicron strains are meant to be so extravagantly contagious.
And I’m not alone in my head-scratching, it seems. Typing ‘Why haven’t I caught Covid yet?’ into Google yields thousands of results (and a shedload of memes) with various answers as to why some people are able to avoid infection, ranging from being too pretty (no really) to sheer dumb luck. But there are other shades of this conundrum to consider. I have had three doses of a vaccine and have been very vocal about my belief in them and the need for everyone in our community to get their jabs. And while the reality of the Covid vaccine isn’t quite like the movies, where a miracle cure stops a virus in its tracks, the vaccines are proven to reduce serious illness and hospitalisation.
This bears out in the data. Even with tens of thousands of reported cases daily in Australia – with actual infection rates likely to be far higher due to unreported positive RATs – hospitalisation rates have remained relatively stable. But even being pro-vaccine, it’s still hard to banish all trace of doubt that these incredible, lifesaving drugs are actually doing their job and protecting me as intended. And yet, for those of us who are yet to go through Covid, there's also an undercurrent of anxiety tied to the chronic uncertainties that have hung over all of us during the pandemic. We’ve all learned a lot about waiting and anticipation – for the pandemic to be over, for lockdowns to be lifted, for borders to be reopened – so having to face yet another wait, for our first infection, is like the terrible liminal moment on a rollercoaster that's about to drop over its first breakneck plunge. We know it'll probably be fine, but there's still a part of us that worries we'll be the ones to fly off the rails.
Typing ‘Why haven’t I caught Covid yet?’ into Google yields thousands of results (and a shedload of memes)
The likelihood of us returning to the on-again-off-again merry-go-round of restrictions and lockdown is very low, and not just because it would be politically suicidal for state premieres after going through more days under stay-at-home orders than pretty much any other country on the planet. Those lockdowns, as gruelling and depressing and frustrating as they were, had a purpose: to allow us to all take advantage of the astonishingly sophisticated vaccines that have turned Covid from a potentially lethal threat into an annoying inconvenience for the vast majority of people.
There’s a strong probability that I will, at some point, come down with Covid. Hell, I could be cooking up a week of medically-induced vacation as I type these prophetic words. Until then, I’ll try erring on the side of trust rather than suspicion – trust in the vaccines that are protecting me; trust that whatever kneejerk health precautions that have been drilled into me over the past two years will back that protection up; and trust that if and when I finally do get the spicy cough, there is a highly sophisticated network of health pros, and the legends I call friends and fam, to get me through it. Better late than never, right?