I awake in my bed and stare up at the ceiling. Morning has arrived.
The fog begins to lift as I mentally check in on my body. My legs, usually in pain and discomfort, actually feel okay. I wiggle my feet and rollover. Still no pain.
This is good news. Lately, I have felt that each day was something I had to get through, like a tiresome game show in which I was never the winner.
It’s Tuesday. I take my phone off the bedside cabinet, and it proudly proclaims that I have no appointments today. My day could be easy. I could rest.
I swing my legs over the side of the bed and make my way to the bathroom. So far, so good. There is gentle pain, but less than usual.
As I brush my teeth sitting on my shower stool, I wonder if I am finally improving. Long Covid has taken so much, but there has to be an end to it. Maybe I will look back, and this will mark the first day of my recovery.
I sit on the sofa, nursing a much-needed coffee. Usually, to get here feels like an achievement, but today, I breezed through my morning routine. Is this what it used to feel like before Covid? I can’t remember it's been so long.
I look down at my little dogs, who stare back at me with big brown eyes. They are cute. They need a walk, and Rachel, my wife, won’t be back for ages. I entertain a crazy idea. What if I take them? I could take them now over the field right next to our house.
I consider my mobility aid options. My wheelchair would not handle the terrain, and the scooter would take ages to assemble. My humble stick it is, then.
I seize the moment, grab the dogs' harnesses, and ignore the dull ache in my legs. It's time to be normal and do what normal people do.
I strut towards the field, dogs straining on their leads as if they cannot believe their luck. Dad never does this. ‘Well, today, Dad does,’ I say out loud, my stick plodding along the road as we approach the field, and I let them off their leads.
I start to feel out of breath.
My legs start to ache a bit more.
I look back at the house. What was a ten-minute walk to get here now feels like an ominous distance to return.
My mind starts to panic. What if the dogs run off? I could never come close to catching them. What if I fall over? I have fallen over at home before. Who would help me out?
I turn round and start to head back towards the house. The dogs look at me accusingly, as if to say, ‘What kind of a walk was that?’. I put them back on their leads and hobble back quickly to get it over and done with.
My legs hurt more, and my body is aching. My breath is heavy and laboured. I am about five minutes out, but it feels like the end of a marathon. I dig deep. I can do this.
I start to feel dizzy, the pavement spinning gently before me. I am thankful for the stick, which takes my corrections. Somebody is coming the other way, and I pray I do not bump into them; I have no energy or mental capacity for the ‘How are you?’ question.
I finally make it home and fall into the door as I take the dog's leads off.
I sit on the sofa, knowing I will pay for this later, still out of breath and look at the dogs. ‘Sorry, that's all Dad can do today’, I say, before sleep takes me.
There will be no recovery this Tuesday.
Paul Clarke is a writer and has written two books, one about his struggles with Long Covid and a novella. He also hosts a podcast which focuses on how it feels to live with a chronic illness.
“Like a tiresome game-show in which I was never the winner” - what a great description. I know exactly how that feels.