What it feels like to have defeated our second wave.
As was reported around the world, Melbourne, my affable home city here in Australia, was in a state of lockdown for a whopping 111 days this year.
In the first wave, we bunkered down together in sync with the rest of the country and much of the world, and I embraced lockdown clichés like deep-cleaning my upstairs bathroom; a 1,000 piece puzzle sprawled over the dining room table for weeks for my daughter and I to tackle. I declared in my journal I would try not to be “a jerky mess”. “I will be ok,” I urged myself. “It’s time to adjust.”
My sleep was affected, and it was stressful, strange and scary, especially watching the horrors unfolding overseas, but there was a novelty about it — a sense that we were all in this together, part of a giant social experiment; a collective test of our patience and resilience. I was lucky to be shielded from most of the more serious consequences of the pandemic.
From about mid-May, things started to open up again, and we were able to enjoy the small freedoms of a Covid-normal existence. Various restrictions were still in place, but we could go into shops and restaurants again; meet people outside—things were feeling ok.
What we didn’t realise was that the virus was silently seeping out of our hotel quarantine system and spreading into the community.
And then, suddenly, things were not ok.
We were in the grip of a second wave — one that was gaining momentum every day. Just as restrictions were meant to be lifting, harsher new rules were introduced instead. We were back in lockdown.
As the daily case numbers in Melbourne failed to budge, more rules were imposed. Back to takeaway only, no retail or home visits; only one hour a day permitted for exercise or to shop for essentials.
You had to work from home if you could. Masks became compulsory and a new 5km radius was introduced. I scrambled to apply the radius around my home and counted three decent cafes, two bakeries and my bay beach.
Our Premier talked about protecting the state’s health system from collapse.
The mantra was “stay safe, stay home”.
This time around, there was a heaviness. A bleakness. People online were fracturing and sparring. Businesses and livelihoods were getting crushed with the closures. Parents were drowning in home schooling and working from home. Victoria, my state, was now a pariah — the rest of Australia had remained basically virus-free since the first wave.
We had to break away into our own private battle, no longer “in this together” with the rest of the country. It was oddly bitter to see friends and family on social media in other states drinking beers in pubs, taking their kids to outdoor sports; travelling within their state, far, far beyond 5kms. It was all closed off to us.
Politicians and bureaucrats were being vilified. Blame was hurled at our government from every direction. The daily “presser” — our state Premier’s press briefing — became stressful and tense, like witnessing a protracted version of your Mum and Dad arguing when you were a kid. Headlines predicted doom in various forms: a recession, a mental health crisis, the aged care system breakdown. The death toll chimed and chimed each day.
I journaled incessantly. “I didn’t sleep well last night. I am tired and a bit drained by the whole bloody lockdown thing. Anyway I have work to do, so I better get on with it. July — you suck”.
July, into August saw the rise and fall of our second wave.
Day after day, I paced my circuit to the beach and back, plugged in my headphones and either tried to remember what things used to be like, tried to absorb this new unrelenting world, or tried to tune out from all of it.
I defended our Premier’s communication skills in a thread on Facebook one day and copped ridicule and attacks from strangers. I found myself slipping into more and more arguments online. I tried to address conspiracy theories a few times before realising I was just walking into more anger, and retreated.
Previously quiet people in my little world online were now suddenly quite vocal; vehemently opposed to all the rules. I realised I was part of the silent majority — I just wanted us to beat this thing. I just wanted it to be over; to be a decisive conquering.
The daily death count marched on. It seemed ceaseless. Worst of all, we were getting used to it. I listened to podcasts from overseas that broke my heart about losing people to the disease; tales from hospitals in Italy about choices doctors should never have to make. I read articles about long-Covid and spooked myself.
I prayed some nights — even though I don’t believe in god— and the order was always the same. Please don’t let my daughter get Covid. Please don’t let me, or anyone I care about get it. Please let this virus release its grip on my city. I repeated that list over and over again on the nights I couldn’t sleep well.
Whenever someone I knew took a Covid test I braced myself. If the slightest tickle touched my throat I played out various detailed scenarios for what a positive result would mean for my daughter, toiling away at her final year of high school in the study downstairs.
Whenever new rules were introduced, or not eased, or new announcements were made, I braced myself for more of the anger.
Our household of two shrank into a very small world and I fed it with what I could. Time stretched and contracted at will.
I shopped online with an increasing neediness. Ditto the embracing of wine and chocolate. I donned lycra most days, but only managed a grand total of two online exercise classes. I watched the news a lot, listened to podcasts and watched all of Netflix. I needed to be constantly distracted, but I also couldn’t focus on anything. I couldn’t read fiction anymore, only scan news articles. I couldn’t manage much creatively, aside from the constant journaling — but that, like daily walking, felt more like a necessity.
Focusing for work took a lot of effort every single day.
The daily grind of not much at all was exhausting. Running our household, managing my business, creating a stable base for my daughter. That was it. That was all there was, and all I could do.
I obsessed over our daily numbers. The subtlest change in our trajectory affected my mood. I watched the daily presser most mornings, grasping onto all the new terms and new realities.
I ordered more fabric masks for myself and my daughter, and learned how to properly use them. I scheduled more and more of my life over Zoom.
And then, as quietly as it had began, it became apparent that we’d seen the top of the peak. We were descending. Slowly, but clearly. It was working.
On August 9, I wrote in my journal, “We had 394 cases today, the first time in 12 days we’ve had under 400. I really hope tomorrow we see more numbers like this in the 300s. God it will feel really shit if it leaps back up. Fingers. Crossed.”
By the end of August, we’d got our case numbers back down to where they’d started on July 1 — 73 — after reaching a peak of 725 daily cases. Our second wave was now a mountain shape, and were we on the other side of that mountain.
The relief flowed through me.
On the 15th of September, they announced that no-one had died for the first time since mid-July. It was the first thing I told my daughter that morning as I came down the stairs.
My neighbours WhatsApp group began to trace the new downward trend in numbers with celebratory memes, until we reached the glorious new milestone of a zero cases day, which Victorians immediately crowned “donut day.”
Even the official post from the Department of Health and Human Services that day was in on the new term.
Now, we have a new daily count: 37 days of zero cases. In epidemiological terms, we’ve eliminated the virus.
No-one thought we’d get here. People online, opposition party politicians and media commentators had all said it was impossible, futile; crazy. And yet here we are, part of a very small club of countries who have defeated their second waves.
The angry voices have dissipated, as have the anti-lockdown protestors (ours were comically outnumbered by Police). Court cases against our state government are being quietly dismissed.
Melbournians are once again embracing our new normal, only this time, with a mix of battle-hardened wariness, extra enjoyment and for some, extra cautiousness.
Today’s paper talks about international arrivals coming again to Melbourne; the latest vaccine updates; headlines declare that “Mask rules will be eased.”
The new government saying is “stay safe, stay open”.
When I look back at our second wave, the two things that unsettled me the most were the deaths, and the anger of people around me bubbling over everywhere. Also just the pervasive threat over something I’d never had to think about before — the health of my daughter, myself and my ability to provide for her; the health of my city, my state, my country. A whole new lexicon of anxiety.
My 17 year old daughter told me she was disheartened by watching how adults had behaved this year. Shocked even.
She said she thought that because no-one usually spoke up about things like climate change and the treatment of refugees, she’d just assumed that most people just weren’t politically engaged.
But she said that seeing people so up in arms and vocal and angry about things like lockdown rules — having to curtail personal freedoms in order to protect others in the community— meant that all this time, they did have the capacity to care about things: they just only cared when it directly affected them.
I worried too that some people’s inability to cope with lockdowns may have been a searing window into the fragile, just-holding-it-together state of our modern world. How much unhappiness, dysfunction and loneliness was exacerbated by something as simple as being asked to stay home for an extended period of time? I’m not glossing over the genuine hardship experienced by many during this year, but I was surprised at the anger by so many at having to do so.
I guess on some level I just assumed of my fellow humans that we’d all be happy to do whatever we could to protect vulnerable members of our community, and take the burden off healthcare and other frontline workers.
As it is, I feel no less love towards humanity. I certainly feel a doubling, a tripling of gratitude for the simplest of things. A good coffee enjoyed in a café, made by a barista who’s able to work again. A clink of wine glasses with friends out in an outdoor bar. Walking with my Dad in a park; showing him how to tighten his mask straps so it stopped exposing his nose.
I’m glad it’s over — for now at least. I feel incredibly lucky to be an Australian, where it turns out being “girt by sea” may be our biggest ally against this virus. I feel awful about what is unfolding again in the US and Europe, and other parts of the world. I can’t fathom it. The number of daily deaths at the moment in the US exceeds our highest ever case numbers.
I don’t watch the news as much now. I don’t notice the pressers come up anymore on my social media. I’m able to focus on work again, and plan, and dream. I’ve booked a weekend away with my partner soon in regional Victoria and I can’t wait!
My daughter has finished her final year of school and is taking her first tentative steps into a currently virus free Victoria. The world she is entering is more scarred and fraught than ever, but I still trust her ability to make a positive impact in it. We got closer this year, and I love her more fiercely than ever.
My love for my city of Melbourne has also deepened and I will never forget what we all went through this year.
