Coronatherapy

Like anyone else who has been through chemotherapy, I have a certain upper hand when it comes to dealing with the coronavirus situation. Those of us who have survived periods of very low immunity know all about hand-washing and cough-catching, and we are dab hands with the antiseptic wipes. We are used to keeping people at an arm's length, and giving virtual hugs. My children are familiar with me shouting "stay away" at them because of the number of times that I have been radioactive (and the odd few occasions when I have pretended to be radioactive just so I can drink my tea in peace).
So cancerheads have a teeny bit of smugness about them now, watching everyone else freaking out if they hear a stray cough on the bus or pulling their sleeves over their hands to open a door. We've been at this craic for ages now lads. We are pros at the germ-avoidance. 

We are also pretty nifty on the whirlwind-of-emotions front. We have been doing the Homer-Kubler-Ross thing for a long time, oscillating wildly from near and certain doom to a serene, hands-in-the-air acceptance. There is a limit to how long your brain can cope with imminent death, and sooner or later it reverts to trying to decide between Netflix and NowTV. 

I have no tips or advice that I haven't previously shared, but repetition is the hallmark of the lazy blogger, so here goes:

• It will all be okay. Even if it's not okay, it will be okay.
• Now that we are all cooped up together, your immediate family probably already have whatever germs you have, so hug them. (Briefly).
• Check in for information twice a day from a reputable source like the HSE or DoH, but do not go to Facebook seeking reassurance. IT WILL NOT BE THERE.
• Listen back to previous episodes of John Creedon's show. Not only will the music be soothing, it will be interspersed with news bulletins from days ago, which will probably be much better news than today's. 
• Walk in the fresh air and relish any socially awkward tendencies you may have - we now have a great excuse for nodding and smiling and moving swiftly along. 
• Start making Patrick's Day floats for the virtual parade in your back garden (we are particularly excited about this one - no crowds, hot tea, front-row views).
• Take delight in the fact that you'll finally get to eat the mung beans/liquid glucose/nori sheets that you bought after watching the 2016 season of Masterchef. 
• Watch the To-Be-Read book pile getting smaller and smaller. 

And remember:

WASH

YOUR 

HANDS!

(AGAIN)

Extra Time

At about 11:30 in the morning yesterday, I suddenly experienced an overwhelming sense of contentment. I was still in my pyjamas, listening to Marian Keyes' Grown Ups on audiobook and emptying the washing machine for the second time. It was windy outside, but sunny, and my pathetic assemblage of potted plants were doing their best to look spring-like. The house was a mess as always, but I had nothing else to do for the day except to try and restore some order on the detritus. I had just to decided to get out my old sewing machine to "whip up" some costumes for World Book Day. I even decided to see World Book Day as a delightful opportunity for my children to express their creativity, rather than a pain-in-the-face chore that I could do without. I tried to assess why I suddenly felt so good. Then it came to me. 

Coronavirus. 

The first case on the island of Ireland had been announced a couple of days ago, and for some reason an overwhelming sense of relief had washed over me. I have been preparing for the next WiMIN conference for months, and it is happening in Belfast in three weeks' time. Or at least that's the plan. It might have to be cancelled, if there is a ban on mass gatherings, or if the speakers can't travel, or if we are all holed up in our houses eating tinned tuna and rubbing the last few mls of hand sanitiser onto our chests. And the realisation that all the organising in the world couldn't have prepared me for this was actually a sweet relief. 

It reminded me that I do all this WiMINing to avoid the ever-present sense of impending doom that accompanies stage 4 cancer. But now there is a real crisis! If you suffer from chronic anxiety there is nothing better than an I Told You So moment, an event that proves how right you are to be interminably terrified. And so the rough edges were smoothed, the clenched jaw relaxed, the shoulders lowered themselves from the ears. 

It was helped by the fact that yesterday was February 29th, that little bonus ephemeral almost non-existent day, a Narnia day, an International Date Line day, a coming-up-smiling-on-Tuesday day. A little oasis of calm in the desert of all-out world-wide apocalyptic carnage. 

It was lovely. 

Tuned Out

I received a set of over-the-ear headphones as a Christmas present. I had asked for them. I wanted to be able to clean the toilet and listen to podcasts without my little in-ear jobs falling into the Ajaxed water. I didn't realise that big puffy headphones are not made with the spectacle-wearer in mind, and the arms of my glasses get squished into my mastoid bones. My head also gets ferociously hot under there, causing me to have to remove at least one of the many (many) layers of clothes that I tend to wear.

But the sound is sublime. Being enveloped by voice, or music, or both. Being intimately connected with the person on the other end of the bluetooth magic. 
And noise cancelling. 
What parent doesn't need this? 
I am in the room with my children and I am the absolute opposite of present. I am away, immersed in Nick's grief, or Jen's sports updates, or Cillian's eclectic New Year's Day mélange of Scottish folk music and Limerick rap. The children obviously require aural attention now and then, but generally all they need is food and the enforcement of safety regulations, so I am not really neglecting them that much. Their lips move but I can't hear what they're saying (and they wouldn't even get the Pink Floyd reference anyway). 

Ajaxing the toilet is so much more fulfilling when you're listening to Eton Rifles.