Unresolved Grief: Fear, fragility & faith while fighting COVID

It’s been 21 days since I began experiencing this excruciating headache and later a niggling, dry cough, shortness of breath and a weird sensation in my legs when I got up and down the stairs too quickly.

Testing positive for COVID-19 earlier this month was a complete shock to me. My head spun as I tried to trace my steps and figure out where I could have been exposed — that proved to be a futile exercise.

I was at my desk working when the text came through to my phone. I felt a rush of heat in my arms and legs and I could barely stand up. I was on the phone with my partner and he sounded just as shocked as I was. Though, he is a more composed human then I’ll ever be, he immediately began making plans to get me started on treatment that same afternoon.

As I sat reeling in the moment my eldest daughter (9) walked into the study room; my knee jerk reaction was to tell her to stay away, and I may have said it too loudly. I immediately tried (as gently as I could) to explain to her why she couldn’t come in. I watched her eyes widen with horror and her smile faded, her voice trembled and her stare fastened behind the glimmer of the tears that were welling up in her eyes. It felt like she was waiting for me to tell her that I was playing a very bad trick on her, and when that didn’t happen she hollered in absolute anguish. My heart broke.

Her screams triggered those of her little sister (2), and I looked on helplessly as the two of them held each other. I was too scared to touch them. I was worried I would infect them…if I hadn’t already…I was paralysed by the fear of death and the thought of leaving them without their mother. I remembered the day Papa died. I choked on the bitterness of my own fear of losing Mama.

So much happened in the time leading up to when my partner came home with the medicine. For the most part, I sat alone in my room thinking, wondering, planning and praying.

I hadn’t cried until Mme Mmatholang knocked on my bedroom

door. I opened for her and stepped back while she stood there with tears in her eyes. Her shaky voice muffled by the mask she wore, she said “Ous Masechaba, ne ke re fela re sa ho rata. O tsebe ho tla feta.” (Ous Masechaba, I was just saying we still love you and you should know that this will pass). I wailed. I cried because I wasn’t sure I could believe her.

It would be a tough two weeks; the pills made me sick and staying away from the people who mattered most made it difficult to stay positive. I spent a lot of time thinking about death and dying. It’s as though the piece I wrote at the beginning of the month, about my anxiety, dealing with unresolved grief, and witnessing the many lives stolen and shattered by this disease attracted this challenge into my own life. It struck me hardest in this period of absolute vulnerability that I had not even begun dealing with the loss of my little sister (Ipeleng) in 2018.

There were moments when the idea of dying was not so daunting; when it was peppered with fantasies of seeing Ipe, Koko and Papa again. What followed though were intense feelings of guilt — how could I be ok to trade such a blessed life with the living for a dream to be with the dead? I wasn’t even that sick, not once did I need any further medical intervention. I felt weak, ungrateful and cowardly for even having such thoughts. But I miss my sister, I miss my ‘Punky Brewster’. What I would give to see her live out her dreams, her love for dogs, horses, her crazy music, and her passion for travelling...she was only 23.

My battle with COVID was mostly mental. It was a moment to reflect on my life, my traumas and all that I could be thankful for. My faith carried me…it was choosing to believe that my Dad, Ipe and all my ancestors walk with me in this life, and that my time had not yet come. My love for my children, their father, and my entire family kept me going — their love, patience, support and prayers for me kept me strong.

As I navigate my way through the next step of healing (though I am told I am no longer infectious, I am incredibly self-conscious and anxious around others), my heart goes out to all those who are on the brink of giving up — whatever your struggle —I wish you light and healing. I wish for you the courage to embrace your vulnerability and the strength to hold on to love and life.