Nursing is in my blood: Nana needed a morality letter from her GP so she could become a nurse; cousins and aunties nursed; and at 17, my mum even ran away to nurse because she couldn’t wait. Somehow, nursing never crossed my mind until an overwhelming epiphany in my 20s: I felt strongly called, and signed up for nursing. Nobody except me was surprised.
I have no regrets. It’s a pleasure to nurse and I look forward to every workday, meeting and caring for patients/whānau. Nursing kaumātua taught me how culturally-safe care benefits all my patients, and how equitable care saves more lives than equal care. I’m not a perfect nurse, but I try.
2020 brought Covid. Cancelling my March holiday, I worked more hours than ever, across several worksites. I was frontline, trying to provide calm care while adopting new recommendations, seemingly daily. Care was strictly triaged, rationed, reduced. Phone calls replaced hand holding. Even so, some vulnerable patients missed out. I stripped on my doorstep to protect my family. It was frightening and exhausting. Lockdown brought a strange calm, reducing the health burden we health workers were struggling to meet. Covid vaccines arrived, and Aotearoa reopened. Life was getting normal again.
When I caught Covid (2022), I was clinical lead, working overtime to cover short-staffing. Outside work, I was also busy, being a mum, sporty, social and committed to postgraduate nursing education. It was a busy life, but I loved it and was thriving. It was, to me, a normal life.
Life with Long Covid is a very different normal. A heavy, sludgy blanket enfolds my thoughts and movements, muffling everything I do. At work, I look misleadingly normal, which is common with invisible illnesses. I deliver care, safely manage my brain-fog, and am an appreciated team member.
There is no cure for Long Covid, and while time or some treatments may help a little, I’ve run through the gamut of possible therapies. At present, life is reduced, rationed, triaged. To recover from work, I recline all day, because sitting is too tiring. Talking fatigues me, so socialising is minimised, even with family. Dressing, washing or grooming is rationed until I go to work. As an antisocial, wrinkled couch-potato, rest and recovery is my mantra. I practise self-kindness, acceptance and non-sleep deep rest sessions through my day. I actively work on my mental health, which isn’t surprising: chronic illness is depressing!
Expanding on that, I avoid charlatans, bad medical advice, conspiracy theories, ignorant comments and unhelpful thoughts. Although I love nursing, it takes a toll: I’m so “switched on” at work that I jump at anything, like a cat with a cucumber. My brain fog slows me down, as I check and recheck my decisions. I’m exhausted afterwards. Work hours have dwindled to enable more time to rest. Calling me a part-time worker underestimates the full-time commitment of rest and recovery that my paid work entails.
It’s been more than two years and I’m taking stock: with low quality of life and little health improvement, am I working hard or hardly working? Should I continue doing this, or try to break this cycle by taking a few months’ unpaid sick leave? There is no guarantee I can stay employed or regain my job when better. Currently, health employment is frozen. Why is there no support for us long haulers?
It’s estimated that 10-20% of people infected by Covid go on to develop Long Covid. Tragically, a recent survey found that more than 75% of long haulers’ work situations are affected. We are a willing workforce, but need support until we can get better and return to our usual hours.
Author’s name withheld. For anyone diagnosed with Long Covid, support can be found at Long Covid Support Aotearoa.
