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In early September, the double lines of a COVID positive result appeared on my Rapid Antigen Test cassette.
I’d been writing about the risks of the pandemic for several years, so I knew what to do.
I would rest like I’d never rested before.
When my acute symptoms faded – fever, headache, congestion and cough – it was all too easy to ignore the lingering ones and push myself too far. Light sensitive? I could lower the brightness on my laptop and keep working. Fatigue and leg spasms? A regular occurrence.
But pushing through a viral infection, particularly COVID-19, is dangerous. The safest thing we can all do is to stop, rest, and pace.
I’m lucky my workplaces allowed me to take as much leave as I needed. Still, I’m not out of danger. Early December marks 12 weeks since I caught COVID, and the point at which Long COVID symptoms are likely to emerge.
I stop, rest and pace, as much as I can. I’m writing this slowly – doing a bit of research, then lying down for an hour or so. When/ if I feel ready, I’ll write a paragraph before stopping again, even if I feel like I could keep going. I’m writing over weeks, rather than my usual process, which – for shorter pieces - is to write on one day, edit the next and submit the day after.
I didn’t know the safest way to approach a COVID infection because of clear public health messaging, which has been abysmal.
I knew because fellow disabled people have led the way in disseminating up to date information about COVID research, about the possible repercussions and how to avoid them.
Thanks to the solidarity of the disability community, I thought I was doing everything I could and should. But it turns out old habits of productivity really do die hard.
Last week, I told my coworker, Jun, about some of the casual work I’d be doing, after logging off from my day job. Jun asked about my volunteering and my roles on committees.
“Laura,” he said, smile disappearing, his tone suddenly serious, “you’re betraying your body.”
He was right. I wasn’t following my own rules, or scientific advice, and something had to change. Immediately.
I declined and rescheduled meetings where possible and am planning out my next few months much more carefully.
Jun’s reminder feels particularly important as we approach the end of the year, a time that’s often full of reflections on the past 12 months. My social media feeds are already starting to fill with posts about places people have been and the things they’ve done.
I’m not saying there’s anything wrong with celebrating our achievements. As disabled people, we need to do that more. I just want us to unpick the equation of productivity with worth or superiority.
I know the allure of this celebration of productivity. I feel it every day.
But I know too the necessity, the gift and the glory of rest.
As I consider my own 2024, I’m proud of the pieces I’ve written, sure. Mostly, though, I’m proud that I survived in a mind that often urges me to do anything but. Mostly, I’m proud of the times I rested, the times I said no to social engagements (even though they would have been fun), because my mind and body needed something else.
Proud of what I’m learning to recognise, moment by moment:
my worth isn’t contingent on how much I can do or produce. Yours isn’t either.