Stories of COVID-19: Adaptation, Part 1

The pandemic has forced us all to adapt in various ways, for the sake of our physical or mental health. The stories in this week’s episode will focus on the ways in which our storytellers have forged new lives and routines for themselves.

Our first story is from Fiona Calvert, Story Collider UK producer and science communication officer at Alzheimer's Research UK. Fiona has worked hard to manage her obsessive compulsive disorder, but when the pandemic begins, suddenly triggers are everywhere.

After Fiona’s story, our host interviews psychologist Dr. Kevin Chapman about how we can adapt to protect our mental health during this time.

Stay tuned for two more stories on Monday, from bestselling author Matthew Dicks and veterinarian Lauren Adelman!

Story Transcript

I tap my pass on the security system of the doors to my new office and they slide open. I bound my way up the stairs to the second set of doors. This is the second week of my first post‑PhD job and I finally feel like I've found something that I love. And as I get to the top of that second set of stairs, something catches my eye. And this feeling of excitement, almost, comes over me. Hand sanitizer.

Fiona Calvert is a science communication officer at Alzheimer's Research UK after completing her PhD at the Wellcome Sanger Institute.

I head to the doors and notice that there are dispensers at the doors of our new office. I take a squirt and put it into my hand and the familiar smell of alcohol just floods my nose. Then I take a second squirt, so now I have enough to cover both my hands and the door handle.

But I open the door handle with my elbow, and as I get through onto the other side of the door, I notice a hand sanitizer. So I take a squirt and rub it in my hands just in case. And now my heart is beating really, really fast. I can almost hear it in my ears because, without even missing a beat, I have fallen back into habits and compulsions that I worked for years to control.

That evening, my partner Will and I are sat having dinner discussing the virus that is spreading around the world. I get this feeling of fear bubbling in my stomach, almost like before you're about to sit an exam. “Will, we have hand sanitizer at work now.”

“Right,” he replies, looking at me confused because I forget that for most people using hand sanitizer isn't anything alarming, but for me it's one of the scariest things in the world.

We've spoken about my OCD before and even dealt with small flare-ups, like when having raw meat in the flat was too much for me to handle or when my lab shoes had a specific spot to live in. But those were the manageable parts of my OCD.

Will had gotten to know the post-therapy me, the me that had spent over 10 years working to control this part of my brain. But this thing that has been bubbling in the background of the news for weeks is the very thing that I have been terrified of all along, that someone somewhere is carrying a virus that I definitely don't want to catch. And anything they touch could be contaminated. We don't know who has this virus and they might not even know that they have it so that contamination could literally be anywhere.

As our government so kindly keeps reminding us, the best way to prevent getting the virus is to wash your hands. My biggest trigger has become government policy, and it is everywhere. On posters at work, on TV adverts, on my social media feed.

Suddenly, this thing that has been bubbling in the background stops bubbling, and at 5:00 p.m. on the 23rd of March, our government announces that we're going into lockdown as they call it, only leaving the house once a week to shop for food or for an hour a day for exercise. Secretly, I'm relieved because I now get to build my own, clean, virus-free, safe space where Will and I can follow rules that I meticulously decide. I get to watch everywhere our clothes and outside shoes touch and I get to decide when we wash our hands.

And Will listens every time I explain why I need something done in a certain way and does it without frustration. Sometimes when he washes his hand just because I've asked, this warm feeling swells inside of me.

We create my own safe space. My perfect bubble. We make really, really terrible pasta from scratch and create a game of balcony squash to make the most of our outside space. I am truly awful at it. We have to start building more and more elaborate outside barriers because my wayward squash shots are sending balls in very unintentional directions. And in those moments of absolute belly laughter where we're bringing in more obscure items to build our court, I almost forget that there's a virus.

But Will doesn't know that even though he washes his hands just because I've asked. Sometimes I watch him as he moves around our kitchen and I watch to see where his loose‑fitting t-shirt touches. And then I watch to see if his hand touches that same bit of loose‑fitting t-shirt that might have touched something from the outside. And he doesn't know that even though sometimes I ask him to wash his hands because I've spotted something, sometimes I don't and I just sit in that fear, consumed by it. Unable to have any other feelings outside of that fear. But I know I have the techniques to get through this.

I watch the government briefing every single day and for a while, nothing changes. But then, the numbers of cases start to drop and suddenly the conversations start to change. Rumors start swirling in the news about how we might ease restrictions and what we might be able to do first.

And at 5:00 p.m. one evening, the government announces what I've been dreading, the start of our return to this new normal. We could start to meet people outside, just one person from outside of our household, only outside and socially distanced. And as soon as they announce it, that fear pit in my stomach starts to build again. And I try and pause to give Will time to process this new information before I panic.

But that feeling is building in my stomach and the tears are rolling down my cheeks because I am terrified of catching this virus. In part because I'm terrified of dying, but I think mainly because I'm scared that if I catch this it's because I haven't been careful enough. I haven't been clean enough. I haven't washed my hands enough.

And that panic is starting to set in as I imagine all the ways we're going to be catching the virus when we go outside. Will brings me in for a hug and I get to stay in that safe space for a little while longer. And he tells me that it's okay. He's happy to keep things just the way they are for now.

But as a couple of weeks pass, the conversations start about Will seeing a friend, and the thought of it absolutely terrifies me. I cry pretty much every time we talk about it because of that pit of fear in my stomach but also because of this overwhelming sense of guilt that I have. Because even though this situation has almost been perfect for me, I know it hasn't for Will. He needs to go outside and he needs to see people. Just because I have to live in my brain doesn't mean that he does.

He would really love to play tennis but we both agree that that is a step too far, so he'll meet that same friend for a socially-distanced walk. And I cry before he leaves and I cry while he's gone. But before he goes, he's so patient and he explains exactly how he'll keep himself safe. He'll keep more than two meters apart. He will go only somewhere quiet. He'll make sure his friend knows that we're sticking to the rules very strictly so the boundaries are set. But I still cry the whole time he's gone and I cry when he gets back.

He washes his hands immediately. Takes off his clothes and puts them in the wash. Washes his hands again and jumps in the shower. But I don't have the capacity for social niceties and so I interrogate him while he's in the shower.

“Where did you go?” “Who else was there?” “Was it busy?” “Did you stay two meters apart?” “Did you antibac?” “Did you accidentally brush against anything?” “Are you sure?” And Will brings me in for a hug as he gets out of the shower, but this time I'm rigid because our safe space has been contaminated and our bubble is broken.

But again, I sit with that all-consuming feeling of fear because this is how it works. And every time I sit with that fear and survive, I know that it means I can do more. I have the techniques and tools to do this. And I sit with that fear and survive.

And we start to talk about who I might see and the obvious choice is my mom. She has been with me through this whole journey and she is my mom. I know that I have the techniques to meet my mom, sit with that fear and survive.

So we agree to meet at a walking spot in between our two houses. And as I pull into the McDonald’s car park that we've arranged to meet in, I antibac my hands before I touch my car door handle and antibac them again once I'm out and I've locked my car.

Then I see my mom for the first time in over two months and this wave of relief rushes over me because I'm actually excited to see her. I have the capacity for emotions outside of fear. And for the next two hours, we walk and I talk to her about everything and that pit of fear in my stomach starts to subside. And I think that I can do this. I'm going to survive this.

Then we get to our cars to say goodbye and my mom looks at me as if she wants to go in for a hug. I know that she knows we can't. She gives me this knowing smile, but by that point I'm already looking at her hand which is on the strap of her handbag.

Epilogue: The struggle continues, but Fiona finds moments of joy like this one on the beach with her partner in September.

And I remember being on the walk and her handbag brushing past a bush and I think, “What if someone with the virus coughed on that bush or touched that bush and now that bush is contaminated?”

Suddenly the virus is on her handbag, and now it's on her hands. And I notice as her hands move to adjust her top and the virus is on her top. Then her hand moves and brushes past her trousers and I watch as the virus spreads around her body.

I get into my car and I antibac my hands and then I antibac my own bag just in case. I antibac my keys. I cover my hands in more antibac so I can cover the steering wheel this time.

And then I notice my hair, my long hair that's been down on this windy day on this walk and I worry what if my hair has touched that same bush? And suddenly I notice everywhere my hair touches. My skin, my clothes, my car and my whole world has become consumed by this contamination.

I cannot sit with this fear. I don't know how to get myself out of this moment of fear. It’s swallowed me. And if I can't sit with this fear when with my mom, how am I ever going to go to work, or sit in a car that isn't mine or hang out with my friends? After all of these years of work and therapy and I cannot even hug my own mom.