Just another cold
What if we paid closer attention to the quiet ways we affect one another?
Once again, I find myself sneezing and sniffling, fighting through yet another respiratory illness.
But don’t worry.
It is probably just another cold.
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During the height of the Covid-19 pandemic, I was blissfully cold and flu-free. In fact, seasonal flu levels worldwide plummeted as restrictions on movement and mixing kept these respiratory infections at bay. But as soon as life edged back to ‘normal,’ so did the familiar cycle of sniffles, coughs, and fevers. In December, the number of people in hospital with flu in England quadrupled, and NHS officials warned hospitals were facing a “quad-demic” of flu, norovirus, respiratory syncytial virus (RSV) and Covid-19. Meanwhile, the US has been facing its worst flu season in 15 years (this National Geographic article goes into some of the reasons why). For children, the elderly, those with weakened immune systems, and pregnant people, the stakes are dangerously high.
I was diagnosed with palindromic rheumatism a few years ago. It is a rare form of inflammatory arthritis that causes recurrent flare-ups of joint pain and inflammation that resolves on its own. For me, the disease affects my fingers, causing bouts of swelling, pain, and all-consuming, debilitating fatigue that last around 5 days before disappearing as if nothing has happened. (The Greek palindromos means to take the same road once again—or simply, returning or recurring). No one knows why palindromic rheumatism happens, but we’ve come to know those common triggers.
When the sniffles creep in, I brace myself, desperately praying that the stiffness won’t creep into the base of my fingers,
that my joints won’t be set aflame,
that I won’t lose another week to exhaustion
to just another cold.
I step onto the bus to find the windows tightly shut, steaming up from the collective breath of commuters. Stale air circulates, passing from one pair of lungs to another. At the self-checkout, the man behind me coughs a deep phlegmatic projection that lands at the nape of my neck. At the cafe, the barista itches his nose before reaching for the uncovered cinnamon bun on display, unprotected from the breath and spittle of customers placing their daily caffeine orders. On the tube, a woman blows her nose into a tissue, then unfurls it wide, inspecting its viridescent contents without care for the passengers pressed against her on either side. In the park, a pensioner clears their throat and spits the excess onto the asphalt. At the cinema, a gaggle of friends rushes from the toilet cubicles to their seats, their hands unwashed.
I pull my mask tighter.
I scrub my hands harder.
I hold my breath longer.
It is rarely
just another cold.
Read my latest article for The British Medical Journal: Why are black women still more likely to die in childbirth?
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