DEMENTIA CARE: AUTUMN BOOSTERS.

As someone looking after someone at risk, I am considered at risk of causing risk to someone at risk. In other words, I am given priority when receiving boosters. That way, an extra layer of protection exists for someone else. And so, it was time to risk Covid on a bus when going for a Covid booster.
   I was floored by one Covid injection. After that, I was okay receiving the booster rockets. As far as I am aware, I’ve never caught Covid. But then, it is asymptomatic for many. I know this from the number of carers who disappeared from the regular care run with no explanation.
   Daily testing brought Covid to light. Even with no symptoms. Once the embargo was over and the carer returned to duty, I learned that the husband in a husband-and-wife team fell into bed comatose – while the wife was out and about running marathons and climbing mountains using only her feet, so fit she was.
   Maybe I’ve had the Covid. In the unforgiving world of caring, the idea of maybe-kinda-sorta doesn’t cut it. I was offered the jab, and off I went. Though I had to be offered the jab again. I’ll come back to that bit.
   What sort of day was it? Autumnal. I had stretches of walking ahead of me, and switched to winter socks for comfort. They were fantastic. An excellent choice. Luckily it didn’t rain, and I avoided patchy puddles here and there.
   After my safe return, to a toasty house, I inspected my shoes. They had served their purpose, just barely, and promptly expired. If I wore them again in the rain, I’d soon know it – thicker socks or not.
   They’d cracked in the usual places with wear and tear, and an unavoidable puddle would pour through the floodgates to defenceless socks. I shudder to think of the horror.
   On my travels I saw no one in a mask. That’s standard. Anyone in a mask these days is pretending to wear a mask for reasons of Covid while secretly preparing to rob a petrol station.
   There weren’t many people on the streets or on the bus. My appointment was on a Sunday. I could have altered that date on the website, but the website wasn’t offering alternative times before the year 2525. I was stuck with Sunday travel on Sunday buses. No big deal, I hoped.
   I saw a high number of carers and assistants out and about within the small number of people travelling. Sunday seemed to suit them just fine. I’d left the house with the heating on for a warm return, and the TV showing easy-going programmes. Nothing horrific, unless you counted cheese-soaked adverts.
   Returning is always on your mind before you travel out when you are a carer. Work back from your return and plan accordingly. I left in plenty of time. That wasn’t important. My very specific appointment was loose in reality. If you turn up early and there isn’t much of a queue, they will take you. And so it went.
   The hardest part was dealing with traffic. Good visibility. A reasonable crossing on the way back. If I mistimed it, I could see a bus leave without me if the cars went against the flow.
   What changed, over time? Precautions. I expected to go through the electronic doors and stop just inside the entrance to use liquid soap. And to put on a mask. Or I’d be asked to put on a mask. And there’d be quite a few people in uniform there.
   None of that this time around. I was in through the second set of double doors before I met someone. In uniform, yes. But the only person on the job. No one at the desk. And no one milling around looking for strays.
   There was nowhere to stray to. Through there. Okay. Should I wear a mask? That was at my discretion. Were the people still at their desks, waiting to take details? Yes, they were. Were they behind sturdy protective screens? No longer. Only the bus drivers had armoured panels – and those barriers were built into the buses long ago.
   Was I asked to show my appointment letter? No. I didn’t receive such a letter. I didn’t even get a text. My appointment was by e-mail, as I am still on a high priority list somewhere. It’s not a terror list. I just had to announce a few details, that’s all. Then I was through the system.
   I spotted liquid soap on offer, but the offer to use this wasn’t made. How much risk was I at, in using the liquid soap? I would, after all, have to touch the dispenser to acquire some soap. Having arrived in gloves, and having used liquid soap before I left, I felt I was on fairly safe ground.
   Then it was around to the queue, which wasn’t much of a queue. There were no handy signs showing the way. Everyone was used to the routine, by now. While waiting, I removed my coat. It took a while, back at HQ, to uncover the drawer with the T-shirts in it. I must have moved everything around, but don’t ask me when. These jumpers are clearly not T-shirts, and won’t serve me well on my quest today.
   Short sleeves to make the injection easier. A T-shirt fits the bill. I was waved across, into the hive of some activity. Easy-going, this beehive, on a Sunday. I was still thanked for turning up and taking the booster. All the usual answers were given before I could ask the questions. They covered the whole situation comprehensively.
   Then I was left to the business of the injection. For the umpteenth time, I was asked where I was from. I am from here. But, according to assorted people, I don’t sound as if I am from here. And I don’t mean the usual variation from town to town that does exist.
   You can tell, with a bit of effort, which of the local towns a person might be from. Familiarity. Good guesswork. No, not that. Absolutely none of that. In order, the priority goes to Americans, English people, and a few deranged Scots who wonder if I might be Irish. Americans go for that first. Scots with head injuries ask last.
   Though I was in the building by appointment, I had to be asked about vaccination details all over again. Just confirming why I was there to receive the booster. To protect someone else in my care.
   The injection goes without a fuss and there are no effects later. I have to sit in the usual room, waiting for five minutes to see if I grow a second head or a tenth leg. Drivers wait five minutes.
   I endure the wait and then leave under cover of a whole load of people who had their injections on the same day as me. There’s no thrilling race to the bus stop. I briskly move myself into position to see the road. From there, I’ll calculate the odds on whether I must run the last little stretch or not.
   No sign of a bus at the stop or looming in the middle distance. I can rest easy. The traffic clears and I stroll over. A glance at the timetable tells me I must have just missed the previous bus.
   Now I am staring around, looking at everything. A silhouette moves in the darkened room of a house opposite. Then a man goes right by with a bright yellow bag on his back, racing to catch up with someone. He’s on that side of the road, using up all the day’s Lazy Sunday energy in might bursts.
   Nearer the time for the approaching bus, the man with the yellow bag returns at a gallop – on this side of the road, now. He slows when he sees a small crowd at the bus stop. The bus motors up behind him. We all softly collide in space and time. I board the bus and wave my return ticket like it’s a passport. Guess it is.
   No masks on the way back. It’s a mild day. Breeze picks up a little. The heating is on low, but I come back to a wall of warmth. All is well inside the house. I grab a coffee. That’s that, until the next booster.
   How hard was it? Sunday journeys fill a traveller with dread. Though the buses appear by magic rather than by timetable, there are fewer people on the streets. All busy doing other things indoors. Less chance of catching anything from them.
   My best worst estimate is that I spoke to something like fifteen people. As far as I can tell, not one of them passed Covid to me. But then, you never know for sure. The following day my arm was sore from sleeping on the injection site. Not my plan – but sleep follows its own rules.
   Looking back on the years 2020 to 2023, you wonder about who was following what rules and when. In 2020, the long year that never happened, the main rule we had to follow was: buy one pack of toilet roll at a time.