This Coronavirus (Covid-19) is getting a grip of everyone. It looks like we’re in for a long haul, and a very messy one. Few of us trust the government’s strategy, which is at total odds with what the rest of the world are doing (except for the USA, and President Trump is an even bigger moron that Boris Johnson). The strategy may protect the over-70s for a bit, meanwhile it will rip through the rest of the population. Then the over-70s will succumb as soon as the restrictions come off, creating a second (and third etc.) wave before we’re near to having any treatment or vaccination options – don’t expect those within a year. Anyway it is now much too late; the genii is out of the bottle and in my estimation has been since probably mid-December (because the first case is now thought to have been in mid-November, but not recognised for what it was). So we needed to impose draconian social distancing measures very early, like back at New Year, if we really were to nip this in the bud.

I’ve already cancelled one of our doctor’s patient group events for this week, and my meeting the same morning with the Practice Manager. More will doubtless follow over the next few days. Others organising events I’m involved with as far ahead as mid-May are discussing cancelling them too.

Unfortunately I’m also minded to cancel my fortnightly massage sessions: not only because it’s a risk to me but also because my masseuse is newly pregnant and others working in the same practice are at significantly high risk. That makes me really sad as I enjoy the massage sessions and the chat, and it does help keep my back going. But we need to consider others in this as well as ourselves.

Amongst all this I’m really frightened and depressed. I’m almost 70 and with diabetes, obesity and sleep apnoea so I’m in a high risk category for serious complications if I do get Covid-19. And if I do I fear that it will kill me – either because my immune system is too compromised or because the hospitals won’t be able to cope and I’ll be a low priority for treatment.

I know the chances of me succumbing to this are relatively small, but that doesn’t make it any less frightening. So I feel my best hope is not to get this and be around long enough for either a good treatment or a vaccine.

But then I’m worried too that Noreen will fall ill. She’s not far behind me in age and she does have a long-term hereditary condition, although that doesn’t seem to affect either her immune system or lungs. Indeed her immune system, hitherto, has been so good it keeps many things under: she’s a Typhoid Mary. If Noreen does fall off her perch before me I know I shall be absolutely sunk: not because I can’t do what has to be done (although that may not be easy) but mentally; the depression will be completely overwhelming. Equally I know Noreen will struggle without me.

But what can we do? Both of us being risk averse as we are we’re inclined to behave as if we’re over 70, and self-isolate as much as we possibly can. Luckily we can (for now, at least) get grocery deliveries – not ideal but OK – and we have the reserves we built up against Brexit to help.

Even before all this I was beginning to feel my mortality and realising that I likely have only a few more years. The thought of not being here leaves me feeling deeply sad and almost terminally helpless. I’m starting to understand how, in his last years, my father just gave up the will to keep going.