One of my worst qualities is my minor-illness machismo. I feel a swell of pride when I soldier on through a cold, a sprain, or a stomach bug. Much of this is presenteeism. But secretly, I get a kick out of [apply US action-film voice] “getting the job done”.
As a kid, I thrived on being praised for my hardiness in the face of scrapes and stupidity (I used to eat raw meat as a snack, popping uncooked balls of marinating spiced lamb into my mouth). Somehow, I was never sick.
I wrongly believed that if only more people did as I did (ie, act like a feral wolf child) they might be allergy-free and hardy, too, as though bodies aren’t vastly different from each other.
I’ve been thinking about this because I write from self-isolation. I travelled through Hong Kong on my way home from holiday and 10 days later developed a cough. I tell myself it’s the result of jet lag and that pissed-up karaoke session, screeching Adele songs. But I can’t be sure.
If there wasn’t a chance this was Covid-19, I’d be back at work, powering through. It would not cross my mind that what is a minor ailment to me might be major if someone else caught it; or how that person might not be able to work from home, as I can, where the only obstacle is the grim game of charades played with a confused Deliveroo driver through the window: me, pointing at my mask; a muffled voice shouting, “Leave it on the step!”
Neither would I think about how my actions don’t exist in a vacuum; how they contribute to a standard where we never rest when we need to. So I’ve finally learned the errors of my ways. Soldiering on at work is not always a virtue. It only took a global pandemic to convince me.
