I am spent. I don’t ever want to relive the past week and don’t wish it upon my worst enemy. Last Wednesday, my 81-year-old mum started feeling lousy. I took her temperature three times. There must have been a problem with the reading. Being on deadline, I scheduled a Covid test for the next day. On Friday morning, I couldn’t believe the results. How? When? Can’t be. On Monday morning, she was getting worse.

Her doctor practises from a shopping mall in Umhlanga. No reply. Within the next hour, I get a notification that the mall has been closed due to security concerns. KZN is ablaze! After a few phone calls, I am directed to Sunningdale Medical Centre. The most caring, compassionate doctor spends a lot of time doing tests, bloods, ECG. She tells me to stand by, my mum may have to be admitted. After a few hours, I get a call to say she has heart failure, a critical shortage of sodium and some other things I can’t even remember. I need to get her to a specific hospital immediately. Now. On the way to the hospital, we see torched vehicles, branches, rocks and burning tyres on the highway. The billowing smoke hangs heavy in the air. The tension and fear are palpable. It is terrifying but we have no choice.

At a police roadblock, a policeman makes us turn around. “It’s an extremely volatile situation,” he warns, almost annoyed. With our hearts pounding, we turn back and take a safer route. When we get to Mount Edgecombe Hospital, a worried guard at the gate tells us to park on the other side of the booms. Just in case. He and the others are anxious. My patient is weak and bewildered. The unfolding scenes of mayhem do nothing for her ever-rising blood pressure. She is pale and frightened. So vulnerable. After what seems like a lifetime, someone comes to us and suggests we go to another hospital. They’re inundated with trauma cases, they say. Critical gunshot wounds. We may have to wait another few hours. Maybe they can’t help us at all.

We retrace our steps to another hospital. They take my mum in. And we wait. Long enough to see terrified personnel arranging how they would get home safely. The anxiety is palpable. After what seems like an eternity, a porter wheels my mum out in a wheelchair. The trauma doctor says there’s nothing wrong with her. Really? Are you kidding? Did they even look at the lab reports? I want to fight. So bad. But what’s the use? Another long wait? More uncertainty? Grudgingly, we drive back home – to mitigating blood pressure, erratic oxygen saturation, sodium deficiency and fluctuating temperatures. The next few days see us driving back and forth to the medical centre. Ups and downs. Each time, the doctor apologises profusely for the situation. The hospitals, pharmacies, filling stations and shops are all closed. I cannot even get chicken noodle soup or Rehidrat for my patient. I am exhausted. Maybe Covid fatigue.

Maybe just an insane workload that lasts around the clock. By Friday morning, I realise that my best efforts to boil the kettle and steam my patient are ineffectual, at best. Sleep is not a luxury afforded to any of us. The doctor tells us all the vitals point to significant patient distress, my mum’s oxygen saturation is 70; way below the danger indicator of 95, but the hospitals refuse to admit new patients. They are operating on skeleton staff and stretched to the max. The doctor searches desperately through her bag of tricks and decides to call the ambulance and drop my mum off at the hospital. Just like that. And I wait. All the shops are closed and the cafeteria in the hospital is locked and barred. With a raspy voice, I ask the triage sister for a glass of water. She obliges. I sense she is just as exhausted as the rest of us.

Weary and uninformed, I leave the hospital to tend to my partner, who is now also Covid positive and experiencing breathing issues. He needs me right now. I don’t know how I am feeling. There is a sense of relief that my mom now has access to the high care afforded by the hospital. Guilt that I have capitulated. At least tonight will be my best shot at a few hours of uninterrupted sleep. I don’t know what tomorrow holds. I am still frightened.

Why am I writing this? Because, on 8 April 2021, my mum sent the following message via WhatsApp: “Hi my lovies, I have just been handed a form to sign for permission to be given the Covid Vac by injection. I am going to decline. I want you to know and please give your blessing.” I am so sorry I never fought her. I should have insisted. It is quiet at home. I cannot see my mum. They took her overnight bag at the glass doors at the entrance and promised to update me regularly as her official next of kin. The phone remains infuriatingly silent.