Fergus Finlay: To all the happy, peaceful, safe and healthy Christmases that lie ahead

Three of us have lived in this house since the start of the pandemic. All of us are double vaccinated and boosted. We’ve been scrupulously careful, followed all the rules. We wear masks everywhere — but Covid has landed anyway

Queues at Cork City Hall for one of the walk-in Covid-19 vaccination clinics. We should be proud of how Ireland has coped, rather than always finding fault. Picture: Larry Cummins

Covid-19 has landed in our house. We got tested as close contacts though without any symptoms whatever, and there it was. We don’t know where it came from or what variant it is. It’s just here. Dammit to hell and back.

Three of us have lived in this house since the start of the pandemic. All of us are double vaccinated and boosted. We’ve been scrupulously careful, followed all the rules. We wear masks everywhere.

I have been particularly proud of Mandy, who has Down syndrome — and of Ann and Dessie and Ronan and Mary and Gráinne and all her other friends who have an intellectual disability too — who have adapted so well to the requirements of public health. 

(I often think they could give lessons in wisdom to a certain sort that knows it knows better than the experts.) However, despite all our efforts as a family, nobody, it seems, told the virus that we were untouchable.

A week ago, two of us tested negative, then one tested positive, then two of us got tested again and we’re waiting for the results of the second test. So far, and fingers crossed, the vaccines and the booster appear to be working, and symptoms are being kept at bay. I keep telling myself we’re lucky that this happened now, and not this time last year.

The queue on Sunday outside the vaccination centre at City Hall, Cork. Picture: Denis Minihane

Of course, nobody knows if it will stay that way. But I must report that the system has worked impeccably so far. The media is full of stories about delays and wrong decisions and queues and long waiting times and why hasn’t everyone been boosted already. However, none of that, let me tell you, corresponds with our direct experience as a family.

Within an hour of the positive test, a contract tracer (her name was Pauline, completely charming and efficient) was on the phone, telling our Covid positive family member what to do. An hour later, tests had been arranged for the two of us who were negative, and for two neighbours with whom we had been in brief contact (both their results came back negative, thank goodness).

There have been queues at the testing centres, for sure, and I’ve seen one or two really grumpy people complaining about having to wait (around 20 minutes, in my experience) but the staff have been gracious and thoroughly competent. Everything has moved along as quickly as possible.

In general terms I think we should be proud of how Ireland has coped, rather than always finding fault. 

The public servants who constitute Nphet — and public servants is what they are — have worked only in the interests of the wider public, nothing else. 

The politicians who have had to make unpalatable and unpopular decisions have conducted themselves with honesty and integrity throughout. (Maybe not so much the politicians whose every knee-jerk response has been targeted at the lowest common denominator.) And at the frontline, whether at senior management level or dealing face to face with patients and the public, the response of our national health system has been phenomenal. 

A mixture of good judgement, hands-on leadership, and sheer hard graft and commitment has rescued Ireland from what would have been a much worse disaster.

It's impossible to get everything right.

Sure, nobody got everything right, but I’m convinced that if a history of this global pandemic is ever written, Ireland will be one of the countries that emerges with credit — its public servants, its political leaders, its health system and above all its people.

However, if I’m being honest, I’m not finding any of that much of a consolation right now. At this time of year, and I’ve done it for many years, I take a big red suit, with its wig and great white beard, out of its careful wrappings and get it ready for some critically important outings. 

It’s a job I love doing, and it gives me an opportunity to meet kids being kids.

This afternoon I should have been in a place, and meeting a bunch of kids, who mean a lot to me. It had all been carefully arranged to manage social distancing without depriving the kids of an encounter they were looking forward to. 

I should have been finding out what they’re hoping for from Santa, how many mince pies they’re going to leave out for the fat old guy, and how his reindeer will be stocked up for the journey home.

Because of our Covid attack, I’ve had to let them down and it’s killing me. I know they’ll find someone to fill in, but he or she won’t be as good as me. (Because if they’re better, I mightn’t be asked back!)

However, there’s also a Christmas tree in our house. The ground underneath it is packed with presents for the best grandkids anyone could choose. We’re going to have to postpone all that until heaven knows when. The worst possible thing that could happen is that this bloody virus would move from our house to any of theirs.

Christmas is a time for giving, not sitting alone in a bedroom.

Right now, all I can see is that one of us is going to spend Christmas day in a bedroom, lonely and alone. Two of us will be missing the third madly, even though we’re only separated by a single door. All of us will be hoping against hope that the vaccines continue to do their job and that symptoms don’t develop.

And thousands more families throughout Ireland will be affected in the same way. This above all is the time of year when separation is the hardest. For some, the loss of a family member to Covid will cast a shadow over what ought to be a time of joy and celebration. For others, happiness will be tinged with fear and anxiety at the thought of a loved one struggling with illness.

The thing we all have to cope with is that this virus doesn’t care. It’s often talked about as if it was thinking and strategising — how often do you see references to it as intelligent? — but it does none of those things. 

It doesn’t have a brain or a heart. It’s like a piece of never-ending airborne slime, attacking wherever it lands. 

Without meaning to or wanting to, we pass it around, and then it does what slime does, creeping and crawling and leaving an ugly mess in its wake.

We’ve taken care and avoided it for two years. Now it’s in us and among us. We have no choice but to redouble our efforts. We don’t know what’s going to happen next, but we do know that despite our bad luck now, luck is still on our side.

Or if not luck, vaccines. And a health system that is still working. And public policy measures that are trying as hard as they can to keep a protective arm around us. Things could be a lot worse.

I’m certain we’ll get through the next little while as a family. And I’m just as certain we’ll get through it as a country. This Christmas is going to be a bit miserable, for sure. But hey. What I really want to wish you is all the happy, peaceful, safe and healthy Christmases that lie ahead.