Lost my job.
My wife got the virus.
A day into her isolation, I went over on my ankle and caused an avulsion fracture (like a sprain, sort of, but the ligament wrenches off a fragment of bone) because I’ve bust it a couple of times and it’s now riddled with arthritis.
We were midway through a massive remodelling of our garden, with literally tonnes of soil and gravel to move.
She came to her door to see me once I’d crawled back into the house, and sat down because she was too weak to stand. Her eyes rolled back in her head, she passed out, hit her head, threw up on the carpet and pissed herself.
We have a 7 year old and a 9 year old, who were right there.
While I was still hobbling around like James Caan in Misery, she turned 40, on a pull-out bed in the study. We’d originally planned a trip away in our van, and a week away on a rented boat. She made it as far as the garden, planted a row of peas then slumped against the shed, exhausted. After a small bite to eat, she went back to bed for three hours to recover.
Next day I was kneeling over her asthmatically gasping, unresponsive body, maintaining an airway and counting her breaths aloud while I waited for the paramedics.
She’s out of those woods, but has a secondary infection now threatening pneumonia, and is in constant pain.
Our fridge stopped working. We dismantled it yesterday to work out the problem - the problem being that its internals are rusted to fuck thanks to stupid fucking design, and we need a new fridge. She wasn’t desperately happy about having to spend hours scrabbling about inside a ruined fridge, and today couldn’t really even walk, she was so fatigued by her efforts.
April can, in a very real sense, go fuck itself.