Last week, my parents had their first dose of the Covid-19 vaccine. I cried. Ten months since the virus engulfed us, I was hopeful that there was a way out of this dystopia. My parents are still due to have the critical second dose in the new year.
I don’t know if their immune response will be strong enough to create the needed antibodies but just the thought that my children, both aged under ten, might once again be able to hug their grandparents made me sob. I think my parents love my five year old more than they love me. I don’t blame them.
I visit my parents twice a day to care for them. Their physical needs – food shopping, helping them eat, doing their chores and helping with personal care are important. But shielding them has meant that I have become almost their whole world both socially and emotionally and therefore vital to their mental health. The likelihood that when vaccinated, my parents could receive visitors and step outside again – especially if their communities and beloved mosque open up – means that human interaction can fill their lives once more.
With elderly parents and young children to care for, I am what is called the 'sandwich generation'. This has not been easy and nor am I alone in juggling both sets of responsibilities. Every household and family has been facing its own struggles and sorrows. It is only human that we acknowledge the toll it has taken on all of us.
People have different thoughts about the vaccine and I respect disparate views. After all, this is a big decision. Some people are eager to be first in line. Others are refusing for reasons ranging from allergies to anti-vax positions or scepticism about the motives of big pharmaceutical companies. My own position is a mix of anxiety and hope.
It is natural to be concerned about something injected into your body. But then I also reflect on vaccinations like polio that have worked miracles in our lifetime.
In the 1940s and 1950s, polio paralysed over half a million people worldwide every year. It is a horrid disease which leaves severe lifelong disabilities. But the world has mostly forgotten its trauma and destruction since the first vaccination was introduced in 1952, followed by the oral vaccine in 1961.
This summer, the World Health Organisation announced that polio had been eradicated in all countries except for Pakistan and Afghanistan. This is extraordinary.
My great uncle suffered a polio-related disability his whole life, having contracted it before the vaccine was available. An aquaintance younger than me suffers from polio because vaccines weren’t available until too late where he grew up. Without the vaccination, that could have been me, or any of us.
Whatever hope the Covid-19 vaccine offers, there is still the darkness of the UK winter to get through. The vaccination is not an immediate panacea. Like most things this year, it requires patience.
Meanwhile, here in the UK, we have returned to a lockdown in all but name. The country is being called 'Plague Island', which feels uncomfortable. Because of the shorter winter days, it is dark a lot of the time. And then we look at the rest of the world and see that other countries are returning to what looks like normal.
Even for those of us who don’t celebrate Christmas, the mood is sobering. Plans have been disrupted due to the new strain of the virus and people have to cancel their Christmas celebrations.
It is tough to see the heartbreak of friends, the dashed hopes of colleagues and a whole nation.
Most people I know were going to be cautious anyway, but they say it is not the despair that breaks you, it is the hope.
So many people, including me, have felt uplifted this year, finding joy in the festivals of others and in connecting with each other digitally, through video calls. I am doing my bit to add to the community cheer by cooking my first ever (halal) turkey this year.
So many festivals in 2020, including Easter, Ramadan, Eid, Vaisakhi, Eid Al Adha, Rosh Hashanah, Diwali, Hanukkah, and now Christmas have been constrained. But while being physically apart, these occasions seem to have also brought people together, across backgrounds and beliefs. And that is a silver lining. At the end of a difficult year, and whatever the challenges ahead, finding joy in each other is surely also a cause for celebration.
Shelina Janmohamed is an author and a culture columnist for The National
