For my mum’s last birthday, my brother and I got a train out of London to surprise her at a restaurant local to her house.
On the usually packed rush-hour train, the carriage was eerily empty. We joked about a zombie apocalypse. As we walked from the station, the streets that housed so many of our childhood memories were still and quiet.
Then, when we arrived at the usually bustling restaurant, we found that we were the only people eating that night. It was surreal.
During dinner, we anxiously discussed the rapidly changing coronavirus situation, which had gone from feeling distant and remote to pressing and urgent in the two weeks since we’d last seen one another.
When we said goodnight, I hugged my mum as usual and gave her a kiss on the cheek, thinking nothing of it. What I didn’t know at the time, was that this seemingly innocuous embrace at the end of the evening would be the last time I touched anyone for three months.
As we get ready to celebrate her next birthday later this week on Zoom, this also marks one whole year since I last hugged my mum.
I’ve thought back to that moment a few times in the past year, as a marker for when everything changed. On the train home, my brother and I decided we should probably avoid seeing our mum for a while, to protect her from the threat of something that at that point, relatively few of us had really understood.
A week or so later, Boris beamed into our living rooms to announce the first national lockdown. I remember the rabid anxiety provoked by all of the unpredictability of the virus, the sweaty panic and the rolling news stories delivering more and more bad news. Hugging anyone at that point was the last thing on my mind.
At the time, I was only considering the lockdown as a temporary measure that would last a month or two at most; never in a million years did I imagine that one year on, we’d still be living under tight government restrictions, or that something as simple as a hug would be outlawed.
For some the past year has been characterised by inertia, intense boredom and stillness. For others it’s been profoundly lonely. For others it’s been the busiest year of their lives, either because they work on the frontline, because of the fact that widespread cuts to jobs have increased their workload, or because they’re trying to juggle the competing demands of work and homeschooling.
For a chunk of the population, the year has been underscored by the nigh-on impossible task of trying to find work in a pandemic. For many, it’s been a year replete with grief and loss.
But for all of us it’s been a year where the loss of human connection has been keenly felt. This is perhaps the only thing that draws together our diverse experiences of the pandemic.
As we approach the one-year anniversary of when the UK’s first lockdown began, I’ve been reflecting on all the adjustments (big and small) we’ve all been forced to make. When you consider the scale of change we’ve all bore witness to since the beginning of the pandemic, the resilience we have shown and ability to adapt when faced with adversity is tremendous.
We’ve found lockdown-friendly solutions for all manner of issues. We get food delivered, celebrate birthdays on Zoom and exercise in our living rooms. Last year we collectively did enough at-home pub quizzes to put us off for a lifetime.
When my parents were vaccinated recently, I exhaled properly, I think, for the first time since last March
All evidence points towards the fact that despite how scared we all were last March, we have adjusted well in many respects to this new normal.
And yet, despite all of the innovation that the pandemic has instigated — we’re yet to find an adequate replacement for something as simple as human touch or togetherness.
Individual circumstances notwithstanding, we’ve all spent less time with other humans over the past year. That means fewer handshakes and pats on the back. Fewer hugs. Fewer shared laughs. Fewer moments of connection.
In my case, it’s a loss I have felt at times deeply — excruciatingly. Alone in the first lockdown, I didn’t touch anyone for over 100 days, and it changed me.
Although I’ve always been a hugger, I’d never understood until that point just how important physical touch was to my mental wellbeing. How much I needed it.
At the time I was single and writing a lot about the impact of the lockdown-imposed sex ban on singles. But when it came down to it, after meeting my now partner, it was actually the hugs I craved the most.
But for all that we’ve adapted over the past year, the loss of something as simple as a hug between a mother and child feels one step too far.
And despite the blur of days that sit between today and when I last saw my mum, it’s something I simply cannot get used to. And nor do I want to.
I know I’m one of the lucky ones — many people won’t get the chance to embrace their loved ones again once we are allowed to do so. For those people, the last hug they had with a parent will forever be their last. I can’t even comprehend how awful that must feel, and I have nothing but empathy for them.
When my parents were vaccinated recently, I exhaled properly, I think, for the first time since last March. I’d become so used to worrying about their wellbeing that I had stopped noticing the fear. I’d made myself numb to it.
And their newly vaccinated status allowed me to let go of the notion that I might be harmful to them, or that my presence might cause them to be hurt, or worse, die.
At times I’ve wondered if the year we’ve all spent apart will translate in a hesitancy to be tactile with one another. Will we become really awkward and unsure? But then I think about my nieces and nephews who — upon returning to school after months away — were quick to draw one another in for cuddles.
As we begin to grapple with the idea of looking back on the pandemic rather than looking directly at it, it’s the hugs I look forward to most. I imagine myself snuggling up to my best friend with a cup of tea or scooping the kids in my life up for a long embrace that they try their best to wriggle their way out of.
And despite the fact my mum is not known to be the hugger of the family, I’m sure that after a year without it, she’ll be similarly excited to get back to it.
Sometimes I wonder whether my older brother, who is famously contact-resistant, might let me hug him — but then I remember that although a lot might have changed over the past year, he is still the same awkward person he ever was.
It’s hard to process the scale of the change, and just how different life is now to what it once was, while our only evidence comes via headlines and photos on a screen. I think we’ll only truly be able to gauge the full measure of what has been lost over the past year once a semblance of real life resumes.
But we’ve gained some things too. I know, for instance, that I have a renewed gratitude for the small human interactions that used to punctuate my days and how absentmindedly I’d touch a friend’s arm or kiss them on the cheek when I say goodbye.
One thing I am absolutely certain of is that I’ll never take a hug for granted again.
Do you have a story you’d like to share? Get in touch by emailing jess.austin@metro.co.uk.
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source https://metro.co.uk/2021/03/09/ill-never-take-a-hug-for-granted-again-14214151/
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