Hurrah! I am going to have an antibodies test. This year has been short of reasons to skippety-skip with joy, and I’m not quite in the mood to polka across the kitchen at this news, but still it is welcome.
Husband Larry has been offered a test via work, but he’s actually already had one so I can have it instead. If you’ve had Covid-19 and retain high antibodies, your plasma could help other people. As a regular blood donor, he was contacted to ask if he would be tested. This revealed that he does have antibodies, but not enough for his plasma to be valuable. So — he’s a mensch, his roast potatoes are second to none, but if you’re looking for top-notch plasma, toddle off and look elsewhere.
The test comes in a box with instructions and a stab-yourself kit to collect a small tube of blood. Larry empties the box and puts it in recycling.
Me: “Won’t we need that to send the test back?”
Him: “No – there’s a plastic bag here for it.” The bag is printed with the lab address but clearly won’t protect a tube of blood. The test kit comes in a hinged plastic tray with shaped indentations like in a chocolate selection box. Only instead of chocolate buttons, Crunchie etc, there are three mini pop-out lancets, a tube for the blood, 2x alcohol wipes, 2x cleansing wipes and 2x those useless small circular plasters that always fall off. The instructions involve many steps, as if we are having to construct Tower Bridge out of Lego. Larry is almost allergic to reading instructions.
‘We both need to read the instructions,” I say firmly “All of them.”
“Yes,” he says. “What’s this wipe for?”
“It probably says,” I point out, “in the instructions.”
I scan them in case it says anything about the box. Yes! We do need it. He retrieves it from the recycling and hands it over. It has a large label: “Please retain this box for returning your test.”
I wash my hands. Larry says I’m not doing it for long enough. I point out it’s not for corona reasons, just to have clean hands before I am stabbed.
I then read the instructions more carefully and discover that the water for the hand-washing should be very hot as it will help with blood flow. Blood flow? How much do they need?
“Maybe I should do it?” I say, now nervous at the thought of husband getting carried away with the lancet to get good blood flow.
“No, no — better if I do it.” There is a gleam in his eye. Is he wanting revenge because I score more points when we shout out the answers to University Challenge?
To activate the lancet, you press it firmly against the fingertip. It doesn’t hurt that much — it’s the suddenness that is most disconcerting. I dab away the first drop with a clean tissue, then try to “milk” my finger of blood, as instructed, massaging downwards with my finger held over the tiny tube.
“Milk it,” Larry commands, as if he’s my coach at the Annual Most-Productive Milkmaid Contest. “Milk it!” It is near impossible to milk my finger while keeping it steady enough to direct each drop into the tube. I spill a drop on the worktop.
“You’re wasting it! Keep still!”
I spill another drop and ineptly try to wipe it up with a tissue, smearing blood across the counter. Already the worktop looks like a crime scene. How does anyone dispose of a body if a couple of drops of blood create so much mess?
The next day, Dr X calls and tells Larry the result, as I am out on my walk. Yes, I have antibodies, but the test doesn’t tell you the level. Still, could I donate plasma? I check online and input my gender, height and weight. But no, I don’t have enough blood so can’t donate. Who knew? Great — yet another thing at which I’m wholly inadequate.
Two days later I get an email from the doctor’s secretary “confirming” my result: “SARS-CoV-2 Total Ab NEGATIVE.”
What?
According to this, I have no antibodies — the opposite of what Larry was told. True, he often doesn’t listen properly, but surely even he can hardly have confused “negative” with “positive”?
I query it, then Dr X phones — to apologise. He had multiple results coming in at once so got mine mixed up. I have no antibodies. So now I am even more nervous than I was before the test. I’d assumed I must have some antibodies. Now I feel so vulnerable. In the bakery, when a man reaches past me closely for a bag of mini-bagels, I feel as if I’ve been assaulted. I imagine gangs of coronavirus droplets like muggers, hanging out on street corners, waiting for me. Surely I am owed antibodies by right because I was told I had them, so dared to relax slightly? If anyone has antibodies going spare, feel free to send me some. And please include instructions.
Claire Calman’s latest novel, Growing Up for Beginners, is out now.
