As our pandemic response has moved from elimination to an acceptance of community spread, aged care facilities around the country have closed their doors to visitors. What does that mean for residents and their whānau? 

For most of my life, my grandma lived by herself in a little 1970s bungalow in East Auckland. My brother and I had near complete free-range in her house when we’d visit as kids. While rummaging around her bedroom for dress-up additions, I’d often open the top drawer of her bedroom chest to a clatter of glass nail varnish bottles. Opalescent taupes, metallic baby pinks, sheer mauves, a wine stain-looking red, Sally Hansen insta-dri top coat. 

Sometimes my grandma would treat herself to a professional salon manicure, other times she’d do a DIY job – occasionally, but not nearly enough, I’d paint her nails. The word manicure originates from the Latin words manus, meaning hand, and cura, which means care.

In 2019, my grandma had a stroke. Within a few weeks she went from being fiercely active and social to living in a rest home with around-the-clock care. She lost a massive amount of her vision, mobility and cognitive skills. 

Since then, the norm is that I visit her every weekend. On our dates we giggle at the conversations between strangers and neighbours that echo down the corridor and I give her a roundup of my cat’s escapades from that week. Sometimes we taste-test Korean sodas and often, the two of us concoct schemes for her to “escape this place”. 

Most importantly, while we chat, I paint her nails. I swipe off last week’s nail polish remnants with remover and we replace it with a new look for the week. New Zealand’s elimination strategy during the pandemic meant that I’ve been able to safely visit my grandma for the majority of the last three years. And as a result, her nails have continued to look pretty sleek.

A Kardashian-esque muted pink I bought as a present when she was in hospital is my grandma’s staple nail polish these days. We break it up every now and then with a hot pink, a washed-out yellow, one time an experimental attempt at polka dots, and on our last visit we ended our weekly date with matching sparkling purple manicures. 

It’s now been more than a month since I last saw my grandma. Despite most of the country opening up – to the relief of many, the spread of omicron has meant that her rest home has essentially locked down indefinitely, with some staff and residents testing positive over the last three weeks. 

I’m thankful that her home has closed its doors to visitors, but at the same time, I’m heartbroken.

We’ve watched over the last few months as omicron has torn across states in Australia. Notably, their outbreak has had a massive impact on rest homes. In January alone, 499 people living in aged care died from Covid, and 30,000 staff and residents were reported to have been infected since the first cases of the variant in November last year. They’re frightening numbers that have been persistent all around the world.

Putting a pause on visitors means that my grandma is far better protected from the virus, which is without a doubt the most important outcome. But the reality of the new Covid-19 situation also means that she’s far more alone, and till when? 

Since the beginning of the pandemic, on each visit, I’ve explained afresh to my grandma why I’m wearing a mask, why I’m keeping my distance, why we’re not allowed to hug, why I haven’t been able to visit as much – that there’s this virus circling around outside that we really don’t want to catch. Each time, my grandma’s eyes widen and her face fills up with a kind of bemused horror.

While some residents in her rest home might understand the pandemic situation and therefore understand why their friends and family haven’t been in to visit, plenty more, like my grandma, have little to no cognizance of it. 

After two months of not being able to visit my grandma during the delta outbreak last year, my dad and I dropped in for an outdoor and distanced visit. My grandma in her wheelchair on one side of the black fence bars and us on the other. The sun was too hot and she could barely make out our voices among the others lined up across the fence to visit other residents.

Worse still, was how disengaged my grandma seemed compared to our usual visits. The dry jokes from my dad that would usually generate a giggle, or at least rolled eyes, flew by without any sign of recognition. We asked her questions that were answered only by blank stares. I wasn’t even sure if she recognised who we were that day. 

The nurses that look after my grandma are kind, excellent at their jobs and relatively well-resourced, so I know that despite there being huge variation in the quality of aged care in Aotearoa, she’s well looked after. She’ll be engaging with staff and her resident mates daily – so she’s not technically alone. But that day underscored just how important those regular, quiet visits were for my grandma both cognitively and mentally. 

Our new response plan means more freedom to travel, dine out and socialise, at least for most of us. But it comes at the expense of others’ freedoms. In the case of those in aged care, they’re at heightened risk of severe illness from the virus and therefore, in the necessary attempt to protect them, are more likely to be without the company of loved ones for prolonged periods of time. 

I used to do my grandma’s nails every week. Early in the pandemic when restrictions were introduced, her manicures, worn down and made janky by the lengths of time that I couldn’t visit, were a tiny sacrifice for a greater good. Now, her sparkly purple varnish will likely be chipped off, and I have absolutely no idea when I’ll be able to sort them out.