Failure to co-calibrate

After a good long cry and five-mile run, Sandra could almost convince herself she would be okay. She took off her mask and switched off her Personal Proximity Perimeter as she entered the apartment. She slumped onto the couch, ignoring her Mycrobiometer’s beepy insistence that she ought to shower first, get her body disinfected. She gazed at the spot where Julia’s Mycrobiometer used to sit, imagining she could see its outline in dust. But she knew that was impossible. Julia had never let dust settle in the apartment. Sandra’s own Mycrobiometer looked lonely, although she could see by its flashing rainbow of LEDs that it had plenty to tell her about her current Relative Risk and the health updates her body needed this week. She forced herself to look away.

She muted the Mycrobiometer. All was quiet. With Julia gone, she wouldn’t have to endure incessant health radio chatter. The war against extremely-antibiotic-resistant bacteria (XARB) needn’t be loud as well as ubiquitous. Sandra went into the kitchen nook to make herself coffee, taking a steadying breath as she waited for the grounds to brew. She opened the fridge and saw Julia’s assortment of soy and nut milks.

“Screw it.” She slammed the fridge shut and reached up to the highest shelf of the pantry cupboard, bringing down a UHT carton of full-cream milk. I don’t have to be vegan anymore, she thought. She’d need to recalibrate her Mycrobiometer to reflect the change, but there was something delightfully risky about consuming animal products. The debate about whether dairy affected XARB infection was ongoing. Did it promote beneficial Lactobacillus species, competitors for XARB? Or could metabolised milk products weaken immune responsiveness? Which science could she trust? Sandra knew the risks. Thanks to Julia, she knew all the risks. She gave the carton a hearty shake and opened it.

The scent was at once familiar. She could have proper clotted cream scones and homemade condensed milk fudge again. It was cold comfort, but comfort nonetheless. The breakup required a recalibration of her Mycrobiometer anyway: no longer would Julia’s microbiome stats inform Sandra’s own daily dosage of probiotics. No longer would Julia’s ten-person list of physical contacts inform Sandra’s prophylactic immunotherapy regime. She might as well add dairy into the equation. Her relative risk assessments would change now, probably for the worse. That was why Julia had left her after all. Too risky to live with a woman who went outdoors for a run instead of treadmilling like a sane person. There’d be paperwork to complete. “Failure to co-calibrate risk” was a common reason for breakup. It should be quick to process. Sandra poured her milk and lifted the cup.

Her eyes stung as she relived the Conversation, a week earlier.

“Julia, did you hear the news? One whole year without a new XARB infection! The new phage therapy is working!”

Julia shook her head, “Too soon. The bacteria could still be out there, mutating enough to acquire phage resistance and one day re-infect a human host.”

“But it’s different now – this isn’t an antibiotic, it’s a virus killing the bacteria. It’ll adapt with the bacteria.”

“Don’t patronise me, Sandra. One XARB-free year doesn’t justify your excitement. This war began over forty years ago, after Covid-19 and the Influenza pandemics of 2030 and ’32. Bacterial pneumonia as a secondary complication was rampant and antibacterials overused, leading to the emergence of airborne XARB. We threw everything at it, but somehow no antibiotic or vaccine worked against every strain, so it always managed to survive, managed to infect more people. Tens of millions died.”

Sandra interrupted her. “And then we retreated to hermetically-sealed, little lives, constantly waging war with an ever-changing microbial enemy, who could be lurking in the lungs of anyone we meet. I know. Once again, you’ve turned a conversation into a lecture, Julia.”

“Don’t make me the bad guy here, Sandra. We keep having this conversation because you’re the one who’s risking us. You haven’t turned on your Personal Proximity Perimeter alerts when you go outside lately. What if you shared air with a stranger?”

“I have my mask on,” Sandra pointed out, “besides, everyone’s so cautious these days that it’s unlikely anything-“

Julia cut her off, “I can’t believe you. My mother died of an aerosol XARB infection, and you’re blithely going outside for no reason. Do you know what a risk that is to me? You know my immune profile. It’s not a matter of lifestyle, Sandra. This is life or death. You’re too trusting. People are dangerous.”

“I know we’re not on the same page on risk, but why can’t it be enough if we’re on the same metaphorical chapter? We’ve spent our lives hiding. You’re looking for certainty. I’m just looking for a life I can enjoy living.”

Then Julia changed everything. “I was going to tell you… to ask you. I’ve requested a move. It’s to a Level Nine secure apartment. It has daily UV room rinses and everything, and I really would feel more comfortable there. I know you’re not… ready for that. I guess, I hoped…?”

“When?” Sandra managed to ask.

“Next week.”

“Oh.”

The heat of the coffee cup scalding her palm drew Sandra back to the present. She glanced at the twinkling twilight cityscape, towards the Level Nine neighbourhood, then she pulled out her phone to check her stats. Her risk status bar flashed amber. Still, her run outdoors had been worth it. Always, it was worth it.

Perhaps she was too trusting. Sandra had trusted Julia not to become more fastidious. Not to let her fears become dearer than their relationship. But people change; they evolve. Like bacteria. And now Sandra had to adapt to a Julia-free life.

She sipped her coffee. It tasted too rich, riskily luxuriant. She could imagine Julia’s disapproval. “Screw it,” she said again. The calculus of personalised health risk was complicated, but proper self-health required attention to emotional wellbeing. If she and Julia couldn’t trust each other, couldn’t co-calibrate, perhaps they were safer apart.