As a self-anointed lay expert in the spread of disease, I
adhered to every known CDC guideline, going so far as to make up a few of my
own. I avoided crowded places. I wore a mask everywhere I went, even while
driving alone, outdoors, and to bed. I
washed my hands raw. I only touched my
face with the inside of my own shirt or my elbows. I did my best to keep six feet from other
humans, including my wife. I put hand
sanitizer in each of our cars, in every room of the house, and all my pockets. I
stopped short of burning our clothing upon returning from the dangerous and
dirty world. This virus didn’t stand a
chance against my assiduous protocols and stalwart defenses.
Then one day my wife got a text that her stubborn,
thick-headed, 72-year-old-boss – director of a public aid organization that
provides meals to senior citizens, no less – tested positive for COVID-19. My wife wasn’t surprised as the woman had
been walking around the office coughing all week, blaming it on allergies. Three days before Christmas, half the office
staff was experiencing symptoms, including my wife.
My now contaminated spouse blatantly refused to participate
in our household COVID disaster plan which required anyone who tested positive
to move into the garage and conduct all their toilet activities outside. One day while I was at work, my kids unlocked
the door and let her in. This was my
worst personal nightmare.
I’m no stranger to illness.
Born without the good sense to know when I’m pushing myself too hard, whenever
illness visited, I always seemed to not only catch whatever was going around,
but the worst possible strain of it. Since
contracting bronchial pneumonia in college, I’ve made it my mission to remain
healthy and to protect myself from contagions. I became an unqualified success in this undertaking;
until I had kids.
My wife gave birth to our first child when I was pushing 40
and our second when I was 43, putting us at the older end of the parent-age
spectrum and on the downslope of the immunity bell curve. I quickly discovered that children were a
breeding ground of the most virulent microorganisms to be found in the
universe. I remember like yesterday that
one Thanksgiving I spent on the couch with a raging fever while the rest of the
family enjoyed my favorite meal of the year.
Or that particular Christmas night in the ER with my flu-ridden 6-month-old
watching while doctors tried to start an IV in her tiny arm because she stopped
drinking. Then there was the time I shared
a popsicle with my other daughter, afterward discovering she was ripe with norovirus,
subjecting me to five days of such violent nausea I prayed for death to take me.
Is it any surprise why I went to
war against microorganisms? Over time, I
developed the ability to “see” germs as they spread from person to surface to
hands of the next person. I fashioned a duct
tape holster with a can Lysol on one hip, Clorox wipes on the other. I spent the cold weather months disinfecting,
cleaning, and monitoring the kids’ hygiene.
“Don’t touch your face,” was my battle cry. “Wash your hands!” “Don’t hover over each other when you’re not
feeling well!” “Cover your cough!” “Sneeze into your elbow!” “Stay away from sick people!” “Don’t eat that!” “Do eat this!” “Quit breathing near your sister!” I was an anti-germ Nazi.
In my defense, our extended family is quite small, so we
never had a reliable support system in times of emergency. When it came to needing help with the kids, the
buck stopped with me and my wife. And
because we’re self-employed, when we don’t work, we don’t earn, nor do we have
sick days or paid time off. Our
financial solvency has always fallen to me while my wife attended to the
children, which is why every illness that entered our home sent a shockwave
through our little world. It was bad
when the kids got sick because my wife typically caught it. It was even worse when I got sick because I
was the last line of defense when it came to keeping our tiny enterprise afloat.
When COVID invaded our sanctum, I instinctively launched
into crisis mode, handing out N95 masks, cans of Lysol, and tasers. I visualized the hideous viral spores attaching
themselves to the microwave, toilet seats, TV remotes, couch cushions, and dogs. I was at my wits end. Nobody in my family shared my sense of
urgency. My kids were so cavalier as to
appear to be going out of their way to get infected. What was wrong with them?
It then occurred that perhaps something was wrong with me. Could it be I was suffering from PTSD over of
all those traumatic experiences from when the kids were small? My kids blame me for making them germophobes,
causing them to believe illness is wrong and unnatural. My oldest tells me she feels guilty for getting
sick; that when she catches a cold, she feels like she did something wrong or in
some way failed me. Back in the day, my
wife scolded me numerous times, telling me that my way of reacting to illness wasn’t
normal. Were they right all along?
Nah. This is a
pandemic, remember? Our very government
has sanctioned – even encouraged – my behaviors as they relate to protecting
myself, my family, and others from this dreaded illness. It is my duty to God and country, is it not? Then again, it seems the government is every
bit as despicable, untrustworthy, and imbued with evil as COVID-19.
The father doth protect too much, methinks.
Maybe I do need to reconsider my approach to getting sick? I remain unwilling to underestimate the
importance of good physical health and mental wellbeing, because if we don’t
feel good, we are rarely of much benefit to each other or society as a whole. But when illness does strike, perhaps it is time
I learned to embrace it as something normal and natural and human, as opposed
to something to be feared or battled or disinfected?
