Worster than Smack

When I introduced him to my peeps one afternoon and conversation slowed, my friend Robert (who loved making up stories) screwed up his face and squinted, inventing a drunk who supposedly had crossed Robert's path a few weeks earlier.  "Al-kee-hol, ya know? It's worster than smack," the old man "said." 

I thought of this Friday, when my husband came home excitedly with two bottles of alcohol he found at the Dollar Tree. He was trying Dollar Tree because I got a tip  from a staff member while calling the local Target--she'd seen a row of alcohol bottles there. These days, alcohol is like gold. We put it in spray bottles and wipe stuff down with paper towels. Finding wipes is nearly impossible, ditto hand sanitizer.

In any case, we were excited to get two bottles of alcohol and then I noticed it was only 50%. You need at least 70% to kill the Coronavirus. "Bootleggers," I say, and we both laugh.

My husband had gone out in the first place because he had to see the eye doctor. He's had a rotten cold for a week that is lingering. No COVID tests are available unless you're in dire straits at the emergency room, and who wants to go there? His stress likely caused shingles to resurface in his eye from a case he had years ago. Luckily, he caught it in time and the eye doctor gave him drops to cure it. At least there is something they can still cure.

When he hugs me, I get nervous, but in earlier days when his cold hadn't shown up we were together and now I'm worried about it. I had a one-day cold and am hoping maybe, maybe I gave mine to him? Rather than me getting what he now has, which seems awful. I want to be with him, and I know he wants that, and at the same time I'm nervous about it.

I spend half my time, or at least a quarter, washing clothes and chair/sofa coverings, door knobs, pillows, whatever else I can wash, plus washing hands over and over and over again like Lady Macbeth. Other days are devoted to scavenging for supplies. Because most of what we're looking for is so hard to find, I've taken to scavenging obsessively online for hours.

I do worry about all the delivery people -- yet don't know what else to do. My husband is delivery writ large - a trucker at XPO, which is delivering things like machine parts, transmissions, etc. He has a letter that he is an "essential worker" and sees hundreds of people a day, though he is trying to keep a safe distance if he has to hand off a paper and such. Neither of us believe that's really possible, though he is wearing masks and gloves and scrubs down with alcohol spray when he re-enters his truck.

I am on an immuno-supppresant and don't know how I would do with the virus. I'm thinking not well. I found our health care directives, and mine says "no respirators." My husband says he does want one, though he has just one and a half lungs and a filter in his heart after suffering a pulmonary embolism years ago. I keep trying to decide whether I would say yes to one or just ask if they could alert the hospice group where I work --but that has its own problems.

I know this because I am friends with the director at the hospice. I write most of the communications materials for a company that serves older adults through housing and health care - and as you can imagine, there's a lot going on. When I asked my friend about hospice in case I got really sick, she said, "Yes, we can help you, but we don't have protective equipment. You'd have to ask the hospital to send it along with you."

"Uh, can I please have thirty N-95 masks and 100 pairs of gloves for my hospice friends here? How about face shields?" Do I instruct my husband to speak for me if I am out of breath?

Meanwhile, protests to start letting people go back to work and shop and to restaurants are happening at the Capitol, as they are in other cities. I understand the frustration but working in a health care arena means I talk with nurses and doctors daily. They are saying unequivocally the more people we have out and about, the more chances are for the virus to come back.

This is all feeling pretty bleak right now. Am I getting addicted to the anxiety and fear? Maybe, and it too is worster than smack, Jenna. Look for the light.

At this moment, church bells are ringing at the Catholic church a few blocks away, and it feels like they're calling me outside. It's a beautiful day and the lake across the street is sending a sun-spotted invitation. People are distancing from each other pretty well outside (as opposed to at my local grocery store, where some are pretty defiant). I'm going to get out today. I need to and want to, and walks are the only way.

You haven't asked, but I want to keep writing to you. I may not know your name, but if you're reading this and have your own story to tell, I'd love to hear it. You can either leave a thought in the comments or contact me at jennazark.com. Stories are important--and we need to keep telling them.

Masked Mona Lisa: Ian Burt