We knew it would happen. It was inevitable, really. A simple matter of time. Despite stern warnings, threats of banishment, demonstrations of proper sneezing technique, lectures on hand washing protocol (given by two surgeon parents, no less!); in spite of “foaming in”, gloving up and wiping down anything and anyone that crossed the threshold of our door; in the setting of shoes off, masks on; having endlessly interrogated our children regarding associations with persons of “questionable health status”; total and complete OCD behavior notwithstanding, our antiseptic Achilles’ heel has been discovered.
A beguiling little first grader.
Jim and I are not germaphobes by nature. Perhaps it’s because we were raised in the era when parents forced us to infect each other to make their lives “easier”. Who of us remembers the compulsory “play date” with a pustule-covered sibling / cousin / neighbor / stranger in an attempt to infect all children in the household with chicken pox simultaneously? Surely this was preferable to allowing nature to take its course, which would have resulted in a seemingly endless “rolling spring break” style schedule of infection lasting week after miserable week. There was no “five second rule” when we were kids. We gestated in women who drank and smoked, and not only rode in cars without seat belts, we were shoved onto the car floor or into that little space under the rear windshield now reserved for tissue boxes and ice scrapers.
Is it any wonder, then, that since we miraculously survived to procreate, Jim and I adopted a somewhat laissez-faire attitude toward germs? That I ate soft cheese and cold lunchmeat through two pregnancies (do as I say, ladies, not as I do!)? That, until March, we didn’t even own a thermometer? If our kids passed the eyeball test, they were allowed to co-mingle with the rest of humanity. No one would have accused us of being “neat freaks”, either. Each year, when asked to complete a self-assessment survey for potential babysitters, we must qualify our home environment as one of the following: “extremely neat, moderately neat, cluttered but cozy, comfortable but disorganized”. And each year, we hope in vain that they will add a new descriptor. If a clean anything were to be taken as a sign of a sick mind, then we were often the most mentally sound people you could find.
But that was then. And this is now. We’ve gone from the era of “that which doesn’t kill us”, to the fear of “that which doesn’t kill US..."
In our new life with a neutropenic 4 year-old, we use Lysol the way we used hairspray in the ‘80s: it smells faintly better than Aquanet, but there’s a similar chemical haze permeating our house. No one is exempt from the ritual and requisite decontamination process in order to come home. We have gone weeks at a time without seeing our closest family members who have to survive a health history vetting process that makes political selection procedures seem weak.
If only we could have hand-selected the first expatriate of this new regime. If only Jim or I could have been the first struck down by illness, able to be reassuring examples of what it means to be exiled, then exonerated. Why Olivia? Why our sweet six year-old who, despite our best efforts, must already feel relegated to the periphery in all of this? Who doesn’t completely understand the rules of this game? Who chastises me for lashing out at our filthy dog, imploring, “M-o-o-o-o-o-o-o-m, Roxie doesn’t speak English! She’s a dog. She doesn’t understand that Callen has leukemia and that she has to stay clean”. Whose big beautiful blue eyes spill tears each night for the three long years that her baby brother has to be sick. Who takes it upon herself to read a book about leukemia, then teaches me about Callen’s dysfunctional cells (that she pronounces “kells”) so that I can better understand. Who matter-of-factly states, “I have allergies, but Callen has leukemia.” Who sacrifices more than her fair share of normal childhood experiences to help us “keep the clean.” Who does all this – and more - without a hint of martyrdom, stating simply “we just all have to do what we have to do.”
What we have to do, having found her guilty of harboring fever and infection, is sentence her to her bedroom. Excommunicated for a crime she didn’t knowingly commit. Every (limited) move she makes around the house is now premeditated, calculated to minimize sharing of physical space or air, executed according to plan, then followed by a disinfecting wipe or spray. While she serves out her time, we are left to ponder our strategy for countering what comes next - Callen’s physical response if he becomes infected with the same virus, or Olivia’s emotional reaction if she thinks she is to blame. Preparation is key to weathering each battle in this war – a war we are waging to win. After all, the best defense is a good offense. And an arsenal of Lysol.
